‘Yeah, you make him work for it,’ Sandro says. But there’s something very wrong with the way he’s acting now – as if none of this is of any consequence to him. It’s all just part of another lesson he’s giving me.
I try not to care, but my heart weighs heavily in my chest and my body yearns to be pressed up against the strength of his again.
‘I guess there’s still a lot for you to teach me,’ I say, pressing my hand against his chest, trying to rescue the previous mood. His heart beats a steady rhythm against my palm. ‘Let’s go to bed,’ I suggest, going for a teasing tone in my voice.
But, instead of smiling, Sandro lets out a grunt of disgust.
‘That’s all I am to you, isn’t it?’ His eyes are full of an indignation that shocks me. ‘Just a real-life blow-up doll to practise on and manipulate.’
‘What? No! Of course you’re not. That’s not what I meant to imply.’
He steps away from me and strides towards his bedroom, the muscles across his shoulders pulled tight with tension.
I catch up with him as he steps into the room and I lay my hand gently on his back, horrified to feel him flinch under my touch. ‘Sandro. Please don’t be angry with me.’ Hot tears begin to gather in my eyes again. But I don’t want to cry in front of him. I don’t want him to think I’m that emotionally weak.
He turns back to stare at me for a beat, a muscle ticking in his jaw, then a look of shame flickers across his face.
‘Shit. I don’t know what made me say that. I’m just feeling messed up tonight.’ He wraps his arms around me in a tight hug and carries me to the bed, laying me down and joining me there. Rolling onto his back, he reaches for me and deftly lifts my body on top of his so we’re lying chest to chest. ‘But you know how to shut me up, right?’ he murmurs darkly, skating his hands down to my hips and pulling up my dress, then urging me to shuffle up his body. As I do this, his fingers find the sides of the lacy knickers I bought at the same time as the dress and he tugs them down my legs.
‘Sit on my face,’ he demands.
I hesitate for a moment, wondering whether I should do it or insist we talk about what just happened first. But he doesn’t seem to want to talk, and I don’t know what I’d say to make this situation better anyway.
‘Do it, Juno. I want you to smother me with your pussy,’ he urges. ‘Teach me it’s not okay to speak to you like that.’
Again, I hesitate. It’s not my style to be forceful in bed, but I know that’s something I need to work on, and I want to give him what he’s asking for.
So I shuffle further up the bed on my knees until I’m positioned right above his mouth and dip down to press myself against him. I feel his groan of satisfaction vibrate between my legs and deep into my core, then the powerful thrust of his tongue inside me. I cry out from the pleasure of it. It’s such a lewd, intense feeling, and I find to my surprise that I love the idea of being in control of this, knowing he’s captured beneath me, a prisoner to my whim and my body. The feeling of power is heady and I begin to move with the rhythmic thrust of his tongue.
Sweat pools between my shoulder blades and runs down my spine as his fingers grip my hips and we move together, faster and faster, me using him purely for my own pleasure. Teaching him that I’m on top now. I’m the one in control. That he has to give me what I want.
And oh, God, I think I’m losing my mind. I want this to go on and on and on. But I also want more. I need more. His tongue alone isn’t enough. There’s still an aching void inside me that needs to be filled, to be satisfied. To connect with him.
My trance breaks as I suddenly become aware that his grip on my hips has become harder and more urgent, and I realise to my horror that he’s having trouble breathing.
I jump off him, distraught that I’ve let myself get so carried away. That I’d not noticed I was hurting him.
‘Sandro, I’m so sorry. Are you okay?’ I cup his face and stare into his eyes. ‘I’m so, so sorry!’ I can hear the panic in my voice. I can’t believe I let that happen. That I wasn’t thinking about him at all. Only about myself and my pleasure. And my power over him.
But, instead of looking relieved or angry, he flips me over so I’m now on my back and kneels over me, shaking his head and kissing my cheeks, my forehead, my mouth, to calm me.
‘Never apologise!’ he growls against my skin. ‘Never apologise to me.’
He pulls my dress roughly over my head and lands hard kisses over my breasts and stomach, moving ever downward till he’s back between my legs. He puts a hand under each of my buttocks and lifts me up while bringing his mouth down between my legs again.
‘I worship this pussy. I fucking worship it,’ he hisses against my mound, my clitoris, my vagina. His tongue laps me again, pushing open my folds and expertly finding the spots that give me the most intense pleasure. I buck up towards the touch of his tongue, wanting it harder, deeper.
Sensing my need, he pushes a finger inside me. But it’s still not enough. I ache for more. I need more.
‘Please, Sandro. I want to feel your cock inside me. Please! I need it. Please!’ I beg him through heavy sobs of breath. I’m aware of the desperation in my voice, and it seems he is too, because he stills his motion and raises his head to meet my gaze.
We stare at each other for long moments loaded with unsaid questions and answers.
‘Are you sure?’ he whispers, his eyes intense with a plea for me to be totally honest with him.
‘Yes. I’m sure. I want it. Please, Sandro. I need you to help me. Please just help me out with this.’
This seems to be enough to convince him because he gives a sharp nod, then leans away to open a drawer at the side of the bed and take out little foil packet.