Page 71 of Beauty and the Daddy

"Jesus," I gasp, my fingers tangling in his hair.

His teeth graze my nipple, and I tug sharply at his hair. He hisses, looking up at me with those stormy eyes.

"You want to play rough, Belle?" he asks, voice like whiskey poured over gravel.

"When do we play anything but?"

He laughs.

We're half naked in the hallway, but every nerve ending is screaming yes. Dignity's for women who care what people think, and the only thing I care about right now is the fact that I'm wetter than a summer storm.

He spins me to face the wall. My palms go flat to the paint; his hand tangles in my hair and pulls until I arch back into him. I feel every inch of him along my spine, and I'm gone.

His body presses against my back, one hand sliding up to cup my breast.

"Spread your legs," he commands, his breath hot against my ear.

Behind me, I hear the sound of his belt unbuckling, the rasp of his zipper. His hand squeezes my ass, then slides down to hook into my panties. He drags them down.

"Already soaked for me, huh?"

"Luca, please," I beg, breathy and desperate.

His laugh is dark and knowing.

One hand tangles in my hair, pulling my head back so my neck arches. His lips find my pulse point, sucking hard. At the same time, his other hand slides between my legs from behind.

"Oh God," I moan as his fingers find my clit.

"There's no god here, sweetheart," he murmurs against my neck. "Just me."

Little does he know, he's already taking me to heaven.

His fingers move unhurried for a heartbeat just to make me crazy, then deeper, rougher, setting a rhythm that steals my breath and my balance. I grind down on him, seeking more. The sounds I make? Yeah, those aren't sounds for innocent kids. He groans like I'm doing unholy things to his self-control.

He circles my clit with two fingers, the pressure perfect, the rhythm maddening. I'm already so close, wound tight from our argument, from the danger of being out here in the open, from the raw power of him pressed against me.

"Luca," I gasp. "Please."

"Please what?" His teeth graze my earlobe.

"Inside. I need you inside."

His fingers slide lower, teasing my entrance. "Like this?"

He pushes two fingers deeper into me and twitches, and I cry out, my hips bucking back against his hand. He curls his fingers, finding that spot that makes my vision blur, and I'm grinding shamelessly against his hand.

"Fuck, you're so tight," he groans. "So wet for me."

I can't answer, can only moan as he works his fingers in and out, his thumb now circling my clit.

Fuck, I'm strung tighter than a guitar string about to snap.

One arm bands my waist, hauling me back, pinning me right where he wants me. The other does wicked, perfect work until I'm shaking, forehead to the wall, one heel scraping for purchase like I'm scrambling up a cliff he's already dragging me over.

I shatter like crystal hitting concrete, sudden, complete, beautiful destruction. The hallway dissolves into white light and sensation, every nerve ending firing at once. His name tears from my throat like a prayer, like a curse, like the only word I remember.

He catches me as I fall apart, holds me together while I break, and somehow that makes it more devastating.