Page 149 of Bitter Poetry

Sweat breaks out across the surface of my skin. I’m on the cusp of madness, and there’s only one course of action left.

I line up the head of my cock, and push a small way in.

Then I clamp my hand around her waist to keep her still and thrust deep.

CARMELA

I linger somewhere between sleep and wakefulness, aroused by a notion that something is not quite right. My moan pierces the fog. It rides on the back of sweet, achy pleasure. I mumble something incoherent, trying to remember where I am, desperately trying to claw my way out of the dream.

“You feel so good, baby. Yeah, squeeze me again just like that.”

Fear seizes me, then I’m cut free from its grip as I recognize the voice.

“God! What?” I groan again. My mind plays catch-up with the pleasure building in my body. He’s inside me, pumping into me from behind. My wrists are clasped loosely at my belly in his hand. I clench over his length. I’m all achy with my period and I can’t decide whether I like this or not. “Dante… I—” Panic grips me anew. “I had a?—”

“I’ve taken it out.” He tightens his hold on my wrists and continues to fuck me.

How did I sleep through that?!

He can’t go particularly deep like this, but the sensation of being stretched by his girth, with every penetration, is sublime.

I exhale a breathy moan. “I’m going to make a mess.”

“Make a mess.” He nips against my throat. “I couldn’t give a fuck.”

I’m on fire. My skin feels like an inferno. Why did I sleep in his bed? I basically invited him to fuck me. “It aches.”

“I know, baby, but you can take a little more just for me, right? Afterward, I’ll run you a nice hot bath.”

Is he crazy?

God, why does this feel so crazy good?

There’s a climax bearing down on me; I can feel it building. I just need a little nudge.

I tug against his hold. He must realize what I want because he releases my hands. My fingers find my clit in small circles that have me coiling tight. His fingers butt up against mine, swiping right over my clit. A cry escapes my lips as the sweet climactic waves swallow up the whole of my core and lower abdomen, sparking detonations that set me twitching and bucking.

His fingers shift to my hip, holding me tight, his strokes turning fast, sharp, stabbing, and I’m still bucking, my pussy choking his cock until he stills, his cry muffled against my throat. A hot flood fills me. I can feel him pulsing inside me, our intimate heartbeats thumping a tattoo.

Should I be mad about what he did? I’m tired, sore, sleepy—a giggle bubbles up.

He nips the side of my throat and pulls out.

I clamp my hand over the deluge that pours out. “Some warning would be nice. You mentioned a bath?”

“On it.” He slides out of the bed—I go to sit, but he kisses my forehead and urges me back down. “Stay there. I’ll come and get you when it’s ready.”

I try not to think about the state of the bed as I hear the water running.

A short time later, he comes to collect me. He draws the covers back, grimaces, peels my panties and T-shirt off, and carries me through to the bath.

“You want to go, first?”

“Um.” My cheeks heat at this weirdly domestic conversation. “Yeah.”

“Open the door again before you get in the bath.”

He leaves.