Page 71 of Bitter Poetry

My breath catches in my throat.

Yes, I so hate this… every second of it… and more so when his fingers sink into me.

I arch up off the bed.

“Dripping,” he goads.

A strangled sob escapes me.

And still I don’t tell him to stop.

“Just one little word and this can all end,” he taunts.

He pumps his fingers slowly, like he has all the time in the world. Like my husband might not return at any moment and kill him slowly, exactly as he said.

I sink my nails into the soft bedding beneath me and my teeth into my lower lip, trying to stifle the whimpers that want to escape.

He chuckles.

I hate that smug sound, hate that he has every right to be. But I don’t hate what he’s doing to me. I don’t hate the way his slow caress makes nerve endings starburst into life.

Pleasure.I’m a slave to pleasure—a slave to any man who can bestow it upon me, Dante has already taught me that. His mere touch is a form of bitter poetry whispered against my skin.

“Lie for me.”

I lied for one brother. It only seems fair that I lie for the other one, too.

The slow, steady penetrations and the delectable stretch that accompanies them weave a magic spell over me.

His lips brush against my inner thigh, far too gentle for a man who is not gentle at all. I expected brutality because that’s what he is. Yet this teasing attentiveness is a form of heavenly hell.

More feather-light kisses.

The faint scrape of stubble.

A sharp, blooming ache as he sucks against the skin, tightens his hand over my thigh, and plunges his fingers deeper into me.

I jackknife. My pussy clamps down over his penetration. My fingers are in his hair, tangling, tugging.

He sucks harder.

“God, don’t!”

He doesn’t stop. It takes me several mindless moments to realize I haven’t asked him to—not in explicit terms anyway. He’s going to leave a mark right there on my upper, inner thigh, where it couldn’t possibly be blamed on an accident.

Not that Ettore would ever notice.

Christian knows my husband never gives me pleasure because I admitted as much.

The sharp, achy sensation pulls me under. I’m leaking arousal all the way to the bed, and my heart is hammering in my chest. He opens his mouth wider, shifting to fresh ground and sucks once again. His fingers begin to move inside me, making little come-hither motions.

My breathing is choppy. I’m like a tightly coiled spring in danger of snapping.

His lips move upward, closer to my core, until, finally, he buries his head between with a groan and devours me like he’s on the verge of dying for the taste.

My thoughts scatter like dust whipped up by a brisk breeze. Common sense and rational thoughts elude me. He’s still moving his fingers slow and purposeful inside me, but his lips and tongue moving over my pussy and swollen, impossibly sensitive clit are so pleasurable as to be almost painful. I’m absolutely soaked, and his fingers make the most debauched, filthy, squelching sounds.

He uses his left hand to push my knee up and out, slides his arm underneath my thigh, and clamps his forearm over my waist.