Page 86 of Bitter Poetry

He wrenches his lips from mine and nips my earlobe. “Dripping.” He adds a second finger, pumping roughly. “Did you get off on knowing what would happen to me? What a perfect little slut you are for violence, Mrs. Gallo.”

“Don’t call me that,” I hiss.

“No?” He takes his fingers away. A tearing sound follows as he destroys my panties. I sob with need and impatience as he fumbles between us to loosen his belt. “What then? You don’t like babe. Maybe I’ll call you what you are, my little cum slut.”

He wraps my legs around his waist and fills me in a single thrust. His palm closing over my mouth, smothers my scream.His other hand palms my ass roughly, holding me still as he pounds into me.

Damn that piercing. I feel the passage of it stroking me intimately like it was designed by the devil himself to deliver me into sin.

“I hate you,” he purrs, fucking me rough and fast. “Hate everything about this perfect temptation of a body. Hate your cold, beautiful face. Hate the bitch words that spill from your lips. You cost me my brother, and I will never forgive you for that.”

I’m on fire. My pussy quakes under the passage of his thick cock, the nerves lining my channel fluttering on the brink.

“Did you lay in your bed, dreaming about them putting a beating on me while your husband watched?”

I shake my head frantically.

“I don’t believe you, bitch. Not when your pussy is gushing and gripping my dick. Accept what you are. Accept that this perfect, filthy fuck hole is all mine.”

He fists my hair, peeling my upper body from his, dragging me backward until I drop against the kitchen counter. Then his palm is back over my mouth, his finger and thumb pinching my nose closed.

I can’t breathe. My fingers claw at his hand, trying to peel it away.

He leans right down, still fucking me with rough, angry strokes, getting his lips up against my ear. “I’d bleed for you,” he snarls like he despises the admission. “Willingly, all day, every day. Is that what you want to hear? That with every blow, I imagined how I would seek retribution on your hot cunt.”

My world is turning gray, but I’m so close, and I don’t care if I die like this, not when I feel my most alive, not when I welcome every pounding stroke of his beautiful cock like it might offer me deliverance.

I break for him.

For my future lost.

So lonely whenever he is not near.

My last connection to a shattered dream.

My last connection to Dante, the man I should have married.

“Come, Carmela. Right fucking now.”

I do. Coming apart, splintering, squeezing in sweet rhythmic waves over his hard, unyielding flesh.

With a harsh low grunt, he stills, releasing his hold on my mouth, allowing me to suck sweet air into my lungs as his hot cum fills my pussy.

The sound of my breathing is harsh. My eyes are watering—my makeup will be ruined.

My clothing is askew.

He pulls out slow and exaggerated, making sure I feel every inch of his cock as it is taken away, along with his dripping cum.

I’m shaking, witless, as he releases me, leaving me panting on the kitchen counter.

What the hell is wrong with me… with us?

He steps back, grinning as his eyes lower to my pussy and, without any apparent urgency, he puts himself away.

“That was stupid,” I say, snapping out of the daze and fumbling to shove my dress down as I sit up. The counter is high, and I’m short. No sooner do I acknowledge the dilemma than he lifts me down.

“Take your damn hands off me!”