Page 31 of Chicago Sin

“Spread. Oh God, I’ll spread. I’m sorry—I was slow before.”

He sinks his thumb into my entrance again, and I moan with satisfaction. I can tell how swollen and wet I’ve gotten. How much I need this.

“Please,” I plead again.

I’ve never begged for it before. Never needed it like this.

If he would just pump that thumb, I’d be there. Or suck my clit again. I flap my knee-wings some more, trying to take his thumb deeper.

I’m shocked by the sensation of a finger at my anus, and I tighten against it, whining.

“Nuh uh.” He shakes his head. “Open for it.”

Oh God. Really?

I don’t want it. Except I do. Because as that digit works against my back hole, my temperature rises at least eight degrees, and I start moaning like a porn star. It’s taboo and wrong, but it feels so good.

He pumps, alternating between his thumb and other finger, then pumping them both at the same time. The moment he leans over and rides my clit with his tongue, I come—hard.

So incredibly hard.

Like so hard fireworks dance before my eyes, and I close my mouth around a full-on scream.

The room spins. Lights continue to flash and pop behind my lids. My pussy and anus squeeze around his digits, and I sob out every last bit of pleasure I have in me.

I don’t know how long it lasts. I get lost somewhere on another plane.

I open my eyes when he starts easing out, and it feels like I’ve been gone forever.

Armando’s expression is inscrutable as usual.

And that’s when the doorbell rings.

Chapter Fourteen

Armando

I’m hungry, and the timing worked out the way I’d planned, but I’m still pissed to have to answer the door.

I reach up and break the tape holding her wrists and pull her up to sitting, tugging her shirt back down over her rumpled bra. I don’t want the delivery guy to see her like this.

I don’t want the delivery guy to see her, period.

I’m feeling extremely fucking possessive of her right now. I help her to stand and steer her toward the bathroom. “You go get cleaned up. I’ll get the door,” I give her ass a slap.

I swear to Christ, that ass was made for slapping. I could seriously punctuate every sentence with a slap to that ass and never get tired of it.

She scoots off to the bathroom, and something shifts in my chest.

Her surrender does something to me. She’s not weak or stupid or even scared. At least not too scared. I think she’s genuinely submissive. It explains her sexual response to getting tied up and handled. I haven’t experienced a woman like her before. Her trust feels like a gift. One that makes me feel strong and weak at once. Humbled.

Highly protective.

I wait until the bathroom door is closed before I open the front door and pay the delivery guy. I drop the food on the tiny two-person table by the window and look for plates and wine glasses. Her place is tiny, but it’s cute. She has plants in colorful pots everywhere. Some are flowering, some are wrapped in bright bows. Her furnishings are rustic—white washed shit. Probably flea market finds, but it has the look of purposeful design. Rich people pay a lot of money for this kind of look. She’s definitely artistic. She has a real eye for this stuff.

I was going to put the calzones on plates and open the wine, but the sound of the shower running makes my dick throb. My balls are so fucking blue from licking her pussy, I can barely walk.

I should leave her alone. Let her shower.