Page 116 of Vicious Intentions
Not needing to be told twice, I strip off my panties and wet my fingers before running circles over my clit. After months of him teaching me how to play with myself, I’ve become a master at it. I know exactly how much pressure I need, how fast or slow to go, to get myself off.
Still, it’s him—my caro mio—who I want to leave satisfied before tonight’s call ends.
Where before any of this would heat my cheeks and make me curl in on myself with shyness, now I feel bold, more in control of my own sexual prowess.
He gave me that. He taught me how to step into my power… and it’s exhilarating.
“My mouth is hovering over you before I slide my tongue down your length, taking you into my mouth where it’s warm, wet, and ready for you.”
He lets out another grunt, but I see him dip his chin, as if thanking me for taking over. The way his Adam’s apple bobs away every time I talk, only encourages me further.
“You’re so soft on my tongue… but you’re hard too. It feels like everything about you is a contradiction. And I love it. I love how you let me feel powerful, even when I’m on my knees. I love how you’re holding my throat but still using your thumb to gently caress my skin. I love all of it.”
Like I love you, the words almost come out.
“Oh fuck, Anna. I’m coming, I’m coming,” he says. “Swallow it for me, sweetheart.”
I stick my tongue out, flat, for him to see, while simultaneously pinching my clit, bright lights blurring my vision as my body begins to convulse and shake so hard I have no choice but to slide off my bed and onto the carpet below. Every inch of my skin feels hot and feverish, like something just exploded inside me.
“That was…” I pant, breathless. “Amazing.”
I burst out laughing, feeling lighter than ever, as if riding some kind of high from having accomplished something impossible. Like winning a gold medal at the Olympics, or an Oscar, or a Grammy. I guess giving him head, as my sister phrased it, was my Mount Everest.
However, when I realize he hasn’t said anything for a while, I look up at the screen and see his hands gripping his knees, as if it were the only way to keep himself upright.
I wish I could see his face. How his blue eyes must be a shade darker. No, what I really wish is that I could be there, right nextto him. I wish I could hold him now. Kiss him. Whisper in his ear how beautiful he always makes me feel. How seen.
“Sit on my lap, sweetheart,” he says after a pregnant pause, patting his knee, as if in tune with my inner thoughts.
“Okay.”
“I’m going to kiss you now. Nice and slow. Taste myself on your tongue.”
My heart beats a mile a minute at the image, my fingers brushing my lips, feeling the pressure of the ghost of his.
“You are,” he whispers, “everything to me. I wish I could deserve you.”
“You do deserve me.”
“No, sweetheart, I don’t. But I’ll gladly spend my life trying to.”
I frown at his remark, not liking how he’s referring to himself in such a deprecating way. He’s the only one who deserves me. The only one who understands me and sees the darkness in me that I’ve always tried to hide from everyone else. He’s the only one. How could he possibly think he doesn’t deserve me?
“Rafe,” I say, but the minute his name leaves my lips, he winces as if the sound of it cuts him.
It’s always like this. It’s almost as if he’d rather keep whatever this is between us in the shadows. No names, no faces. Just raw, irrevocable feelings. Feelings we have yet to really name out loud. Feelings more vivid and real than anything I’ve ever experienced.
“Good night,vita mia. I shall see you in my dreams.”
“And I’ll see you in mine,” I reply sadly.
When the screen goes black, and he disappears from my sight, a deep hollowness takes over everything we just shared. I feel empty without him. I wish this feeling didn’t always happen whenever we end our calls, but it does. Every single time.
An ugly chill runs down my spine, and I pull the duvet over myself. I hate this part. I hate how he’s the closest person to me and yet the one furthest away. I want to touch him. Hold him. Be with him. I can’t stand another day like this. Not like this.
I’ll find a way to go to New York if I have to. To hell with Matteo and theCosa Nostra.
I pick up my phone from the floor and start texting him.
