Page 12 of Captive Bride: Armani
But I’m not. I don’t know what that says about me, but I’m not about to get into a psychoanalysis of my choices right now. Because he’s advancing on me, nailing me with a wolfish, dark gaze that’s eating me slowly alive. I step back, once, twice, feeling like prey. Loving it. Wanting to be caught.
His palm goes to the base of my throat and I gaze up at him as he gently walks me a few steps back, then guides me down onto a chaise lounge. I have no idea what he’s got in mind—I thought we’d be jumping directly into bed—but I barely get myself propped up on my elbows before he’s dropping to his knees before me.
With careful precision, he takes the hem of my dress and begins hitching it up. He starts at my ankles, sliding the fabric smoothly up my leg, and then I feel his lips, tongue, the pressure of his teeth as he works his way up my bared calves, to my knees, pushing my skirt up higher and higher as he goes. All I can do is let out soft sighs of appreciation as he takes his sweet time kissing his way up my leg.
When the entire skirt is finally bunched up around my waist, I’m breathing fast and hard. Armani just burned a hot trail all the way to my inner thighs, and I’m so wet I can feel my juices leaking out. He pushes my legs wide apart, and then suddenly goes still.
His sharp intake of breath tells me he’s discovered my landing strip.
“You like what you see?” I tease from my fully reclined position.
“Very much so,” he answers, his voice husky.
As I lay there spread open for him, a deep, agonizing ache rolls through me, sharpening the haze of lust that’s threatening to pull me under. I want him so bad I can barely stay still.
What’s coming next? Is he going to drop his pants and fuck me in a frenzy on this sofa, both of us still half clothed? Or is he going to make me wait even longer? Maybe this is some kind of game he enjoys, a way for him to maintain control, or maybe he just gets off watching me pant and yearn.
I start to sit up, dying to know what in the hell he’s waiting for, but as soon as I catch his eye he smirks and lowers his head between my thighs. His gaze penetrates mine as he opens his mouth and exhales a soft, warm breath against my pussy.
“Ahh,” I cry out.
His dark eyes flash greedily, and then he closes the gap between us and puts his mouth on me. My entire body shivers at the first long, slow stroke of his tongue. Hot, wet, searching,yes. Fuck yes. The man knows exactly what he’s doing.
“Mmm,” I moan. “Is this your backup plan?”
Armani pulls back just long enough to answer, “Yes.”
“Thank God.”
I lie back again, letting myself sink into the sensations.
He’s methodical but never repetitive, lavishing each area with skillful attention, heightening my pleasure by the second. From my lips to my clit, and then—another gasp bursts out of me as he dips his tongue inside.
Jesus, he’s good. Licking and feasting on me with a ferocity and tempo that reconcilesexactlywhat I thought sex with Armani would be like. Commanding. Hot as fuck. He’s efficient, yet totally unpredictable. Fast, but never fast enough. My mind goes blank. All I can think about is this feeling washing over me, the heat building at my core, that damn tongue thrusting into me so good I might just come if I don’t pace myself here.
His hands keep a firm grip on my thighs, holding me steady, his mouth working my clit and my inner lips until I’m squirming on the chaise. I realize that there’s no use fighting it. I can’t hold back.
My hips start to buck, the moans rolling uncontrollably from my throat. He’s fucking me with his mouth harder and better than any guy ever has. I never want him to stop.
I’ve heard the term “full body orgasm” before, but I always assumed it was just a figure of speech until this moment.
“Oh myfucking God,” I moan, falling over the edge.
The depth of my climax takes me by surprise as it slams into me hard and fast, waves of hot, radiant pleasure washing over me. It feels endless. I’m crying out, my hands digging into his hair and pulling hard enough to make him groan. As I come, I squeeze my thighs around his head, still riding his tongue, my insides contracting with bliss.
Finally I collapse weakly onto the cushions, panting. The euphoria spins in my brain.
But he’s not done with me yet.
Suddenly aware of him leaning over me, I look up and meet his eyes half a breath before the moment lips come down on mine. The kiss is hard and insistent, and tasting myself on his mouth is the most erotic thing. He shrugs out of his jacket and I quickly work the buttons on his shirt, pulling the front apart. To my pleasure, he’s not wearing anything underneath. I get my first look at his hard, muscled chest and am surprised to see all his tattoos. Looks like Mr. Buttoned Up has a wild side.
The left side of his chest is heavily inked, the rest of the design hidden by his shirt. I trace my fingers over the lettering I can make out—famiglia,onore,forza; the Italian words for family, honor, and something else I can’t translate. I want to see more, but he leaves the shirt on, letting it hang open as he stands to work his belt. I’m riveted as I watch him free the button on his pants, then undo the zipper. Our hands bump as I help him pull his waistband down. His cock springs free.
“Oh, fuck,” I murmur out loud, eyes going wide.
He smirks at my appreciative cussing and takes his cock in one hand, squeezing so the plump head shows through his fingers.
“You want this?” he growls.
