80. Not your plaything

Erica

I woke up feeling like I was buried under a mountain and it was warm. No, scratch that, it was fûcking hot. Like I was sitting inside a fireplace. The blanket that weighed like a mountain block denied to budge even when I tried to free my arm and squirm up.

With a disgruntled sigh I finally opened my eyes and was momentarily stunned when I saw the mountain itself. It wasn’t a mountain. It was Antonio, the devil himself using me like his own mattress.

I remembered falling asleep in his bed while waiting for the arseholè himself but I didn’t remember him joining me. And I most definitely did not remember sleeping like this. Like we were two puzzle pieces fitting together or like ivy vines intertwined around each other.

Antonio was half on top of me with his thick muscular leg pinning both of mine beneath it and one of his arm was wrapped around my throat, snaking between my breàsts, while his face was pressed in the crook of my neck between throat and shoulder. It was an intimate