Last Night 2

“Such a good girl.”

Cesare’s hand slid up her leg to her thigh, sending a shiver through her body.

The heat of his palm searing through her skin and sending a sharp shiver straight to her core.

Words rose in her throat but she forced them back. He wouldn’t listen anyway.

She whimpered, crystal eyes glistening. Her skirt was too short. She regretted choosing it, but there had been nothing else to wear when her friend dragged her out to the club.

“Ce…”

“Shhh, tesoro.”

He stroked her thighs, groping slowly, until his fingers skimmed the apex of her legs, close enough to her panties that she whimpered again.

The damp panties were already impossible to hide. The alcohol from the club made every touch feel sharper, almost electric.

His fingers glided over the damp fabric without giving her real pressure, just light, deliberate flutters that made her clit throb in protest.

She moaned. He knew exactly what he was doing. He wanted her desperate, tears in her eyes, aching and empty, begging for his fingers.

She was already soaked.

Even in the low lamp light he could see how the white lace she had thrown on in a haste was darkened and clinging to her the thin material molded to the shape of her pussy.

Sweat beaded on her forehead.

When his knuckles finally brushed her clit through the thin material, goosebumps raced across her skin.

She dropped her head and rolled her hips shamelessly, mortified at how wet she must feel against his hand and still willing to do worse if it meant relief.

She would crawl. She would beg. She would cry. Anything to feel him inside her.

Her hips jerked when his knuckles pressed a little harder, sinking the soaked fabric between her folds just enough to tease the swollen bud beneath.

She gasped, the sound high and needy.

He laughed, low and dark, against her ear. A tear slipped down her cheek onto the sheets.

“Such a whore,” he whispered. “My whore. Do you want to come?”

She squeezed her eyes shut, breathing hard, scrambling for any way out of this that might leave her a scrap of self-respect.

There wasn’t one. Not with him behind her, radiating heat and control.

His hand fisted in her hair and dragged her upward until her back arched and her ass was presented for him. The sudden stretch burned pleasantly at her scalp.

He palmed both cheeks, squeezing, spreading her. Before she could form a single threat, a sharp slap cracked through the room.

The sting bloomed hot across her skin and made her yelp. Her cunt clenched around nothing. He yanked her head back so she was forced to look at him, throat exposed, eyes wet.

“Do you want to come?”

Another slap landed on the opposite cheek, then another, and another. The sharp sounds mixed with the wetness between her legs.

Minutes blurred into heat and the rhythmic sting of his palm. She gasped with every strike, face wet with tears and drool onto the sheets.

Her body felt feverish. Every nerve ending was blazing.

The air-conditioning must have stopped working, or maybe it was just him. Her mind refused to produce a single word of resistance.

The alcohol had burned off; she was sober and still completely high on him. The smell of his skin, the strength in his hands, the way he owned every reaction she tried to hide.

His hips pressed against her and she felt the hard ridge of his cock through his trousers. She pushed back instinctively, desperate for friction, grinding her soaked panties against him.

If he touched her clit one more time she would shatter. He was still teasing.

She dropped her forehead to the bed when his grip loosened. The words sat on the tip of her tongue—begging, yielding.

She couldn’t win against her own body, and she had never been able to win against him.

“Please, Cesare.”

He laughed again. He always laughed when he reduced her to this. She sniffed. She would have laughed at herself too, if she were him. Beggars couldn’t be choosers.

“What are you begging me for, Eli? I’ve got no time.”

But you always have time to fuck with me.

“Because you need it,” he continued, voice almost gentle. “We both know you crave this. You want me to fuck you senseless and leave you so boneless you can’t lift a finger afterward. You want that, tesoro.”

He knew her.

Her body, her thoughts—everything that passed through her mind seemed to pass through Cesare Accardi’s first.

She still didn’t understand how. Years of practice, maybe. Nothing had prepared her for what those years would cost.

She wanted him.

She needed him.

His eyes always on her in every room. His hands on her the moment they were alone.

Her name on his lips when he had nothing else to say. And still she felt unsatisfied, like something vital was missing.

They hated themselves.

It was obvious. Yet she wanted more of him, and she despised the part of herself that wanted him to hate her harder, so hard he couldn’t stand to be away from her for even a second.

She was sick.

Another wave of tears soaked the mattress. The unmistakable sound of his zipper lowering made her breath catch.

Cool air touched her overheated skin for a second before the thick, hot weight of his cock settled against her.

She tried to push up, knowing what was coming but pressed her back down, palm firm between her shoulder blades.

“This isn’t for you. Stay down. I don’t know what you think you want, but I know what I want—”

“Please fuck me, Cesare. I’m sorry. Sorry. Please, I’m sorry. I need you.”

He kissed her temple, lips lingering. His cock, now free, rubbed against the soaked lace, sliding through the mess she had made.

She felt herself drip down her legs and wriggled, drawing a low, guttural groan from his chest.

“Fuck me, Cesare. I know you want it.”

He hissed, shoved her panties aside, and thrust in hard.

No preparation. No warning. Just the sudden thick stretch of him filling her. She was wet enough that he slid deep on the first stroke.

The drag of his cock against her inner walls was almost too much. A broken moan tore out of her.

His fingers dug into her hips hard enough to bruise as he kept her pinned. She tried to push up onto her elbows, but they gave out. Her cheek pressed into the bed.

From this angle she was completely open to him; spread, filled, owned. He fisted her hair again and hauled her upright so her back met his chest.

The new angle made him sink even deeper.

One arm locked around her waist, shoving her skirt higher while his other hand tore the panties the rest of the way off. The ruined lace landed somewhere on the floor.

She moaned, loud and helpless. The wet, filthy sound of their bodies meeting filled the room as he pounded into her, skin slapping, her arousal audible with every thrust.

The feel of his bare skin against hers was still as overwhelming as the first time; raw, hot, too much, and never enough.

His breath scorched the side of her neck. Every deep stroke dragged against a place inside her that made her vision blur.

She hated how much she needed the closeness, the weight of him, the way he filled every empty space.

And she already knew he would leave afterward.

The way they always did.