Chapter 14 14
Bridget
“You’re going to regret this.” He murmurs. My heart is pounding against my chest. “Where were you, sugarplum?” Casual question again, lethal tone.
“I—I told you, Sir. I had to buy my girlies stuff.” I raise the bags slightly, half-smile, half-beg. “It’s private.”
His hand spears into my hair, tilting my face to him. Black eyes search mine like he’s rifling drawers.
“Private,” he sneers, tasting the word. “Everything on you is mine—your time, your pretty ass, even your dirty thoughts.” His thumb bruises my lower lip. “So I’ll ask once more: where the fuck were you?”
“I went to the store, Sir. That’s all.”
He releases my lip only to grab my shoulder, spins me, shoves me face-first over the back of the low velvet couch. Oxygen stalls in my lungs. His palm cracks across my ass. Sharp. Loud. Perfect pain blooms through the thin fabric. I yelp, toes curling in patent heels.
“Truth, Bridget.”
“I’m telling the truth, Sir!”
Another spank, lower, where flesh is tender. The sound ricochets off marble. Heat pools thick between my thighs, traitorous arousal slicking my folds. I wriggle but he plants a fist between my shoulder blades, pinning.
“I smell lies,” he growls. “And I smell pussy. Both make me hard.”
He flips my hem up to my waist, cool air rushing over exposed skin. Fingers hook the waistband of my panties and wrenches them down until they snag at mid-thigh. I hear the faint snap of thread giving up.
“Adriano—”
“Quiet.” His fingertip traces the tatters of my underwear, brushes the damp seam of my pussy, then drifts higher to the tight knot of my ass. My muscles clench instinctively. He chuckles, dark and low.
I hear the clink of his belt buckle opening, leather hissing through loops. A zipper sighs. My stomach flips. He is not going to wait, not going to prep, not going to ask permission. That is not the man he is.
“Keep that back arched, sugarplum. This big dick will do its work now.”
The fat head of his cock—notched already slick from pre-cum—presses against my tight ring. I suck air, nails clawing velvet. He pushes, relentless. A burn, then a pop, then searing stretch as his thickness tunnels in. My cry strangles in the cushion.
“Oh—fuck—Adriano!”
He bottoms out with a grunt, hips slapping my sore cheeks. My asshole throbs around his girth, every vein pulsing. He gives me no moment to adjust, just drags back and spears again, rhythm fast, demanding. The couch skids an inch with each thrust, metal feet squealing over marble.
His hand grips my hip so hard I know tomorrow I’ll wear violet fingerprints. He spanks me again while he fucks, open-palmed swats that set my skin ablaze, pleasure dancing nasty pirouettes through pain. I’m moaning loud, shameless, apartment windows open to Vegas glow—anyone could hear—and still he drives harder.
“You walk out of my house again without my permission,” he rasps between thrusts, “this is how you’ll greet me—ass open, legs shaking, understood?”
“Yes, Sir—fuck, yes!” I babble, tears glazing my vision.
He slides one finger into my soaked pussy, curling them up to that electric spot. My walls spasm; the shockwave detonates before I can beg. I come hard, honeyed juices squirting around his knuckles, cascading down my trembling thighs. He keeps fingering me through the aftershocks while his cock tunnels my ass, and just as the first climax ebbs, he rubs ruthless circles until another orgasm detonates, sharper, louder. I scream into the cushion, drool slicking my chin.
He fists my long black hair, yanks my head up, arching me impossibly. His free hand claws under my dress, finds my nipple through the satin bra, pinches until fire threads straight to my clit.
“Such a shame your sweet pussy is still virgin,” he hisses, breath scalding my ear. “Makes me savage knowing no other cock has stretched you here.” He twists my nipple harder; I whine. “But this asshole is mine, sugarplum. Every fucking inch.”
“Yours—only yours!” I keen, pussy fluttering on his embedded fingers.
“Then tell me again where you went.” His voice is silk over steel.
“I went—to the—store,” I pant, each word punctuated by his savage thrusts.
He snarls approval, ruts faster until sweat drips from his chest onto my back. My ass burns, stretched to its limit, the friction delicious agony. He swells thicker; I feel the tell-tale pulse. But he wrenches out instead, leaving me gaping, cold.
I collapse over the couchback, breath shuddering, dress soaked under arms and breasts. My anus twitches, empty, aching. I hear him step back, belt clinking again.
“Kneel.” One word, velvet-wrapped granite.
My legs wobble but I obey, sliding down the couch, knees kissing carpet fibers, panties still tangled around thighs. He stands before me, shirt now open, carved abs glistening, cock jutting angry and slick from my ass. The flared crown is purple, veins roped, pre-cum beading salty invitation.
“Suck.”
I’ve never taken a man in my mouth. The sight both terrifies and electrifies. I part my lips hesitantly, but he threads fingers into my hair, guiding me. Salt and musk bloom on my tongue as the head pushes inside. He’s huge, stretching my jaw instantly. I gag once; tears spring.
“Easy,” he murmurs, thumb stroking my temple with surprising softness. “Breathe through your nose, sugarplum.”
I do, tasting myself on him, that darker flavor of ass and skin. Saliva pools; I lap around the ridge like he’s melting gelato. A low growl rumbles his chest, spurring me. I slide lower, pumping what I can’t fit with a trembling fist.
He rocks shallow, giving me rhythm, teaching me. Spit dribbles down my chin, slicking his shaft until my hand glides.
“Look at me.”
I tilt my eyes up through wet lashes. A starving intensity burns there, ownership scorched into his gaze. He starts thrusting deeper, hitting the beginning of my throat. Each withdrawal drags strings of saliva; each invasion wrings a gurgle from me. My nipples spike against my bra, raw and needy.
“That’s it, take your medicine,” he grunts, pace quickening. “Milk me like a good little maid.”
My pussy clenches on nothing, jealous again. I hollow my cheeks, swirl tongue, hum to feel him twitch. His grip tightens; hips stutter. Sudden warmth floods my tongue—thick, salty pulses coating palate, seeping into every crevice. He keeps pumping, fucking his release down my throat.
“Drink it,” he orders, voice ragged, and I swallow convulsively, gulping jets of cum until the glide is smooth and hot and I’m breathless, dizzy. I lap the last drop from his slit like he’ll punish me for wasting any, then sit back on my heels, chest heaving.
Silence blooms, broken only by my ragged breathing and the velvet hum of distant traffic thirty-five floors below. He tucks himself away, buckles up, then cups my chin, thumb wiping the messy corner of my mouth. His eyes soften—almost.
“Next time,” he says quietly, “text me before you leave. I like to know where my favorite toy is wandering.”
I nod, throat raw, voice gone. He leans, brushes a kiss across my bruised lips, tasting himself, giving me back my own submission in that single contact. Then he steps away, picks up his bourbon, and returns to the window, broad shoulders shutting out the Strip. My dress stays rucked up, ass striped and throbbing, panties lost somewhere under the couch.
But I feel him everywhere—in my stretched ass, in my sore jaw, in my dizzy veins—and I know tomorrow will come with more questions, more rules. Right now, though, I am still shivering on my knees, his cum warm in my belly, and the only truth I own is this: I am owned, claimed, ruined, and already aching for more.