Total pages in book: 134
Estimated words: 135364 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 677(@200wpm)___ 541(@250wpm)___ 451(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 135364 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 677(@200wpm)___ 541(@250wpm)___ 451(@300wpm)
My hands fist into his tee as we move together, and I whimper happily against his lips as he grinds right back down against me, meeting my thrusts.
He squeezes my hips tightly, but I know somewhere that those thick fingers of his can be of better use.
As though he can read my mind, one of Matteo’s hands drifts down my thigh and under the skirt of my dress. His palm grazes over the damp centre of my panties, pressing firmly against the material before using his fingers as a hook to slide my underwear over to the side.
I pant beneath him, and my jaw slackens at the feel of his thick fingers tracing the outline of my wet slit.
Matteo curses under his breath, and I gasp out loud as my hips buck forward, effectively humping myself against the warm skin of his large, tanned hand.
I feel his smile against my lips as he kisses me again, licking into my mouth while he takes his sweet time in dragging two fingers painfully slowly up and down the entire length of me.
My clit continues its rhythmic pulsating as he teases my lips. I nearly sob when the pads of his fingers dance against my hood, and my thighs tremble as he carefully nudges them over my sensitive bundle of nerves.
Finally.
“Is this all for me, bella?” he murmurs against my lips.
His voice thick with lust, his fingers slick from my arousal, and I nod my head rapidly as I press my palm a little harder against his jaw.
He drags his hand back down the length of me, circling over and around my entrance in cruel, teasing motions.
"Say it," he whispers huskily, his voice raw and demanding, eyes dark and smoldering with something dangerous.
“Yes,” I groan, my hand squeezing tightly into the bedsheets while the other grips around the back of his neck for some kind of stability. “Fuck - it’s all for you, Matteo. It always has been.”
My breath hitches when he finally slides his fingers deep inside.
The memories of him - of us - have haunted me recently, and I feel like I’ve done nothing but touch myself as images of him fucking me in the bathroom at the gala and in the changing room at the stadium have plagued my mind.
But my own fingers are so much smaller than his - not just in length, but in girth, too - and Matteo easily reaches a part of me that I didn’t even know existed until recently.
“Fuck, Matteo,” I groan, and then we’re kissing again.
He moves with a steady, insistent rhythm, each touch sending small shudders through my core.
He shifts so that his thighs press firmly against the backs of mine in a silent command to keep my legs open wide for him, and it feels as though every single nerve in my body is alive, crackling with a mix of defiance and desperate need.
I close my eyes, the world narrowing down to the heat of his skin and the rhythm of his touch.
Then, as if to intensify the delicious tension, Matteo pauses, causing my eyelids to drift open - as his dark, lust-filled gaze searches mine.
"You're mine, aren't you, Daphne?" he murmurs against my skin.
I let a shaky laugh escape, my voice thick with emotion.
"Maybe I am," I whisper.
The admission tastes as bittersweet as it is real, though it’s worth it from the possessive growl that comes in response.
We kiss again, and I can’t help but thrust my tongue eagerly into his mouth while he pumps his fingers in and out of my soaked pussy.
My hips buck against his hand as I search for further friction, and he hisses against my lips when I find the outline of his firm, hard cock through his jeans and press my palm against it.
“Now who’s teasing?” he grumbles against my skin.
His hand slows for a moment, and I whimper at the sudden loss of rhythm.
Everything happens in a blur as both my sundress and his t-shirt are discarded somewhere else in the room. Matteo pulls back just enough to look at me, his dark eyes blazing with heat, and without breaking eye contact, he shifts back onto his knees and reaches for the waistband of his jeans.
The sound of the zipper lowering fills the space between us, and my breath catches in my throat from where I lie back against the pillows on his bed.
His hands move with deliberate slowness as he pushes the denim past his hips. His broad, muscular chest - sculpted from years of training on the pitch - heaves with each breath, and the muscles in his arms and abs flex as he works the fabric down.
I can't tear my eyes away.
Once his jeans are halfway down his thick, muscular thighs, he pauses, smirking.
"You're staring," he teases, voice low and rough.