I needed her to see it, needed her to watch me come and know that it had been a product of her torment.
I also knew my Little Dove wouldn't let herself watch for much longer out of fear of getting caught.
So I pictured her laid out beneath me in bed, her legs wrapped around me tightly and clenching with every thrust—her hand tight in my hair, her whimpers sounding in my ear.
The visual was enough to send me spiraling over the edge, shooting my load all over the tile as I finished with a ragged breath.
By the time I turned to look at the door, Samara was gone.
But I intended to torment her about the fact that she'd watched.
Twenty-Four
Samara
Sitting through dinner was painful.
Absolutely, miserably painful. It didn't help that Lino seemed determined to torment me, having never put on a shirt while he whipped up food for the two of us. Staring at the broad muscles of his shoulders, the way the muscles in his biceps flexed ever so slightly as he moved and shook the pans around would probably have melted me into a puddle of goo under the most normal circumstances.
But right after I'd watched him jerk off in the shower? Right after I'd seen the shadow of just how massive his package must have been for his hand to have to move quite that much.
Long, nearly violent strokes that gave the general impression I'd feel him in my throat when he finally fucked me. It made me wish we'd had the anal sex conversation after I'd seen that.
Because nope. Nuh-uh.
Just no.
After he'd fully tormented me, he'd sat down in the stool right next to me and tucked into his dinner. My stomach felt like it might shrivel up and die with all the need that pulsed through me, but I tried to still my body while I poked at my food.
I tried not to squirm on my stool, tried not to fidget to get even the slightest bit of friction right where I needed it so desperately.
"Is there something you need, Little Dove?" Lino asked, turning to study me intently. When my eyes met his, I knew.
Without a doubt, I knew he'd seen me. That he'd known I watched him.
My chest flushed hot, my face following as humiliation took over and my spoon clattered to the bowl, soup forgotten. "I—uh, what could I possibly need?" I decided to play innocent, hopeful that he'd let the conversation dissolve in an effort not to embarrass me further. I should have known better; Lino had always enjoyed marching me right up to the edge of my comfort zone and shoving me off it. He loved to watch my reactions, thrived on the way I struck out when I couldn't take anymore.
"Hmmm, did you enjoy watching me?" he asked, setting down his own spoon and pivoting his stool until he put
his hands on my thighs and turned me to him. With our stools close enough, he shoved his knees beneath my own, using them to spread my legs. I clung to the counter with one hand and the seat of my stool with the other as the motion shifted my balance and my back hit the seat back.
"I didn't watch—"
"Don't lie to me, vita mia," he murmured, running the fingers of his hand over the bare skin of my thigh. The metal of his wedding ring felt cool against my fevered flesh, serving as a reminder that Lino was mine.
My husband.
Sometimes I forgot, fell back into the same thinking I'd suffered through in all the years where he'd been just a friend. Sometimes I got lost in the shame of being so drawn to him when we would never be.
But we were and would be.
So I raised my chin, facing him head on as I murmured, "Yes."
His eyes darkened, his fingers tightening on my thighs. He bit his lip to hide his smile, and I knew this was one of those instances where I'd surprised him. Where my reactions seemed to catch him off-guard and offered him entertainment. Even if this time that entertainment came in a far more dangerous situation.
Dangerous to my sanity.
My heart.