The Italian

His breath is quivering and his tongue is sliding between my lips, begging for me to let him in fully.

What a beautiful, virile beast he is.

Sexual perfection has a name, and it’s Enrico Ferrara. The king of fucking.

With his knees wide on the bed, he pulls out again. This time with purpose, he slams back in, and I cry out.

“Ahh!”

I cling to his broad shoulders and feel the muscles contract beneath my hands.

“Shh,” he whispers, realizing he has to slow it down or he’ll hurt me. “Okay, okay. Shh,” he breathes. He gently begins to ride me, knowing that we have to work up to what he wants.

And like the perfect student, my body loosens with every pump as he holds himself up on his elbows.

“Olivia,” he whispers darkly as he watches my lips. “Fuck me, Olivia. Let me in.”

My eyes roll back in my head as I lift my legs up on either side of his body.

God, yes.

Fuck me, all right.

We keep going, gradually getting harder, and the bed begins to rock. My hands relax enough to roam over his back and up to the back of his head.

His beautiful face stares down at me, and I know that this is it. This is what sex is supposed to be like. I’m positive that when it was invented by whoever it was back then at the dawn of time, it was with this man in mind.

He lifts my leg a little higher to his shoulders and his eyes flash black. He’s on the edge of sanity.

“Go,” I pant. “Give it to me.” I put my hands onto his behind and pull him in deeper.

He lets out a guttural moan, straightens his arms, and then slams me hard. My entire body jerks up the bed, and I can feel every vein on his thick cock.

Oh shit…

The sound of our damp skin slapping together bounces off the walls, and the heat from his thrusts burns me from the inside out. I begin to thrash beneath him. I can’t hold it as I cry out. My orgasm tips him over the edge, and he holds himself deep. I feel the telling jerk of his cock deep inside my body.

He slams into me three more times—each time deeper than the last as he tries to empty himself completely.

And then he kisses me with such tenderness, and it’s so foreign to the way he just was with me.

Enrico Ferrara fucks with his body but he kisses with his whole heart.

I can feel it. Every cell in my body tells me that he is as into this as I am.

That this is something more than it’s supposed to be.

“Sei davvero fottutamente perfetta,” he whispers. Translation: you are so fucking perfect.

I don’t know what he said but it was in reverence—words of worship.

I smile up at him as he pulls out and lies over me. He carefully drops his lips to my clavicle and trails kisses up my collarbone.

“Olivia,” he murmurs against my skin.

I feel his dick reharden against my thigh, and I smile up at the ceiling as I bring my arm around his broad shoulders.

I get the feeling that the night is just beginning, and that he is nowhere near done with me.