Twisted Cravings (The Camorra Chronicles 6)

I fell back, completely exhausted. I ran my fingers through Adamo’s tousled hair, gentler now as he peppered my pussy with kisses. I blinked up at the sky, wondering what this was. Adamo appeared in my line of vision. I swiped my palm across his beard which was wet with my juices. His expression brimmed with lust and the bulge in his pants was impressive. “Turn around,” Adamo said.

I didn’t protest. Instead I rolled over until my stomach rested on the warm hood of the car and my ass propped up for Adamo. He stroked my ass cheeks before he rubbed his tip over my opening. I arched against him. “Fuck me, Adamo. Fuck me like you mean it.”

Adamo leaned forward, tracing the bumps of my spine with his tongue. His fat tip dipped into me. I tried to move back but Adamo’s grip on my hips kept me in place as he thrust into me slowly with only his tip. “Deeper,” I gasped.

“Patience. I make the rules.”

I reached back, cupping his balls and squeezing. He hissed low in his throat. “That’s how you want to play it?” he growled.

“Yes,” I rasped as he kept teasing me with his tip.

Adamo retreated and then without warning he slammed all the way into me, filling me to the very brim.

I cried out at the stretchy feeling, on the verge of being painful. Adamo was incredibly thick and long. His tip nudged the sweet spot deep within me.

“Is that what you want?” Adamo asked in a raspy voice.

I twisted my head around to look at his face. “I want you to fuck me until my legs give out and I come all over your car.”

His eyes flashed with raw lust and then he slammed even harder into me. His car shook under our fucking and for once I lost all sense of control and it didn’t scare me.

On occasion I thought I’d figured Dinara out but then something happened that threw me off completely. Like her panic attack when I’d been on top of her when we fucked the first time. We hadn’t talked about it, and it hadn’t happened again in the two weeks that followed, even though we fucked every night. I was never on top though. Or the fine scars on her upper thighs, I’d first felt with my fingertips then my tongue. When her shorts rode up and the sun hit her skin right, I now saw them too.

Dinara was an enigma I was desperate to understand. I hadn’t asked Remo for more information again. For some reason now that Dinara and I got closer, it would have felt wrong to prod around in her past without her permission. She obviously didn’t want to share things with me. Maybe she would eventually.

The heat in the tent was almost unbearable. The sun had been relentless during the day and even the night hadn’t delivered much reprieve.

Dinara rolled off me and stretched out on her back, breathing harshly. Our bodies were covered in sweat from sex and the heat.

“Will you ever tell me why you’re really here?”

Dinara rolled over on her side, bringing us closer once more. I twisted around to face her. Strands of her red hair stuck to her cheeks and forehead. “I’m surprised Remo didn’t tell you everything.”

“Remo has a strange set of rules and he likes to play with me,” I said, then shrugged. “But I haven’t really been trying to extract information from him since this began with us.”

“This?” Dinara asked, tracing my disfigured Camorra tattoo. She did so every time after sex, obviously fascinated by its looks or maybe just the story behind it. She cast her eyes up. “What is this between us?”

“You tell me. I think only you know what you really want.”

“What do you want Adamo?”

I pushed up on my elbow and traced her cheekbone. She let me, for once not pulling away, not seeking the safety of her own car after we slept together. “I want to get to know you better. Not just your body, but your mind, your past, your darkness.”

Dinara smiled bitterly. “No, you don’t. Not if you like the version of me you’ve met so far.”

“Let me decide that for myself. I doubt there’s anything that could make me see you in a different light. And if its darkness you harbor, I have more than enough of my own, so I don’t shy away from it.”

Dinara looked up at the tent ceiling. I stroked her belly and played with her piercing.

“What exactly is it?”

She gave me an appalled look. “Don’t tell me you don’t know what a Fabergé egg is?”

“It’s a Russian egg.”

She shook her head in exasperation. “It’s art and history. Intricate design.”

I bent over her belly to take a closer look at the tiny egg dangling from her piercing. It was red with gold décor. “This is an original?”