He lifts me off the ground and lays me on the bed. I grab his thighs. He looks at me, surprised. I lift myself off the bed and take his beautiful c**k in my mouth. He inhales sharply. I straighten my head so he can have a full view of my lips curled tightly around his thick meat. When I look up I meet his eyes. The intensity of his gaze hits me in the bones. I suck so hard my cheeks hollow in, and experience heady power when I see him surrender to pleasure, to me. I swirl my tongue around his shaft confidently.
‘Open your legs,’ he growls.
Obediently, I spread my legs and show him what he wants to see, but I do not stop sucking and pulling hard at his meat. He eyes my open sex avidly. His face contorts. His body buckles, and he spurts inside my mouth. Even when his eyes have turned languorous, I don’t take my mouth away. I hold the semi-hard c**k in my mouth and I gaze up at him. He gathers himself, touches my face tenderly, and pulls out of my mouth.
Deliberately, I lick my lips.
He grins wickedly, and turns away. My eyes follow him as he prowls around, buck naked, over to the bottle of whiskey. Tipping it over the ice bucket he starts pouring it out. I rise up on my elbow.
‘What’re you doing?’
He looks at me over his raised arm. ‘Fixing myself a drink,’ he says, and continues wasting the whiskey until there is less than a quarter of the bottle left. He drops half a fistful of ice cubes into my glass and brings the bottle and the glass into the bed. He walks towards my body on his knees and holds out my glass. I take a sip—the alcohol is strong, but goes down smooth. I watch him swig straight from the bottle, his head thrown back, his throat strong and powerfully masculine, his skin glowing like polished bronze. What a sight he is. His manhood erect, his thighs rippling and powerful, his shoulders broad.
Always in moments like this he reminds of a Greek god.
He swings the bottle down to hip level, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and catches my eyes. His are hooded, dark and full of desire. There is something in him that is different. He looks into my eyes. I feel myself burn under his gaze. A fluttering in my belly. I am nervous. Why? But I am also turned on. Unbelievably excited by this new him.
He breaks eye contact and looks at the bottle. Very deliberately, he removes the metal ring broken off from the bottle cap and puts it on the bedside table.
He lies on his elbow beside me. The bottle touches my cheek. It is cold. I turn and look into his eyes. What is in them thrills me.
‘Do you know that far, far more erotic than a c**k inside you is to have an ordinary household object put into you? My excited, scandalized eyes swivel to the bottle and back to him. What I see in his eyes electrifies me.
He smiles slowly. ‘Yeah.’
I nod and he swipes the pad of his thumb along my bottom lip. Suddenly he is on my mouth, rough, rough… The bottle goes away from my cheek. I part my thighs and gasp into his mouth when he inserts it into me. Fuck me! Cold and hard and erotic. Very, very erotic. I gape at him.
He lifts his head and watches me as he puts his hand under my bu**ocks and lifts me off the bed so I feel the liquid gurgling into me. I want to cover my mouth. ‘Oh!’
‘Yes, “Oh”,’ he murmurs, but his breathing is ragged, his eyes liquid and locked on mine. I am riveted by the fiercely masculine flare in his eyes. The light of ownership. He knows that there is nothing he cannot do to me.
When the bottle is empty he tosses it away.
‘What does it feel like?’
‘It’s sexy.’ My voice is a hoarse whisper.
He laughs wickedly. ‘All illicit trespasses are.’
Gloriously naked, he reaches for a handful of ice cubes. He runs them over the heated flesh of my sex and inserts them one by one into me, while I squirm helplessly. All of a sudden I feel shy and close my eyes.
‘Open your eyes,’ he orders.
I snap them open and he trains his stare on me.
‘This is my cunt,’ he states, his features harsh with lust.
I swallow and nod, my hands fisting the bed covering.
‘I love watching your face when you are like this: helpless, open, bare…mine.’
He possesses me with his eyes while he continues to stuff me full of ice cubes.
‘I want you everyway I can.’ Then he kneels between my legs and begins to drink from my pu**y.
‘The process is a slow sensual assault. Lick, lick, suck, lick, lick, suck, suck as the cold liquid dribbles out of me. I arch my back.
‘Yes, right there… Yes.’
The sensations are so foreign, the numbing effect of the cubes, his searing tongue, sometimes teeth, the sloshing of the alcohol. It is tireless. It is decadent. It turns me boneless with blind need. I am so caught up in the intense sensations I hardly recognize the high-pitched animal sounds coming out of my mouth.
‘We’re going to take it one level higher.’ He lays down beside me. ‘Clench your muscles and come sit on my mouth.’
Very carefully I sit up and clenching hard I move over to his face and position myself over his mouth. Having to clench my muscles while he is slowly drinking the dribble is strangely unnerving, and filthy, but exquisite. As if there are no barriers between us. He wants everything I’ve got. Even my juices. Suddenly he swoops upwards and catching my sex in a hard suction pulls me down on top of him. He grinds my sex over his mouth.
I tense so all the liquid does not gush out, but it is impossible to keep control of my body—it starts contracting and spiraling out of control. I come in a gush. I look down and he is greedily gobbling all the liquids that are pouring out of me. I lift my sex away from his mouth and look at him: smeared with alcohol and all my juices. Then he pulls me back down and licks me clean.
‘My Lana,’ he says, his eyes glowing possessively.
I return to England inspired by Carbone and decide to cook a feast of senses for Blake. He is given strict instructions to come home early. Two hours ago I fried some rabbit, pancetta, onions, garlic, sage in a pan and tipped a bottle of Sangiovese into it. Once the mixture was simmering I added rosemary, thyme, some sticks of cinnamon, and cloves.
Now the hare has started to collapse into the sauce, which has become as sticky as runny honey and will nicely coat the handmade rigatoni that Francesca brought in today. I plan to serve this rich, pungent dish with a whole artichoke, slathered in warm olive oil and lemon juice and sprinkled with chopped mint.
In the oven I have a fresh peach tart to be served with Italian gelato.
I glance over at Sorab. He is rubbing his eyes. We were down in the park all afternoon and he looks as if he could do with a nap, but I don’t allow him to sleep. This way he will sleep the night through. I hear Blake at the door.