Page 11 of I Would Beg For You
In.
Out.
In.
Out.
I don’t know how long this goes on but I can feel the anxious poison leaving my body one breath at a time.
As I start to reach a state of being where only my breaths exist, I start to notice something else in the periphery of my senses.
It slowly dawns on me what is happening.
A soft yet insistent circular pressure on the palm of my hand. Languorous, lazy, like it’s got all the time in the world.
I drag my eyelids halfway open and look down to see evidence of what is going on.
My left hand is in both of Valentino’s hands, and he has one thumb running concentric circles on my palm.
I can’t stop looking at his long, tanned, muscled thumb with its neatly trimmed nail massaging a steady sweeping downbeat onto my smaller pale palm.
My throat instantly goes dry at the visual.
Any attempt at gathering my thoughts is futile. All I can do is feel the slightly calloused, rough tip of his thumb rubbing in a rhythmic pulsing tempo on my skin.
It’s hypnotic, lulling. I don’t know for how long I stay lost in this rhythm…until other images take over, and a part of me knows his beautiful thumb (can thumbs be beautiful?) can play this game in other places. For example, around my navel. On the sensitive underside of my breasts. Circling a nipple. Stroking my mound. Toying with my clit.
A soft panting breath escapes my lips as my chest grows heavy, the flesh of my breasts aching and tender, peaked nipples brushing against the soft lace of my bra cup, those nipples anything but soft at this moment.
I can feel my face and neck starting to get warm and flushed.
It also takes all of me not to clench my thighs as a pulsing need starts to form in my softening core.
Does he know what he is doing to me?
Can he sense what’s happening to my body?
I risk a peek from the corner of my eyes. He’s staring down at my palm. But he must feel me looking, because he glances up and our eyes lock. A slow knowing smile touches his lips. Damn, I must totally look like I’m in the throes of lust.
Better lust than anxiety, a little voice states in my head.
And I’ll take that.
Valentino knows what’s going on inside me. He’s an asshole but he isn’t clueless. His thumb picks up the rhythm, increasing the tempo, running his calloused fingertip all the way to my wrist, then halfway up along my fingers.
In all this time, he watches me. His blue eyes intense, focused, laser sharp. Promising me something that will take me to a better place. My mind starts drifting. My eyes grow heavy as I succumb to a haze of pleasure. All I imagined him doing to that woman in his bedroom all those years ago, I imagine him doing to me.
Caressing me.
Kissing me.
Grabbing me.
Licking me.
Fucking me.
Pleasure is soaking through me, literally and figuratively.
