I sob at the loss, my body trembling, teetering on the edge.
Marco lifts his head, his lips slick with me, eyes dark and knowing.
"You want to come?" he murmurs, voice thick with amusement.
I nod frantically, my hands fisting the fabric of his shirt. "Yes. Please, Marco?—"
His smirk turns lethal as he rises over me, pressing his body flush against mine, his cock heavy and hard between my thighs.
"Then you’re going to beg for it."
I’m completely at his mercy.
My body is trembling, slick with sweat and desperation as Marco looms over me, his weight pressing me into the table, the hard length of him heavy against my soaked, aching core.
I shift my hips, trying to grind against him, needing friction, relief—anything—but he’s faster, his hands locking around my wrists, pinning them above my head.
"Uh-uh," he murmurs against my ear, his breath hot, teasing. "You don’t get to take what you want, sweetheart. You take what I give you."
I whimper, back arching, trying to force any kind of contact, but he just chuckles, that dark, knowing sound that tells me I’m in for it.
His mouth brushes my throat, his teeth grazing, biting just enough to make me gasp, before he soothes the sting with his tongue.
He moves lower, kissing, nipping, dragging his lips over my collarbone, down the valley between my breasts.
I expect him to go for my nipples next—aching, tight, desperate for his mouth—but instead, he moves lower, trailing wet kisses down my stomach.
A plea is already forming on my lips, but I swallow it down. He wants me to beg.
And I’m doing my best not to.
But then he’s between my thighs again, spreading me open with hands that feel too big, too strong, like they were made to hold me in place while he devastates me.
"You’re soaked," he murmurs, almost to himself, his fingers sliding through my slick folds, teasing the entrance he refuses to fill. "So fucking needy."
I bite my lip hard, trying not to whimper.
His thumb brushes my clit, feather-light, circling so slowly I could scream.
"Marco." His name leaves me as a warning, as a plea.
He smirks, pressing a single finger inside me—barely, just the tip—before pulling away entirely.
My hips jerk involuntarily, chasing the friction, but he denies me, sitting back, watching me with dark, hungry eyes.
"Not enough?" he taunts, tilting his head. "You’re going to have to do better than that, sweetheart."
I glare at him, but the moment his mouth returns to my pussy, all my fight evaporates.
His tongue moves with excruciating precision, mapping every sensitive inch, teasing, skimming—circling everywhere but where I need him most, just to watch me unravel.
I’m panting now, squirming, but he keeps me pinned, his mouth devouring me with measured control.
And just when I think he’s going to let me have it—when the tension inside me tightens to the point of snapping—he stops.
Again.
"Marco!" I cry, nearly sobbing, my head thrashing against the table.
