“Oh, Jean-Pierre.” She bent over more, putting herself in a delicious position. She rested her head on the bed as her ass remained high and up to me. Her fists clutched the silk sheets beneath her. Fuck. That ass was pushed up all the way, her pussy open and begging me to go deeper.
I’m going to marry her one day.
I watched my cock slide in and out of her. It glistened with her arousal. The sight fueled a primal urge. And so, I fucked her senseless.
Yes.
With every thrust and every moan, the sound of skin slapping against skin, it drove me further to addiction. This was also the sound of love. This was how it was supposed to be. Hot. Passionate. Blazing desire. Almost sinful, yet heavenly.
Her cries of pleasure rose to the ceiling.
She’ll be my wife.
I knew that deep down in my soul. The thought excited me so. It was the final push to make me explode.
“Oh, Eden!” I groaned, slipping my cock out as it throbbed and pulsed long ribbons of semen all over her ass and back. Decorating her violin tattoo in white drops and lines.
“Oh, I love making you dirty with me.” I pumped my cock in my hand, spurt more drops onto her ass.
After all these years, this was what I had been searching for. This was right. She was right. And not even the Devil himself could take her from me.
Chapter 11
The Art of Seduction
Rafael
I hopped in the passenger side of my car and waited for Giorgio to come downstairs. I didn’t know what the hell Jean-Pierre was talking to him about, but it was taking forever.
I checked my watch. Fifteen minutes had already passed. I put down the passenger window. My men appeared uncomfortable in the van behind me, but they wouldn’t say anything.
Since Giorgio is coming along, he can be my damn chauffer.
I’d named the car Destiny. She was painted candy apple red and the upholstery was midnight black. She flew and soared like an eagle. It was a splendid gift for a pampered man, and I prided myself on my own spoiling.
I’d bought Shalimar a car too. All black and sleek, like that long hair that hung past her waist. She’d keyed it up and crashed it into the wall of an abandoned warehouse. A message had been delivered to my condo with a cracked headlight.
The letter read, “I’m going to spend the rest of my life, squeezing out any memory of you in my heart and brain, until there is nothing, but blood and veins pulsing with hate!”
Perhaps she didn’t like the color.
I’d kept the cracked headlight on my nightstand because she’d touched it, and after all, it was a beautiful car.
How could I fix things, when I didn’t know how I’d fucked them up?
Sure, I fucked the twins, but there was more to the problem. I’d fucked them because Shalimar had been trying to get me to admit to feelings, I didn’t have the strength to admit to.
They act like I haven’t been trying to get her back all these years.
I checked my watch, realizing that twenty minutes had passed.
What the hell is Giorgio doing?
Right when I was about to call him, he showed up, whistling some damn song and strolling to the car. He had the I-just-fucked-the-maid-look. Refreshed. Pleased. And almost hopping in the air and kicking up his heels.
He opened the driver’s side, climbed in, and closed the door. “Hello, my friend.”
He also smelled like cleaning liquid, which was the other sign.
“What the hell took you so long?” I asked.
“Sophia.”
“Jean-Pierre told you to stop fucking his maids.”
“He did, but he still owes me, so I won’t stop until we’re even.”
Giorgio and that damn birthday cake. He still hasn’t forgiven Jean-Pierre.
I gave up on talking to him. Any man that could hold onto a grudge for more than a decade, could not be talked to.
Giorgio pulled out both of his wallets—white and black.
Oh, here we go. Here we fucking go. I’ve already waited for centuries.
Giorgio placed the black wallet on his lap as he always did when he drove. It was something about not wanting to add more wrinkles to his pants. He opened the white one, pulled out a few wipes, and cleaned the steering wheel.
“You know that could be considered insulting,” I said. “I don’t have germs.”
He wiped down the dash and anywhere he would have to touch in order to drive. He grabbed for another wipe.
“Okay. It’s clean!” I’d probably yelled louder than necessary, but I was a man on the edge. “I’ve waited long enough, Giorgio.”
“Someone hasn’t been having sex in a while. I wonder who that is.” Giorgio pulled out a small Ziplock bag from the white wallet, folded the dirty wipes one at a time, and then placed them in the Ziplock bag.