His fingers pull out and I tense up, just as I feel his grip tighten around my hip, and the hard press of his cock teasing my wetness.
Then he pushes in, achingly slow. I tense around him, unable to relax, trying to breathe through it. I think if he went any faster, I would be impaled.
“Does that feel good?” he asks, his voice breaking. “It feels so good, musa.”
I make a strangled noise, trying to nod. I take in a sharp breath through my nose, forcing my muscles to relax. I feel like I’ve been revirginized, it’s been that long, and Claudio is a big boy to start with.
He pushes in to the hilt until I feel the soft press of his balls against me, and then he’s slowly pulling out. Achingly and teasingly slow. His breath is long and steady, but while I’m breathing to relax, to accommodate his girth, he’s most likely breathing to stay in control.
I like that he’s in control here. I like that I’m bent over this stool in his studio, surrounded by his art, and he’s taking me from behind like this. I don’t have to think, I can just be.
I can just enjoy him.
“Fuck,” he murmurs through a strained groan, then lets loose a few Italian words I don’t understand. I don’t need to understand them. Their dramatic cadence tells me it’s all about desire.
He starts pumping in a bit faster now, his grip holding strong. In and out, his hips press against me, and my mind wanders to how this must look from behind, the bronzed strong muscles of his ass flexing as he pounds me.
I can’t believe this is happening.
“Grace,” he says roughly, but he doesn’t say anything else.
We lapse into silence, the sound of his skin slapping against mine, the wet sound of his cock as the small thrusts get longer, harder. Delicious little grunts come from deep within him, turning me on even more, and then his hand slips under and finds my clit.
I moan loudly, and it seems to fill the room.
“You’re so perfect,” he says, his fingers stroking my clit in circles. “Your skin, your cunt. If you could see what I see, the way I move inside you…”
He picks up the pace, working me harder, his cock sliding against me with each pass, the pressure from his fingers increasing.
I won’t be able to hold on for much longer. The ache is building, starting in my belly and moving to my spine, and I’m opening wider and wider.
“I’m close,” I manage to say, not knowing if he needs a warning.
He just grunts again at that, going faster now, rougher.
Another whack as he spanks me, and it brings my mind around, and then his fingers go back to work. I feel like I’m the matchbook and he’s the match, and if he strikes me just right one more time…
Suddenly the stool starts to rock, unable to keep steady from the unrestrained pounding I’m taking, and I’m almost falling off of it.
Claudio lets out a frustrated growl, and before I know what’s happening, he’s grabbing me by the hair and pulling me off the stool. He throws out his arm so it knocks the stool over, and it goes skittering across the floor.
Without the stool beneath me, I’m being held up by a large fistful of my hair for a moment. Then I’m quickly lowered to the floor where my elbows and knees are digging into the spilled roses. My face is pressed into the petals, and I take in the heady whiff of my namesake flower while Claudio continues to fuck me, still deep inside.
“Fuck,” he cries out gruffly, the pace picking up again. “You feel so good, you are so good, so perfect, I can’t help myself with you.”
With this new position on the floor, my hips higher, another swift thrust of his cock slides against the right places and that pressure inside me expands, making me feel like I’m on the verge of going off like a bomb.
His fingers find my swollen clit again and that’s all it takes. A few wet strokes of delicious friction, and the match strikes, an aching flame rolling down along my spine until it explodes at the base, licking through me, taking no prisoners.
“Oh god, oh god,” I cry out. “Yes.”
Garbled nonsense follows as I come apart around him, feeling like I’ve been blown wide open. There’s nothing left of me, except