11. Gigi

11

GIGI

Stephano hovers over me, but our bodies aren't touching. The only point where we connect is where his lips are trailing a seductive path down my chest. He seems to have no difficulty holding this position, and all I want is to push my hips up and meet his cock where it's making a very impressive dick print on his tux's pants.

He's homing in on my exposed nipple, and he licks and sucks it tenderly. My clit pulses with need, and I press back into the sofa as I slip off my dress's other shoulder. He grunts his approval and pays attention to my other breast, both my nipples aching with the longing to have fingers on them. Tugging, massaging, sliding his fingertips around them until I come.

I bet he's the type of guy who could do this to a woman. He is so sure of himself, and there's no bigger turn on. I want to rake my fingers through his thick hair, but I hold back, fisting the cushions instead. If he carries on like this?—

"Stephano," I murmur, needing more.

I spread my legs wider, only wanting to have some pressure there. Ever since this afternoon, he's had me aroused like this, since he touched me with that tender brush along my jaw.

"Angel?" He looks up, and as if he sees the need in my eyes, he lowers his hips, his cock pressing against my sex. He rocks into me then, sliding his cock up and down my slit. I'm so wet, the soft fabric of his pants glides, and the pressure is perfect. "You're so fucking needy. I bet you're going to come like this."

"Yes." And I don't want it to be over. I want it to be only the beginning. I know at some point, he'll cave. He is, after all, just a man. I want him to cave in and caress me, so badly.

He doesn't stop riding me, and when he licks and sucks and bites my one nipple again, I reach for his head and bury my fingers in his hair. Instead of reprimanding me or pulling away as I feared he would, he doesn't stop. His hips don't stop. His mouth doesn't stop.

And the orgasm that rises from me crashes out of nowhere. I moan, my breathing strained, my body pulsing, but not done. More. I always want more.

He pulls away and heat flushes my cheeks, but it's not only from my orgasm. I hate how he could do this to me with such ease. He smirks down at me, and for a second, I want to kick at him, at the satisfied smirk on his lips.

"You've proven your point." Making me come by touching me with nothing but his lips and the sweet pressure of his dick. "You can fuck off now," I say as I try to close my legs.

But he's faster. He presses a knee to my thigh as he leans in again.

"Such a dirty mouth for a woman who claims to be above everybody else."

"You've got such a chip on your shoulder, don't you?"

"Maybe. But this is my hotel room, angel. You came for this, and I say you stay." He emphasizes with pressure on my leg, and I'm forced open again to where I was, numb with desire, on the verge of begging. "I'm not done with you."

I bite my lip and drag in a ragged breath. He's like a mind reader. I swallow as he stands, but I stay splayed open, sunk into the soft cushions with my legs weak. I watch as he reaches for a bottle of chilled champagne on the coffee table, and ice water drips from it as he pulls it from the bucket. He stands closer and lets the drops fall on my sex as he strips off the foil cover.

I quiver under the drops, every part of my sex feeling like it's on fire as cold meets heat. "I don't want champagne," I whisper, feeling the need to defy him in everything.

"It's not for drinking, angel. Not yet."

Oh, God.

He twists and takes off the muselet, and when the cork doesn't pop, puts the bottle to the side. "Now where were we?"

I blink. He's trailing his gaze over my body, and I can just imagine what he sees. All my imperfections in this mess of a woman, red dress all over the white sofa cushions, legs spread in desperate invitation. I want to clam up again, scared he'll see into me, see my darkest fears laid bare, but instead, he sinks to the floor, on his knees, and presses a tender kiss to my ankle.

"For a pain in the ass, you're fucking beautiful, Gigi Trapani," he murmurs as he makes his way to the fold of my knee. "So fucking beautiful."

His words do something to me. I don't know what, but my heart feels like it turns in my chest. I'm not traditionally pretty. Eyes set too wide apart, nose too hooked, lips too full for the rest of my face. No perfect proportions like I studied in art.

I close my eyes, turn my face into the cushion, and grab the backrest above my head to avoid reaching out for him again. I can't let him see how desperate I am. For this. For those words from a man like him .

He doesn't rush. No, Stephano Scalera is taking his time to work his way up my inner thigh, to my sex, where my clit is already begging for his tongue. He bites and nips, and my hips jerk of their own volition, wanting what only he can give.

When he breathes over my sex, the heat tingles and my pussy contracts. And then, he licks my slit, slow and intentional, sliding his tongue around my clit. I sink into a cloud of sensation as he eats me out as if I'm his last meal. Already, my need to orgasm rises from deep in my core. He doesn't stop, but between the sounds he makes that only arouse me more, I hear the tearing of a wrapper.

I open my eyes and blink against the soft light. When I glance down at him, he hasn't got his cock in hand, putting on the condom to fuck me into bliss.

As if he feels my gaze on him, he looks up and quirks his brow at me. He's rolling the condom down the champagne bottle's neck.

"I'll be gentle," he murmurs. "Unless you want it hard."

Oh my God. He isn't going to fuck me like I want him to. He's going to keep to his resolve to make me come with his lips alone. For a cock, this is what I'm getting.

"Trust me, angel," he says as he puts the condom-covered corked head by my entrance. "I'll make it good."

I have no reason not to trust him, as he's never stepped out of line. He even tossed the whip back into the gift box without asking questions. The pressure is there, the nudge telling me to let him in.

I open wider, acquiescing, and he slides the bottle's neck inside me. It's hard and cold, but smooth, and the widening neck hits the spot. Where my orgasm was put on hold, it now seems to roar back with each thrust he times so well.

When Stephano balances over me, his free hand perched next to my face, he gazes at me with each thrust, reading my face. I stare back into his eyes, feeling like I'm drowning in him, in what he's doing to me.

"Almost there, angel," he whispers, then he dips his head, and his lips are on my breast again, his tongue riding my nipple as he ups the pace.

I break apart in seconds. I come, and as if he knows it, he holds the bottle still.

"Tighten your pussy for me," he commands, and I obey, feeling each ripple of my orgasm as the cork finally pops. My pussy's grip and the condom seem to stop the cork from going anywhere, holding it in place like a fist, but the whole sensation is too intense because I'm squirting.

God, no. Maybe. I don't know. All I know is cold champagne foam pulses out of me. Stephano extracts the bottle and rips off the condom, letting the champagne froth and pour over my sex. The cold liquid is a rush of tingles spreading over my sensitive skin as bubbles pop and my body quivers.

He watches me for what feels like a very long minute, then raises the bottle to his lips. He takes a sip and lifts it in a toast with a naughty, wicked grin. "Welcome to the Stephano Scalera version of a golden shower."

He takes another sip, and holy hell, I don't know what he just did to me, besides making me come twice in a row, but I might be ruined for other men. He's caught me off guard, going so far off the usual track that I feel disoriented.

I struggle up, sated and lazy with the rush of two orgasms. His eyes are still on me, studying me intently as I close my legs and hitch the dress's shoulders back into place.

"You're okay?" he asks when I'm decent.

"Yes. I—" I don't know what to say. I've never been fucked like this before. But I know what's expected from me and how to reciprocate. I reach out for him, for his cock where it still bulges in his pants.

"No." He picks up a champagne flute, pours what's left in the bottle into the glass, and holds it out to me. "Here."

I take the glass from him, but this isn't what I want. The night is still young, and I bet if I can make him succumb to me like I succumbed to him, he'll touch me. "I still don't want any champagne."

"No?"

No. I want him . All of him.

"You like ordering people around, don't you, angel? In that condescending tone like a real princess, but you're needy like a—" He breaks off, studying me.

"A whore?" I say, the vile word piercing the silence. I'm needy and like to fuck like whore? That's what he wanted to say, isn't it? With me like this, coming here in this dress, no underwear, wanton and so freaking needy… I can't blame him for thinking the worst of me.

He stares down at me from his height, the look in his eyes gradually changing as his jaw ticks. He might have asked whether I was fine and handed me something to drink, but now, he's going to be cruel. Aren't all men, whether with words or with their fists?

"You like to put words in people's mouths, too, don't you?" He sneers as he steps back. "Stop thinking you're above everybody else, angel, especially if you don't know them from a bar of soap."

Unwanted tears push up the back of my throat. Neither my actions nor my words are in sync tonight, but my mind seems to have lost all sense of direction as soon as I saw him in his tux, his brow cocked in a challenge. And now this. I'm stunned that he can affect me this much.

He doesn't say anything more, but I won't have it. I fling the champagne at him, glass and all. Stephano is fast though, and he catches it in midair, the liquid splattering. He puts the glass back on the table, slowly, in control, not even making it clink.

He shoots me a last glance. "You're a big girl. See yourself out."

I'm livid. How dare he? I scoot to the edge of the seat and reach for the champagne bottle, but he's walking away, already at the foyer.

"You might think I'm a whore," I spit at him, "but you're no gentleman either. You can't disguise how sleazy your virgin auction is by putting it in a five-star hotel's presidential suite and wrapping it in pretty bows. You're just a fucking pimp."

I stand and fling the bottle at his back. He doesn't even know it's coming his way. My aim is terrible, and it hits a door jamb and shatters to the floor.

Stephano turns and gives the broken glass a disinterested stare. "Work on your aim, angel. For next time."

"As if."

He walks out, and the front door clicks closed. It's so quiet, I can hear my pounding heart. I stare at the door in shock. No one has ever provoked me to the point of flinging things at them.

Next time? Over my dead body.

My chest heaves with my outburst; my eyes sting with tears. Beyond his hurtful, hideous words, that was the best sex I've ever had. It wasn't even proper sex. He didn't touch me. He didn't want to. He didn't cave in as I thought he would.

Stephano didn't want me. I laid there, open and offered, and he snubbed me.

There were prostitutes in this suite mere hours ago, and he could have had his pick. He didn't want a prostitute either.

He mastered me…but he's been more a master of himself, not caving into his evident need as any other man would have. He was in control, completely, from the start this afternoon. Behave , he'd whispered to me, as if it was the easiest thing in the world. And the last thing I did was throw a bottle at him, totally out of control. There were glimpses of him losing his temper with Matteo, but even those were measured and contained.

He craved control in every moment more than craving sex. He has no Achille's Heel.

And that just means he's probably the most dangerous man I've ever met.