Antonio takes you with a reverence unmatched.
He caresses your curves as if you are cut from crystal. His big hands now rest against your hips. Claiming. Their heat scorches your willing flesh as he lifts you, only to spear you again and again onto him. He stretches you wickedly close to your limits, his thrusts impeccably timed, penetrating pleasure.
Sex for Antonio is an opening into your soul. A door he requires you leave willingly unlocked.
The rare occurrence of a condom is a barrier between you both tonight, no damper to the feel of the crown of him, which rubs the perfect spot inside you, makes you melt.
As he lifts you once more, your hands grip the meat of his tough shoulders, scramble to hold onto the sweat-slick skin. Antonio is a wall of muscle. Big everywhere. Trained. Tight. Forceful yet so gentle. A powerful machine of flesh and bone created to make love to a woman; to fuck her like a god.
A whimper loosens from your lips as he piles into you again. You cannot help it. The pressure mounting in you must be released. Explode. Your core tightens viciously, your control withering with every delicious thrust of his body into yours. The leather of the limo’s bench-seat slips against your knees. Your thighs are receiving a strenuous workout, flex and soften as you rise and plunge, rise and plunge, draw ever closer to that longed for release.
‘Look at me, Beth,’ he says. Antonio Michelangelo Bellini can make a woman come using only his voice. Employ its deep masculine tone into gentle commands to stir your arousal, make you willing and pliant to all he desires.
His Italian grandparents settled in England, made it home—made it rich—yet Antonio speaks like he was birthed from British royalty. It is a most alluring contradiction.
His eyes are Caribbean Sea, but in these moments of togetherness they are black arousal alone. He searches yours with his, looks into you, desperate to see you break under his command. And those eyes take you over. You are now so wet his every thrust is divine and it pleases him; your pleasure is what he craves in these intimate moments.
It has now begun. The orgasm can’t be stopped. You know your eyes are confessing it to him and see the welcome heat in his that tells you he knows your release is his to own.
Sometimes it is a soft lovemaking you share. Hours of foreplay, many positions, and he fills you full of his seed without fear of creation. And sometimes it is lust alone. Hot, rampant, fucking. When his only care and your only want is to screw each other mindless until you both burst.
Your climax roars. Takes you over. Your only master. You come with a scream that echoes in the innards of the limo. But Antonio does not stop. He continues to take you to the edge of your sanity. You shake in his hold, witless, floating as he takes even more of you. His shaft thickens frighteningly large, widens you to breaking point. He is a piston in your darkest depths. Huge. Unstoppable.
He leans back, neck straining on its cords. A river of sweat cascades down the taut flesh and runs into the thick black hair that covers the slabs of his chest. Antonio bucks up from the seat as he comes, a guttural cry of animalistic bliss roars from him as he lets go. ‘Fuck. Fuck. Fuck!’
And then you smile. It is happiness from deep within you; your lover is sated. ‘Elizabeth, come to me,’ Michael says from behind you.