Venice Nights (His Submissive #4.5)(12)
Author: Ava Claire

“Turn back around,” he growled.

I whipped back around, gripping the chair excitedly. He came up behind me, spreading my ass cheeks savagely. Every fold of me was on display, ripe for the taking…but he hovered at the entrance.

One of his hands held me steady. He knew me well; knew that I would be tempted to thrust my body backward and pull him inside. But his hold was ironclad. He was reminding me who was in charge.

I felt the curved end of the head of his c**k drawing up and down my slit; so close but so far away. From the way his grip had trembled every few seconds before he regained control of himself, I knew the wait was as difficult for him as it was for me.

“You want me to f**k you, don’t you?” he said hoarsely.

The word ‘fuck’ made my body clench, so wet that I was soaked down to my bones.

“Yes,” I groaned. I wanted him to drive into me; flesh slapping, so much pleasure shooting all over us that everything else faded to black. I wanted to forget about anything that lied outside of this room. I wanted him to pound me into the cushion; make me forget that the world outside was a different one for me—and I did not know if I belonged.

The hand around my waist, holding me still, relaxed its binding position and joined the other at my hips. One hand on each side. The perfect position for thrusting inside me with reckless abandon.

I held my breath, ready for him to rob me of all the air in my lungs; give me physical pain to dull the emotional pain in my heart. But there was no punch of motion as he claimed me. No slice of discomfort melting into pleasure as he beat a furious rhythm inside of me.

He entered me slowly, forcing me to feel every second that ticked by, every inch of him that filled me wholly and completely. He turned sex into poetry. The words were our moans. The slap of our skin.

I lost myself in his strokes, and I saw how crazy I had been. His body said the words I needed to hear; that he loved me, even when I pushed him away. The fingers that dug into my h*ps illustrated trust. I had to trust that even when I thought I knew what I needed, he knew me better than I knew myself.

“Come with me Leila,” he whispered. Soft as a kiss. Eternal.

It started at the center of me and roared over my body. It was as if I had been waiting for those words all my life. Every pore in me was in sync with his, so wild and free, that tears came to my eyes.

I was still panting, hanging over the edge of the chair when he released my hands. When I turned around to face my lover, a smile rippled across his lips.

“How,” I huffed, chest rising and falling. “How did you know—”

“That you needed me to make love to you?” he finished. He roped an arm around my waist, bringing my body back to his. “It’s my job to know, Leila. As your Dominant—and as the man that loves you. I know you, Leila. And I’ll take care of you.”

Chapter Seven

I stepped out of the bedroom, pulling the door closed soundlessly behind me. I planted my feet firmly on the hardwood floor. I had felt like a ballerina for the past thirty minutes; skating across the floor on my tiptoes. Moving with long, lean strides as I gathered my things, making as little noise as possible so I would not wake Jacob.

Today was the day when I would make good on a promise I made to myself. He took such good care of me; both in and out of the bedroom. I did not have a villa to whisk him away to nor any advice on how to ignore the paparazzi and live his life. Not that he needed any pointers, since he did a fine job of carpe diem-ing, whether the cameras were flashing or not.

But breakfast in bed? That I could do. I intended to whip up some edible eggs and hopefully, unburnt toast. If all else failed and I ended up burning said eggs and the toast, I could give him all the love that burst from my heart.

I exited the bedroom, rolling the tight muscles in my neck. And maybe some bacon? And there’s the oranges from the—

I froze on the top stair, the faint murmur of cabinets opening and closing gluing my bare feet to the floor. Apprehension tightened my chest.

Isabella.

I had not seen her since our last run-in. All the house staff came back last week, and I had expected we would have another showdown. She minced no words, and it was no secret that she could not stand me. But since I had been wrapped up in the press and Jacob, I had pushed the threat of confrontation to the back of my mind. More things moving around in the kitchen made the threat claw its way to the forefront. My stomach knotted, making me rethink this whole breakfast in bed thing.

No, I thought indignantly. If you’re going to be a part of Jacob’s life, you can’t slink away. You’re not a guest. You’re his girlfriend.

I raised my chin and brought my hands to the elastic on top of my head, tightening my ponytail. I scrubbed a hand over my face and continued the descent. The silence of every other room magnified the sounds billowing from the kitchen. The water running in the sink was like Niagara Falls, the jingle of silverware and plates like cymbals banging together. The humming was like—

I frowned.

The humming?

The cold-as-ice woman I met did not seem like the humming type. In fact, I would be willing to bet she was one of those weirdos that claim that did not like music. Or happiness.

Count it as a blessing. If she’s humming, maybe she’s in a good mood.

A blur of movement passed in front of the doorway, the humming growing in volume. The song seemed very familiar. My forehead scrunched as I tried to figure out why. A smile spread across my face when the fresh faced country-pop singer’s name flashed in my head. The lyrics told a story about princes and princesses, Romeo and Juliet. Young love.

She was humming a Taylor Swift song.

I breezed into the kitchen, ready to bury the hatchet, because anyone that hummed “Love Story” could not be all bad.

My smile faltered when I did not find the statuesque Italian woman towering over the sink, but a petite, young woman with a dirty blonde fishtail braid trailing to her waist. A scarlet colored apron, black tunic, and black leggings hung on her thin frame. Leather combat boots dashed up her legs, stopping at the knee.

She stopped humming, picking up on the fact that she was not alone. She slowly faced me. She had sharp, hawk-like features, but her sky colored eyes softened as she sized me up. A nervous smile pulled her lips into a friendly hello.

When I did not say anything, she blushed red, eyes dropping to the floor. “Was I too loud? I’m sorry if I woke you—”

“No,” I said quickly, returning the smile as I held out my hand. “You must be Blanka.”

Her smile returned instantly as she shook my hand. “That is me. And you’re Leila Montgomery.”