🐯𝓑𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓴 𝓯𝓸𝓻 𝓶𝓮🫧
This Day28 of kinkober and is a collaboration with @wildandsmile. The prompt is multiple orgasms. Enjoy!
"Anybody else craving dessert?" Bartolomeo's voice cut through the clatter of plates being cleared. His fork tapped an uneven rhythm against his empty wine glass. Across the cramped kitchen table, “You can have some of my cake.”You pushed aside your half-finished tiramisu. The espresso bitterness lingered on your tongue.
His gaze didn't waver from yours. A slow grin spread across his face as he leaned back in the creaking wooden chair. "Not cake," he murmured. "Something... hotter." He traced the rim of his glass with one fingertip. The lamplight caught the faint tremor in his hand before he curled it into a loose fist on the tablecloth. You felt the shift like static, sudden, charged, impossible to ignore. The air thickened. Your pulse kicked against your ribs.
Bartolomeo stood abruptly. The chair legs scraped harshly against the tiles. He circled the table, steps deliberate, heavy. He stopped behind your chair. His warm palms settled on your shoulders, thumbs pressing slow circles into the tense muscles at the base of your neck. You smelled the wine on his breath mingling with the lingering scent of espresso and garlic as he bent low, lips brushing the shell of your ear. "That little sound you make," he whispered, rough velvet, "when you try to hold back? I want to hear it crack." His fingers slid down your collarbones.
You turned your head just enough, catching the dark promise in his eyes, dilated pupils swallowing the amber flecks. Your own breath stuttered. His hand trailed lower, slipping beneath the thin silk of your blouse. Calloused fingertips traced the curve of your breast, feather-light, maddening. Your pulse hammered against his touch. The kitchen faded: the clatter forgotten, the lamplight shrinking to a pool around your chair, the world narrowed to the rasp of his breathing and the insistent heat blooming under his hand. You arched involuntarily into the contact.
His lips found the frantic flutter at your throat. First, a whisper-soft press. Then the wet, deliberate swipe of his tongue. Hot. Shockingly intimate. He traced the frantic beat of your pulse, dragging the flat of his tongue along the straining tendon. You gasped, clutching the edge of the tablecloth. The sensation was electric, primal. Then came the pressure—not gentle anymore. His teeth grazed the sensitive skin, sharp points catching. A low growl vibrated against your neck as he bit down, just shy of breaking the skin. The sharpness, the sudden possessive sting, sent a jolt straight to your core, a cocktail of fear and raw desire tightening your muscles. You felt the distinct shape of his fangs, too deliberate, too pointed to be merely human incisors, pressing firmly, branding you with their potential.
“B-Barto, not here” you stammered, fingers digging into the worn linen as his teeth lingered against your throat. The bite wasn’t painful, but the unfamiliar sharpness, too fine, too purposeful, made your skin prickle like ice breaking underfoot. You could taste your own heartbeat, metallic and frantic on the back of your tongue. His answering chuckle vibrated against your neck, dark and liquid, drowning out the distant clink of dishes from the sink. “Where else?” he breathed, his free hand sliding down your ribs to grip your hipbone, pulling you flush against the hard heat of him pressing through his trousers. The movement shifted the silk of your blouse, exposing the curve of your shoulder where his fangs had marked a faint, stinging crescent.
“Come with me,” you breathed, your voice thick with need, tangling your fingers through his before he could protest. Rising quickly, you tugged him towards the hallway’s shadowed embrace, away from the kitchen’s insistent light and clatter. He followed instantly, his larger hand swallowing yours, his stride urgent as he crowded against your back. The heat of his chest pressed through your silk blouse with every step, his breath hot and uneven against your nape. His free arm snaked around your waist, pulling you tighter against him as you navigated the dim corridor, the friction of his hips against your ass deliberate, possessive, sending sparks down your spine with each hurried movement.
The bedroom door scraped open under your frantic push, old hinges groaned, and you stumbled backward into the dark room, dragging him inside. He kicked it shut behind him with a heavy thud, plunging you both into near-total darkness pierced only by streetlight slicing through the blinds. Before your eyes could adjust, his mouth crashed onto yours, hot, desperate, tasting of wine and primal hunger. His hands gripped your hips, lifting you effortlessly onto the edge of the dresser. Wood creaked dangerously beneath you as his knee forced your legs apart. The cold lacquer bit into your thighs; his tongue explored yours deeply, urgently. You tangled your hands in his hair, pulling him closer, arching into the hard lines of his body. The air thickened with the scent of bergamot from his cologne and the salt-sweet tang of your skin.
A low growl rumbled in his chest as he broke the kiss, panting. His fingers tangled in the silk of your blouse. You heard the sharp *rip* before you felt it, cool air hitting your stomach as fabric tore seamlessly down the middle. Silk pooled around your waist like discarded petals. He didn’t pause. His calloused hands slid roughly down your sides, peeling away the ruined silk, thumbs hooking into the band of your lace panties. Another violent tear, louder this time, echoed in the stillness, and cool air kissed your bare skin everywhere. You flinched at the shock of exposure, the violence thrilling and terrifying. His gaze raked over you in the dim light, hungry, possessive, almost feral, as he tossed the shredded lace aside. "Delicious," he rasped, voice thick.
Without warning, his hands clamped onto your waist. He yanked you violently off the dresser. You gasped, momentum carrying you backward through the murky air, legs flailing uselessly. The world tilted, dark ceiling, slashes of streetlight, Bartolomeo shadowed face, all blurring together. Your shoulder slammed into the mattress first, a soft *whump* echoing as the impact knocked the breath from your lungs. Dust motes danced wildly in the faint light slicing through the blinds. Before you could orient yourself, his weight crashed onto you, pinning you deep into the yielding mattress. The scent of old linen mingled sharply with bergamot and the heady musk of his skin.
“All for me, I can’t wait to watch your come apart.” His voice was grit and gravel as he leaned over you, breath hot against your collarbone. His tongue traced the crescent mark on your shoulder first, a possessive swipe, before descending. When his mouth closed over a nipple, wet and urgent, you arched off the mattress with a choked gasp. He sucked hard, teeth grazing the peak in rhythmic nips that sent electric shocks straight to your core. Your fingers twisted in the sheets as he lavished the same rough attention on the other breast, the alternating pull and scrape leaving you trembling and slick between your thighs.
He didn’t pause, kissing a burning trail down your quivering stomach. At your navel, he lingered, tongue circling the shallow dip before dipping inside, teasing. His teeth scraped your sensitive skin, a delicious abrasion that made you squirm. You felt his groan vibrate against your belly as his hands slid under your hips, lifting you slightly. “So responsive,” he murmured against your skin, the words muffled but thick with hunger. His teeth grazed the soft curve just above your hip bone, a sharp sting that melted into heat as his tongue soothed the spot.
Then he was at your thighs, broad palms spreading them wider. His breath hitched as he inhaled your scent, humid and intimate in the dark. He pressed open-mouthed kisses along the inner seam, starting high near your hip, each one deliberate and slow. His teeth nipped the tender flesh there, not hard enough to bruise, but enough to make you jerk and whimper. Lower he moved, lips and tongue mapping the quivering muscles, alternating feather-light licks with sudden, sharp bites that left you gasping, your thighs trembling around his head.
You braced for his mouth where you throbbed, but he bypassed your aching core, concentrating instead on the sensitive skin where thigh met pelvis. His tongue swept a hot, wet path, then sucked hard enough to bloom a mark. A low growl rumbled from his chest as he did the same to the other side, his fingers digging into your hips to hold you still. "Bartolomeo—" you pleaded, arching, needing more. His only answer was a dark chuckle against your skin before he shifted, finally dragging his tongue through your slick folds in one slow, devastating stroke. The sensation was blinding, and you cried out, fingers clawing at the mattress.
He didn't tease. With a groan that vibrated through you, he buried his face between your thighs, tongue thrusting deep inside you. The intimate invasion was shockingly thorough, hot, wet, relentless. His fingers found your clit instantly, circling it with rough, perfect pressure. You gasped, hips lifting off the bed, but his free arm pinned you down effortlessly. He worked you with terrifying precision: tongue plunging deep, retreating, plunging again, fingers stroking your clit in tight, urgent circles. Your breath came in ragged gasps, the room dissolved into scent, salt, musk, bergamot and sensation, the wet heat of his mouth, the demanding press of his fingers.
Worst, or best was his gaze. He lifted his head just enough to lock eyes with you in the dim light, his lips glistening with you. His stare was predatory, utterly focused, drinking in every twitch of your face, every choked whimper. He didn't blink. Those amber-flecked eyes held yours captive as his tongue flicked hard against your clit before diving deep again. His fingers never stopped their relentless rhythm. "Yes," he rasped against your skin, the word vibrating through your core. "Look at me. Show me." The command was raw, stripping you bare.
The pressure built with terrifying speed, coiling tight and hot low in your belly. His eyes saw it all, the desperation tightening your features, the way your mouth fell open on a silent scream, the frantic clench of your thighs around his head. His tongue surged deeper, his fingers pressed harder, circling faster. Your vision blurred, but his gaze remained sharp, demanding surrender. You were unraveling, the edge rushing toward you, a cliff he’d built with tongue and fingers and unwavering, possessive sight. A choked sob escaped you, prelude to the shattering crest you couldn't hold back.
You came violently, arching off the mattress with a raw cry ripped from your throat. Your body seized, convulsing around his plunging tongue, slick heat flooding against his relentless tongue. Stars exploded behind your eyelids, sensations crashing over you in blinding waves, the rough scrape of his beard against your inner thigh, the frantic pulse of your clit beneath his circling thumb, the thick scent of your own release mingling with bergamot and sweat. He didn't stop.
Just as the aftershocks began to ebb, leaving you boneless and gasping, he shifted. His mouth abandoned your depths with a wet, obscene sound and surged upward, sealing hotly over your clit. He sucked hard, drawing the swollen bud between his lips, teeth grazing it with exquisite precision. At the same instant, his fingers, slick and thick, thrust inside you, deeper than before, curling deliberately. It wasn't tenderness; it was renewed assault. A fresh, sharper wave of sensation ripped through you, a cry catching in your throat. He growled against your flesh, the vibration echoing through your core. His free hand clamped onto your hip, fingers digging in as he worked you harder, faster, fingers pistoning, tongue flicking furiously. The room dissolved again, reduced to the wet sounds of his mouth, the sharp slap of skin, the frantic hitch of your own breath. "Again," he commanded against your clit, the word thick and muffled but undeniable. "Give it to me."
Your body obeyed before your mind could protest. The second climax hit with brutal force, tearing through the fragile remnants of the first. It wasn't the sharp peak of before; it was a deeper, rolling wave that dragged you under, a drowning current of pure sensation. You bucked wildly against his hold, a broken whimper escaping as your vision whited out. He rode it relentlessly, fingers stretching, mouth sucking, tongue working your clit with bruising intensity until the last tremor shuddered through you. Only then did his relentless rhythm finally slow, his mouth softening its suction but remaining pressed hotly against you, tasting your surrender. His breaths were ragged gusts against your abused skin. Above, his eyes remained locked on yours, dark pools reflecting the fractured streetlight and a hunger far from sated.
Bartolomeo gave your trembling clit one last deliberate, hard lick. Flat and slow, dragging the rough heat of his tongue over its swollen peak. The sharp jolt made you flinch violently, a gasp catching in your throat. Then he surged upward, leaving a damp trail blazing across your skin. Stomach muscles clenched under his lips. The curve of your ribs. The frantic flutter still hammering at the base of your throat. He didn't pause, didn't linger. His mouth crashed onto yours, hungry, demanding. You tasted yourself on his tongue salt, musk, uniquely intimate, mingling with the dark richness of the wine.
“W-what about you? Bartolomeo, please…” you gasped against his demanding mouth, the plea muffled by his lips. Your hands slid down the hard planes of his chest, fumbling urgently with the buttons of his shirt. Silk tore effortlessly beneath your frantic fingers, buttons scattering across the mattress like forgotten promises. His skin burned under your palms, muscles clenching as you shoved the ruined fabric off his shoulders. The scent of bergamot intensified, mixed now with sweat and the raw musk of his arousal. His groan vibrated against your tongue, low and dangerous, as your fingers hooked into the waistband of his trousers. You felt the rigid heat straining against the fabric, the damp spot where he’d pressed against you earlier. His hips jerked forward impatiently when you hesitated, grinding himself against your bare thigh. “Don’t worry,” he rasped, nipping your lower lip sharply. “I’m no where near done with you.”
His hand slid down your stomach, calloused fingers parting your slick folds without preamble. Two thick digits plunged deep inside you, curling instantly against that tender spot that made your spine arch violently off the mattress. At the same moment, his mouth left yours, trailing wet, open-mouthed kisses down the column of your throat. His teeth scraped over your pulse point, a predatory tease before sinking in, not with the sharp warning of earlier fangs, but a deliberate, possessive bite that bloomed heat and pressure. A ragged cry tore from your throat as he sucked hard, leaving the distinct, aching promise of a bruise beneath his lips. His fingers worked relentlessly: thrusting deep, retreating shallowly, circling your clit with the rough pad of his thumb in tight, dizzying spirals. The dual assault was merciless, stretching fullness below, the sharp-sweet sting on your neck, and the relentless friction on your oversensitive nub. Your thighs trembled around his wrist, every nerve ending screaming.
He shifted lower, his lips latching onto the tender skin just above your collarbone. Another sharp bite, another hard suck that pulled a choked gasp from you. His breath hitched against your damp skin as his fingers found a brutal rhythm: pistoning deep inside you while his thumb pressed firm, unyielding circles against your clit. The sensation was blinding, too much, too soon after the last shattering peak, yet impossible to resist. You felt yourself clenching rhythmically around his invading fingers, your hips lifting helplessly off the mattress to meet each thrust. “Look at you,” he growled against the fresh mark blooming on your collarbone, his voice thick with dark approval. “Taking me so well… greedy little thing.” His teeth grazed the edge of the bruise, sending fresh sparks through your veins. Below, his thumb pressed harder, circling faster, the rough friction igniting a fresh coil of heat low in your belly. Your breath came in frantic pants, the world shrinking to the stretch of his fingers, the wet heat of his mouth branding your skin, the relentless pressure building towards another impossible edge.
Your head thrashed against the pillow, a whimper escaping as his lips moved lower, finding the swell of your breast. He bit down on the soft curve, not gently, sucking hard enough to pull another bruise to the surface while his fingers continued their ruthless pace. The sharp sting blended with the deep, rhythmic thrusts and the maddening circles on your clit, creating a chaotic symphony of sensation. You were a live wire, arching wildly beneath him, fingers twisting desperately in the sheets. His eyes, dark and gleaming in the fractured light, lifted briefly to yours. The raw hunger there, the possessive satisfaction as he watched you unravel under his hands and mouth, was its own kind of violation, beautiful and terrifying. A strangled sob ripped from your throat as the pressure snapped, another wave crashing over you, less a peak this time than a drowning surge that left you shuddering, clenching tightly around his fingers, slick heat coating his hand. He didn’t relent, fingers still working, mouth still sucking, drawing out every last tremor until you lay gasping, utterly spent beneath him. Only then did his movements slow, fingers withdrawing slowly, leaving you achingly empty. He lifted his head, gaze locked on yours, lips swollen and glistening with your taste and the marks he’d left. His breathing was ragged, his own need a palpable heat radiating from him. He held your gaze, his thumb brushing almost tenderly over the throbbing peak of your abused clit, a silent promise that this was only the beginning.
“Bartolomeo…” Your voice was a raw scrape, barely audible. You swallowed against the dryness in your throat, your hand trembling as it slid down the sweat-slicked plane of his abdomen, past the defined ridges of muscle, fingers fumbling against the rigid bulge straining against the fabric of his trousers. The heat radiating from him was intense, the dampness where he’d pressed against you earlier undeniable. Your fingertips traced the thick outline, feeling the urgent pulse beneath the strained material. You needed it. Needed him buried inside you, filling the aching void his fingers had only teased. The vulnerability of the plea clawed its way up your throat, scraping against pride and fear. “Please…” The word cracked on its own desperation. You lifted your hips slightly, an instinctive, wordless invitation, pressing yourself against the hard ridge. Your eyes pleaded with his, wide and wanting. “Need you… inside me. Now. Please.” The roughness of your own voice shocked you, the raw need laid bare. Your other hand clutched weakly at his forearm, nails digging into taut muscle. “Give it to me. Your cock. Bartolomeo, *please*.”
“Such sweet words,” Bartolomeo growled, his voice thick as molten honey. His hand clamped over yours on his straining trousers, pressing your palm hard against the rigid heat beneath the fabric. The damp silk clung to him, betraying the urgency you felt pulsing against your skin. With brutal efficiency, he tore open his waistband, buttons ricocheting into the shadows like shrapnel. His cock sprang free, thick and flushed, jutting aggressively against your thigh. The sudden heat of bare skin on skin made you gasp, velvet steel radiating primal promise. He guided your trembling hand to wrap around the base, your fingers barely meeting around its girth. A visceral groan tore from his throat as you squeezed instinctively, feeling the thick vein throb against your palm. “See what you do?” he hissed, hips thrusting shallowly into your grip. “This… *all* for you.” His other hand tangled in your hair, wrenching your head back to expose your throat as he ground against you, the swollen head slicking a hot, wet trail on your belly.
Before your next ragged breath, his hands seized your hips. With terrifying strength and no warning, he hauled you upward, folding your body brutally in half. Your knees slammed into the bed on either side of your head, knocking the air from your lungs in a choked cry. Your feet pointed to the ceiling, the brutal angle exposing you utterly. Cool air rushed over your slick core, a shocking vulnerability that made you tremble. He held you there effortlessly, one massive forearm braced across your pinned thighs, crushing them down. The other hand gripped the root of his cock, guiding the broad, purple-veined head to press firmly against your fluttering entrance. The blunt pressure stretched you instantly, a delicious, burning ache. "Open your eyes," he commanded, voice raw gravel. "Watch." You obeyed, blinking through tears of strain and overwhelming sensation. In the fractured streetlight, you saw the slick tip glisten against your swollen folds, poised to breach.
He didn't thrust. He pushed slowly, agonizingly slowly, forcing his thick cockhead past the resisting ring of muscle. Your gasp echoed in the stillness as the impossible stretch burned, inch by torturous inch. Your eyes remained locked on the point where he disappeared into you, mesmerized by the obscene slide of flesh parting for him. The ridge of his crown caught on your inner walls, dragging with exquisite friction as he fed himself deeper. You felt every ridge, every pulse of his shaft against your clenched inner muscles, stretched impossibly tight. He paused when fully seated, thick and hot and impossibly deep, the base pressing hard against your sensitive clit. "See?" he rasped, grinding his hips in a shallow circle that sent sparks shooting through your core. His breath hitched, sweat dripping from his jaw onto your trembling stomach. "How completely you take me." The possessive satisfaction in his gaze was as overwhelming as the fullness inside you.
"Move... Bartolomeo, *move*!" The whine tore from your throat, raw and desperate, vibrating against the overwhelming pressure inside you. Your hips strained against his forearm's iron bar, seeking friction, seeking relief, seeking *more* of the delicious agony. Above you, Bartolomeo grinned. It was a feral, wicked slash across his shadowed face, the faint light glinting off the unnerving sharpness of every exposed tooth. The primal promise in that grin sent a shiver of pure adrenaline down your spine, mingling with the unbearable ache. His breath hitched in a dark chuckle. "As you wish."
The grin vanished, replaced by pure predatory focus. His hips snapped back, dragging his thick length almost entirely out in a single brutal stroke that left you gasping at the sudden emptiness. Then he slammed forward, burying himself to the hilt in one devastating thrust. The impact jolted your pinned body violently against the mattress, bones rattling. *Thud*. Deep. So deep you felt him in your throat. His thumb found your clit instantly, pressing down with bruising, perfect pressure. At the same moment, his mouth crashed onto yours, teeth clacking against yours in a savage kiss. You tasted blood, your own or his, you couldn't tell, mingling with salt and bergamot as his tongue invaded, claiming your mouth with the same relentless possession as his cock claimed your body. He didn’t tease. He didn’t build. He *pounded*. Hips pistoning in a brutal, driving rhythm that shook the bedframe against the wall, each deep thrust punctuated by the wet slap of skin and your choked, airless gasps against his lips. His thumb ground relentless circles into your swollen clit, the rough friction igniting sparks behind your eyelids even as the sheer force of his penetration stole your breath.
He broke the kiss only to sink his teeth into your lower lip, sucking hard as he drove deeper still, angling his hips to grind the thick root of his cock directly against that spot inside you with every inward surge. A ragged scream tore from your throat, swallowed instantly by his mouth reclaiming yours. The sensations collided, the deep, stretching fullness, the sharp scrape of his beard against your jaw, the unyielding pressure on your clit, the suffocating heat of his kiss, the primal musk of sweat and sex thick in the air. Your vision swam; the fractured light from the blinds blurred into streaks. His growl vibrated against your lips, low and continuous, a feral counterpoint to the rhythmic creak of the bedsprings and the slick, driving sound of his cock plunging into your drenched core. His free hand tangled tighter in your hair, holding your head immobile for his ravaging kiss as his hips never slowed, each withdrawal a tearing emptiness, each penetration a claiming so deep it bordered on pain.
You were unraveling again, the coil of heat low in your belly tightening impossibly fast beneath the dual assault, the relentless pounding deep inside and the rough, perfect torment on your clit. Your thighs trembled violently against the crushing bar of his forearm. Tears leaked from the corners of your eyes, mixing with sweat on your temples. He drank them with a swipe of his tongue against your cheekbone mid-thrust, never breaking his rhythm, never lessening the pressure. His amber-flecked eyes, inches from yours, were dilated black pits of hunger, reflecting your own shattered expression back at you. "Come," he snarled against your mouth, the command vibrating through your bones. "Now. For me." His thumb pressed harder, circling faster, grinding your clit against the thick base of his cock as he pistoned into you. The command was the trigger. The pressure snapped. White-hot lightning seared through you, arching your back impossibly against his hold as you convulsed around his driving length, a silent scream locked in your throat by his consuming kiss.
He didn’t stop. Didn’t slow. He rode your violent climax ruthlessly, his thrusts growing even harder, deeper, faster, as if feeding on your convulsions. His mouth tore from yours, trailing biting kisses down your jaw to your throat. His teeth sank into the tender flesh where neck met shoulder, a sharp, possessive bite that drew blood this time, the coppery tang sharp in your nostrils. He sucked hard at the wound, groaning against your skin as his hips pistoned with frantic urgency. The wet slap of skin grew louder, more desperate. You felt his cock swell impossibly thicker inside you, pulsing against your spasming walls. His rhythm stuttered, losing its brutal precision, becoming ragged, animalistic lunges. His thumb ground mercilessly against your oversensitive clit, prolonging your own shudders even as a ragged, guttural snarl tore from his throat, vibrating against the bite mark. He was close. So close. The primal sound, the desperate drive of his hips, the hot flood of your blood against his lips, it was a feral peak rushing toward him, dragging you along in its wake.
He slammed deep, burying himself to the hilt one final time and froze, a strangled roar ripping from his chest. You felt the hot, thick pulse of his release deep inside you, flooding your core in searing bursts. His body locked rigid above you, muscles straining like stone beneath sweat-slicked skin. His fingers tightened painfully in your hair, anchoring you as his hips jerked uncontrollably against yours, pumping his seed with relentless, primal force. The scent of iron, sweat, bergamot, and the raw musk of his climax filled the air, thick and heady. He gasped, shuddering against you, the tremors running through his frame and echoing into your own spent body. For a heartbeat, silence hung heavy, broken only by his ragged breaths fogging the damp skin of your throat.
But the stillness shattered instantly. His hips jerked forward again, grinding himself impossibly deeper into your slick heat even as the last pulses of his release faded. His thumb lifted from your clit only to press two fingers hard against it, replacing the pressure immediately. His voice, thick and hoarse with spent lust but edged with renewed command, rasped against your bleeding shoulder. "Not yet," he growled, the words scraping like gravel. "Not done." He withdrew his cock slowly, dragging the thick, slick length through your clit-sensitized folds with agonizing friction, leaving you achingly empty and throbbing. Then, ignoring his own softening shaft, he plunged two thick fingers deep inside you, curling them instantly against that spot. His other hand slid down, palm pressing hard against your lower belly, pushing down with deliberate pressure. "I want to *see* it," he hissed, his eyes blazing down at you in the fractured light, raw possessiveness mingling with dark curiosity. "Want to watch you soak my fingers… soak *me*. Squirt for me. Now." His fingers pistoned deep, rough and relentless, while his palm pressed harder against your abdomen, forcing sensation downward, demanding surrender anew. The assault was immediate, overwhelming, targeting a deeper, unfamiliar peak.
The pressure built differently this time, lower, deeper, intense pressure radiating from his pushing palm and the relentless curl of his fingers inside you. It wasn't the sharp coil of clitoral pleasure; it was a profound, mounting pressure in your core, a desperate fullness demanding release. You gasped, hips lifting instinctively against his crushing weight, thighs trembling violently. "Bartolomeo, I… I can't…" you choked out, overwhelmed. His eyes locked onto yours, unwavering, predatory. "You *will*," he commanded, voice low and dangerous. His fingers crooked harder, deeper, a deliberate, insistent pressure against that hidden place within. His palm pressed down with bruising force. The sensation surged, undeniable, terrifying. Your breath hitched, vision tunneling. A choked sob escaped as the pressure snapped, not a peak, but a floodgate bursting open. A hot, gushing torrent poured out of you, soaking his driving fingers, his palm, the sheets beneath you in a cascade of slick heat. A ragged cry tore from your throat, half shock, half relief, as your body convulsed violently, not just around his fingers, but from deep within, emptying itself under his relentless command. He watched, mesmerized, his lips parting in a savage grin of utter triumph.
“I-I can’t believe you…,” you gasped, trembling as you watched him lift his glistening fingers from the soaked sheets. Your body still quivered from the violent release, muscles loose yet twitching with residual shock. Bartolomeo’s eyes, dark and unwavering, held yours as he slowly brought his wet fingers to his lips. His tongue flicked out long, deliberate, and unnervingly precise, tasting the slickness coating his skin with a low, appreciative hum that vibrated in the stillness. The sound was primal, possessive, echoing the intimacy he’d just wrung from your body. He didn’t break eye contact, savoring each swipe as if committing the flavor to memory, the amber flecks in his gaze flaring with feral satisfaction.
“Your such a perv Barto…” you murmured, your voice still thick and breathless, as you watched him lick his fingers clean with unnerving thoroughness. His gaze remained locked on yours, predatory and possessive, the amber flecks in his dark eyes burning brighter as he savored your taste. The low hum in his chest vibrated through the mattress beneath you, a primal echo of his satisfaction.
“Yeah, but I’m your perv,” Bartolomeo murmured, his voice thick and drowsy as he finally lowered his hand. A slow, lazy smile spread across his face, utterly incongruous with the predator who’d pinned you moments before. It was dopey, unfocused, his amber-flecked eyes glazed over like warm honey spilled onto dark wood. He traced a calloused thumb over your trembling lower lip, the rough pad catching on the softness with a tenderness that stole your breath. “Look at you… wrecked. Perfect.” The dopey grin widened, softening the harsh lines of his jaw, making him look younger, almost boyish beneath the sweat-damp hair clinging to his temples. His eyelids fluttered heavily, as if the sheer intensity of your release had drained him too, leaving him floating in a haze of shared exhaustion. He nestled his face into the curve of your neck, his breath warm and rhythmic against the fresh bite mark, his dopey smile pressed into your skin like a secret. “Mine,” he mumbled, the word slurred and soft, devoid of command, saturated instead with a drowsy, possessive wonder.
“Yes, I’m all yours,” you breathed, tangling your fingers in his sweat-damp hair as his weight settled over you, heavy and possessive. The scent of bergamot clung to his skin, mingling with the raw musk of sex and the coppery tang of blood from your shoulder. His breath warmed the fresh bite mark, each exhale sending tremors through your spent body. You traced the hard line of his jaw where it met your neck, feeling the rasp of stubble against your fingertips, the lingering adrenaline making every sensation hyper-sharp.
His dopey grin widened against your skin. “We should do this more often,” he mumbled, the words slurred with exhaustion and triumph, his thumb lazily circling the bruise blooming on your hip. The sheer audacity, the casual assumption after the brutal intensity, the predatory grip still imprinted on your wrists, ignited a spark of defiance. Your palm cracked against the side of his head with a sharp, satisfying *smack*. Not hard enough to hurt, but enough to make him whine and nuzzle closer. “Idiot,” you hissed, voice still raw. “You nearly tore me apart.” Bartolomeo whimpered, “but you liked it,” burying his face deeper into your neck, his arms tightening possessively around your waist. The dopey smile remained plastered on his lips as his breathing deepened into sleep against your skin. “Yeah I did” You kiss his forehead softly.