A plug.
It was a plug.
Even as I thought that, though, it was slipping inside of me, creating a new, unexpected sensation.
As soon as it was in, Primo moved back a step, reaching out with both hands to massage my ass cheeks for a second.
“Okay,” he said, then turned and walked away.
He walked away.
“What are you doing?” I said, turning my neck to see him walking over toward the stove, mixing his sauce, and then pouring a little oil into his boiling water.
“Making dinner.”
“You can’t leave me like this,” I said, a strange choking laugh escaping me.
“Sure I can. I just did, lamb.”
“But…”
He turned toward me at that, his gaze slipping from my face to my plugged ass, and a low, primal growling sound escaped him that had me pressing my thighs together to ease the ache that was growing inside me.
“Come here, lamb,” he demanded.
“What? I can’t…”
“Come here,” he demanded, tone a little firmer. And damn if my body didn’t react to that authoritative tone.
I pressed up and turned, feeling the strange, full sensation as I moved.
The wicked smile that toyed at his lips said he knew the strange, forbidden sensation that was building in my system as I moved toward him.
“Be a good girl and make the salad for dinner,” he demanded as I got close.
“What?” I asked, confusion and desire mingling in my system to wipe all rational thoughts away.
“Make the salad, baby,” he said as his hand wandered down my spine to squeeze one of my ass cheeks. “And when you are dying for it and begging for it, then you can have my cock in your ass,” he said, giving my ass a hard slap, then turning around and getting back to the ravioli.
Not entirely sure it was possible for me to want him to fuck my ass badly enough to beg for it, I decided to play his game, turning away, then getting to work on the salad.
By the time I had the veggies all chopped up, though, there was no denying the fact that my system was begging for him to fuck me.
The plug had somehow created this strange fullness that pressed against my inner walls, making my pussy ache with need.
I was so wet by the time I put the salad on the table that it was almost embarrassing.
“Done trying to pretend you’re not dying for me?” Primo asked as he scooped the ravioli out of the pot and placed it on a platter.
“Yes,” I admitted, placing my palm flat on the table as I took a slow, steadying breath.
“Say please, lamb,” he said as he moved closer toward me.
“Please,” I said immediately, without even a hint of hesitation.
That low growl moved through him again as he got closer.
“Turn around, arms on the table,” he demanded.
I didn’t even think. I just did what I was told. Because I knew it was going to be what put an end to the clawing need for release.
I heard the zipper sliding down, then felt the thick head of his cock sliding between my lips, grazing over my throbbing clit, then slamming inside my pussy.
Hard.
Deep.
And that little extra fullness of the plug had a loud moan escaping me, the sound ricocheting off the walls in the apartment as Primo started to fuck me.
“So fucking wet,” he groaned as one of his hands squeezed my ass as he thrust before slipping inward to toy with the plug.
Just twisting it at first.
Then grabbing it and starting to thrust it in and out of my ass, each movement bigger as my comfort with the sensation grew.
Until, suddenly, the plug was gone, and his cock was pressing against me instead.
“Say it, Isabella,” he demanded as the head pressed inward just ever so slightly.
I knew what he wanted to hear.
And what I needed to feel.
“Fuck my ass,” I demanded just a second before I felt him sliding inside me.
He was unexpectedly slow and controlled at first, giving my body the time it needed to adjust, using small movements that had his breathing going sharp and shallow as he fought for control.
It wasn’t long, though, before I was beyond needing him to be soft and sweet with me.
“Primo, please,” I whimpered, wiggling my ass against him.
That was all he needed.
His hand reached out, fisting my hair at the nape of my neck, using it to drag me up until my back collided with his chest, then realizing to close around my neck instead, a hard hold that didn’t bruise or cut off air, but was just the right amount of possessive.
“You’re so fucking good to me, lamb,” he murmured even as he started to fuck my ass. Harder, faster than I could have thought I would enjoy. But, God, was I enjoying.
I never felt a pressure quite like I felt right then, this deep, aching need for release that had my whimpers turning to loud moans, then even pleads for release.
On a groan, Primo’s free hand moved between my thighs, two fingers thrusting into my pussy, turning, and stroking over my top wall as his thumb pressed against my clit.
Gone were thoughts, were words.
All that was left was sensation.
And this deep, primal moaning as he drove me closer and closer to that edge.
“Come for me, lamb,” he growled, sounding close himself.
His cock thrust, his fingers stroked, and his thumb pressed.
And I simply… shattered.
I felt like I exploded in a million pieces as the triple-zone orgasm slammed through my system, stealing my breath—or maybe that was Primo’s hand—and making my whole body shake as the waves kept crashing and crashing.
“Fuck,” Primo hissed, pulling out of me, bending me forward, and coming on my ass as my orgasm finally waned. “Fuck, baby,” he hissed, his hand slapping down on my other ass cheek as he let out a long, deep breath. “You’re so fucking perfect,” he added, making my heart flutter a bit, like it always did when he praised me. Which he did surprisingly often.
“Primo?” I called a couple seconds later.
“Yeah, baby?”
“Can you clean me up?” I asked. “I want some dinner now,” I told him, getting a deep chuckle out of the man I’d swore I would hate forever, but couldn’t deny that I was head-over-heels in love with.
Primo - 1 year
We’d pulled a rabbit out of our hats to get it ready in time for Christmas.
At the beginning of the plans, Isabella had been almost wholly in charge of the renovation of the brownstone.
It wasn’t until about seven months into it that she declared, “I am too fat and tired to do anything but eat Milanos in front of the TV.”
And so, me and my men took over, trying to get it done in time for Christmas.
Our son’s first Christmas.
He’d been a Thanksgiving baby, born just a couple of days before so that Isabella’s mom and sister could come over and cook us a whole Thanksgiving feast while we sat in bed, marveling at the life we’d created together.
Isabella had insisted that we had enough going on, that we could just let the brownstone be an ongoing project, but I knew how important it was to her to have our first Christmas as a family of three in the new house.
So I made it work.
And then as soon as I moved us in, she set to work decking it out for Christmas with her over-the-top but classy flair that had the whole place brimming with warmth and joy that I had to admit I’d never really gotten to experience myself growing up.