Isabella
His hand slipped beneath the hem of my dress, fingers grazing my thigh, slow—like he was savoring the moment, not rushing it. Then he found the edge of my panties. He didn't say anything. Just hooked one finger in and tugged them down. The fabric slid along my skin, catching slightly around mid-thigh before he left them there, forgotten.
His other hand came up to my dress strap, tracing it with his knuckle before pushing it down, letting it fall off my shoulder. My breath caught as cool air touched the bare skin above my chest. Then the second strap fell. The neckline slipped, and with it, half my chest was exposed—vulnerable, aching, waiting.
He stared for a second. Just stared. Like he needed to memorize me, inch by inch.
"Say my name, strawberry," he murmured—voice thick, low, raw with desire. That name. That name did something to me. My whole body responded like it was a command.
"Dante…" I whispered it into his ear like it was sacred. Like I belonged to the word.
His lips dropped to my exposed skin, finding the curve of my right tit. His tongue flicked over it once—testing, tasting—before he wrapped his mouth around it and sucked, deep and hungry like a starved man. I gasped. My hand gripped his shoulder for balance because my body was trembling too much to hold itself up.
"Say it again," he demanded, pulling back just enough to speak, breathless.
"Dante." Louder this time, sharper. He moved to the left tit, mouth warm, wet, teasing me with every graze of his tongue. His hands cupped both breasts, squeezing gently, then firmer. I arched into him, moaning his name as his mouth moved between them like he couldn't choose which one he wanted more.
He kissed down the valley of my chest, each movement slow, tormenting, deliberate. Then he looked up at me, mouth glistening, chest heaving.
"You drive me fucking insane," he said. "You have no idea."
I reached for him, gripping his jaw and pulling his mouth back to mine, kissing him like I was made for it—like we weren't at the beach, like time had frozen just for us. My legs wrapped around his waist instinctively, my whole body craving more contact, more pressure, more of him.
His hands slid around my hips, pulling me closer. I could feel him—his cock hard through his jeans, pressing between my thighs. My dress was bunched up around my waist now, and the only thing separating us was his patience. And I knew Dante. He didn't have much of it.
He kissed down my throat again, hands gripping my waist tight. I could feel his restraint—how much he wanted to lose control, but didn't. That was worse somehow. More maddening. More addictive.
When his hand finally found its way between my legs again, I nearly cried out. His fingers brushed the spot where I was wet and aching. He didn't go in. He just traced me. Teased me. Toyed with me like he had all the time in the world.
"You're soaked," he growled. "Fuck."
I moaned as his thumb pressed gently against my clit. Small circles. Just enough pressure to make my vision blur. My hips rocked instinctively, searching for more friction, more of him.
"Say it again," he said, lips on my neck, kissing, biting softly.
"Dante…" It was a gasp this time. A prayer.
He pushed me down gently onto the blanket, kneeling between my legs. The setting sun lit him like something out of a dream—hair tousled, shirt undone, tanned skin glowing, chest rising and falling like he was barely holding himself together.
"I want to ruin you," he said, darkly. "I want you to forget every other man who's ever touched you."
"You already have," I whispered.
And with that, he cupped my chin, pressing his lips firmly against mine one last time before pulling back just enough to trail kisses down my neck, over my collarbone, and along the gentle curves of my chest—his touch urgent yet deliberate.
But then he paused. The white dress between us was a barrier, a thin veil that held back his desire. Without hesitation, he yanked it up in a flash and tossed it aside like it was nothing, freeing my skin to his hungry lips and hands.
His mouth returned to my exposed t*ts, tracing slow, fiery paths down to my stomach. I reached instinctively for him—his jeans pressed hard against his c**k, rock solid under my fingertips—but as my hand grazed him, something shifted.
His grip tightened on my wrist, suddenly strong and unyielding, slamming me down into the warm sand. Our hands collided above my head, his palm pressing mine flat, pinning us together. His lips never left mine, his kisses deepening with a fierce, possessive hunger.
His other hand slid lower, tracing down until it reached the edge of my panties, already half pulled down from before. Without hesitation, he yanked them off completely, tearing the fabric with a roughness that sent a thrilling shock through me.
Then, slow and deliberate, he leaned down, his mouth brushing wet trails onto my most sensitive skin. A delicious mixture of heat and coolness spread where his lips met my already aching spot. Somewhere deep inside me, a spark ignited—wild and uncontrollable—and I came hard, shivering beneath him, my breath catching like a whispered prayer.
His tongue flicked up from the bottom of my clit, tracing upwards to my clit with masterful precision, swallowing every gasp and moan that escaped me.
He was ready for the real game.
His tongue, flat and wide like a predator's, traced long, slow laps along the outside of my pussy. Each stroke was deliberate, claiming, as if memorizing every inch of me.
Then he shifted, teasing me with cruel precision. His tongue flicked lightly around my cl*t, barely touching, torturing me with the promise of pleasure. He hovered at the edge of what I could take, licking and sucking in all the right places—the tender skin of my inner thighs, the slick folds of my vulva, the swollen lips that trembled under his touch.
He slid his tongue upward, gliding from the base of my vulva in a slow, deliberate motion. The way he lifted, almost worshipping, right under the hood of my clit made me shiver with want. His tongue lay flat, relaxed against the sensitive skin, then swished side to side in wide, soaking strokes that sent shivers straight to my core.
The way he flexed the tip of his tongue—flicking and teasing with a hungry focus—felt like he was searching for every hidden nerve ending, every secret spot that would shatter me.
When he started drawing slow figure-eight motions with his tongue, everything inside me exploded. My breath caught, my eyes fluttered, and I felt myself slipping, the orgasm crashing over me like a wave that pulled me under.
The release spilled into his mouth, hot and trembling, and he swallowed it down greedily, like it was the sweetest poison he could taste. I was his meal, his addiction, and he devoured me with a dark hunger that made my skin crawl with need.
His lips didn't stop. They moved lower, trailing kisses and wet flicks down my stomach, along my ribs, and back up to my breasts. His hands gripped my hips, pulling me tighter, anchoring me to him even as my body begged for more.
He was relentless, slow and torturous. Every flick of his tongue, every press of his lips against my skin, was a promise and a threat wrapped into one—he could break me or make me beg, and maybe he wanted both.
My fingers curled into the sand beneath us as waves crashed in the distance, but all I could hear was the ragged rhythm of my breath and the soft, dark sound of him tasting me.