From the Baroness’s Diary III

Chapter 9

Chapter Nine

I find myself lost in the intense, liquid blue depths of Enzo’s eyes. That husky, sexy voice of his twirls around me burning my skin, sending a rush of heat and leaving goosebumps in its wake.

The clear desire pouring from him surges excitement into my system. He lowers his lips to mine and takes possession of my mouth.

He taste of red wine and dark chocolate. The combination is heaven.

When I pass my arms around his back his hips flex enthusiastically enough to prove how much he’s holding back.

It feels surreal, this feeling taking control of me. He has a certain elemental quality in that innocent white shirt hugging his broad chest, the simple black leather jacket, now molded around my shoulders, that before hugged his muscled arms.

It is a disguise, as much as the hats with red roses I wear.

Mine is a flashy kind of sexiness. His? A suave kind of charm. Both designed to distract.

Beneath this smile and these muscles is an intelligence and a watchfulness I should be wary of.

He knows exactly what to give me in the form of this small tease to make me give in. He knows exactly what to say to get under my defenses.

I should resist, but I can’t.

I don’t need to verbalize anything, all I need to do is smile. In an instant, he’s inside my room and locks the door behind himself.

“Touch me,” I demand.

But I guess I sound a bit too imperious, because he tsks and says, “That is not the way to get what you want, Principessa.”

“Prego...” I say, using one of the few Italian words I know, as I let my blouse flutter to the ground.

“Please, what?” he insists.

My hands falter on the zipper of my long skirt. I’m not so sure of myself now. Oh, heavens, will he make me beg for it?

He does.

He arches a black eyebrow at me as he tugs at his shirt, pulls it over his head and shoves his pants down, stepping out of his loafers and his discarded clothes in one movement.

Even if I haven’t forgotten what I was going to say, I wouldn’t be able to push words out of my mouth.

“Please, what?” As he repeats the question, he slides a hand up my spine, a firm, engaging pressure that draws me right against his chest, my breasts almost spilling from the new lacy bra Collette brought from Paris for my traveling trousseau.

My insides burn ever so slowly as his hand travels from the pulse point on the column of my neck until it rests over my breast.

I arch into the caress.

And my lips part in a restless plea, wanting, begging.

He draws a finger down the curving underside of my breast.

My mind races, following the heat of his touch as a light pinch on my hard n****e raises my passions higher.

I slid my hands over his chest, giving him a look from beneath my lashes. “You’re so big and—and hard.”

“Indeed, I am big and hard.” He takes my hand and moves it over the thick evidence of his arousal. “Touch my cazzo, Principessa.”

I oblige him. I am fascinated by the velvety surface over the steel of hardness. His long and large c**k is a thing of beauty, already jutting upward toward his stomach, with its mushroom head and veined length begging for my mouth.

“Oh, sì,” he grunts when I kneel on the floor and circle my tongue around the head over and over. “Go on, suck it.”

Desire.

It’s such a beautiful, sultry word, and perfectly describes what I feel for him as I take his d**k between my lips, wetting my way up.

“Take it all the way in,” he growls, grabbing chunks of my hair in his fists. “I want to feel those lips stretch around my cock.”

I let him sink further down until I feel the tip of his c**k hit the back of my throat.

“f*****g hell! You don’t have a gag reflex?”

He growls loudly when I swallow him.

This is such a heady sensation. My n*****s tighten and the ache between my legs sharpens.

His hands frame my face, still with my hair entwined in his fingers and he takes charge. “f**k. I knew you were perfect. Too f*****g perfect.”

If I could, I would have smiled at his bewildered look.

“Now, swallow me, Principessa.” Pumping his shaft between my lips with abandon, he forces himself down my throat and when I swallow over the head, he lets out a shout, “Gesù.”

Wetness is already dripping between my legs. I love the way he’s using my face, making me a depository of his pleasure. It reminds me of how Carlos, Beardley Manor’s pool-cleaner, f****d my face, though Enzo is a bit more considerate than the pool-cleaner.

“You’re going to drink every last drop of my c*m. Don't let even one drop slip from those lips.” He pulls back and slaps my cheek with his c**k and then he's again pumping himself between my lips.

The words and his dominance only encourage me, making me suck him harder and faster, matching his rhythm. The harder I suck, the louder he moans and curses.

“If you lose a drop, instead of f*****g that p***y of yours, I’ll spank it. Do you hear me?”

With my mouth full, I can only moan as I continue to suck as hard as I can. Though to be truthful, I’m thinking of letting one or two drops escape me.

Oh. My p***y spams and gets wetter with the thought of being spanked.

He grips my head, holding it in place, and plunges even deeper than I thought I could take him.

He grunts and finds a rhythm, and I match it, using my tongue and sucking in tandem to push him over the edge. It’s a double-edged sword between us, but right now he’s the one being cut. He’s the one shuddering, groaning, losing control as he f***s my mouth.

My tongue and my lips and even the edge of my teeth work to give him pleasure, pushing faster and harder than I’ve ever done before—not because I want it to end, but because it will.

When this is over, he will remember me—not exactly Chloé or Fleur, but my face, my mouth and the pleasure I’m giving him.

I relax my throat to let him in deeper and then I mimic swallowing him.

“Cazzo,” he roars, hot liquid hitting the back of my throat then my tongue. “Swallow every last drop.”

I obediently gulp it down as fast as I can and I lick him clean for good measure, eager to please.

“Greedy principessa,” he murmurs huskily, breathlessly, rubbing his thumb on my bottom lip. “If I hadn’t met you in Mario’s house and seen you with your friends, all prim and proper, I’d think you were a pro.”

Heat rushes to my face. I am not sure I should take this as a compliment or not and, from my place at his feet, I look up and raise an eyebrow. “Any complaints?”

“None.” He laughs as he pulls me up in his arms, catching my lips with his, slipping his tongue into my mouth with long, slow strokes.

I am so needy I can’t help but snake my legs around his waist and rub myself on his softening manhood.

“What do you want?” he asks.

“Please, I’m hurting here.” But when I see he is not going to give me what I want if I don’t beg, I take a deep breath and lower my eyelids, breathing, “f**k me, Enzo. Please.”

“How meek you can sound,” he teases, putting me on the bed as he also begins drawing down the zipper of my skirt.

I swallow a sigh as his hand slides between my legs and, pushing my panties to the side, finds my sensitive c**t.

It has been so long—years—since a man has touched me. I am all wet and already tensing for an orgasmic explosion. “Oh. Oh.”

His fingers play over my nub and then lower, gathering wetness. “Cazzo, you’re so wet.”

With economic movements, he takes my bra and panties off and in an instant, I am lying on my back and he’s lapping my slit. Then, latching onto my c**t, he sucks hard.

To my shame, instantly my lower body clenches up and I burst into a climax that shatters me into a million crystal pieces. “Oh, oh. Mon Dieu!”

He redoubles his efforts and I am soaring again. He laps and sucks a few times more, coaxing my satisfaction higher while I moan and try to escape his lips. My sensitive c**t needs a break, but he doesn’t think so.

He grins at me as if my renewed trembling exhalations seem to amuse him and returns to work, treating my c**t to the most thorough and stimulating session it has ever received. As he quickens his tongue, he begins to ease his fingers in and out of my body.

“That feels so good,” I cry, but it doesn’t feel good enough, because I want him over me, inside me.

Fucking me.

I want the stretching sensation of a c**k pressing into my tight p***y.

I squirm and beg, “Prego, prego, prego…” Please, please, please...

He releases my legs and moves up my body until we are gazing into each other’s eyes. “Are you ready to join with me, Principessa?”

“Oh, please. Oui.”

He replaces his probing fingers with his thick member. It feels heavenly sliding inside me, a stretching possession that thrills me.

But it only goes halfway and that makes Enzo look down where our bodies meet, astonished. “Gesù, you’re tight as a virgin.”

A tight p***y for a large d**k? Men say it feels better than anything else on earth.

I might not be eighteen anymore; the baron might have stuffed his good girls into me for years, and I might have been a naughty girl, but I pride myself on having a p***y as he says: as tight as a virgin. In one of the books in Beardley Manor library, there were…exercises to keep it as I have it now.

But my thoughts scatter as he pushes my legs up against my sides and begins to f**k me in earnest, the bed shaking under his powerful thrusts.

His groans and grunts are a primal sound that spur me on. His breath is hot against my skin. His hips spreading my legs wide. I’m completely invaded by him, taken over, wanting more.

“Prego, prego, prego,” I beg in his language, shameless and free of the shackles I’ve worn for so long.

I cling to him as my orgasm approaches again.

“Look at me, Principessa.”

I stare into his blue eyes, looking at him as he’s commanded. My body seems to stretch and bloom from the intensity of his gaze alone. Enzo’s blue eyes swim before me, shimmering in and out of focus as tremors begin to rack my body, tension coiling low.

I moan loud—too loud—because his hand comes up to cover my mouth.

The rough feel of his palm on my lips, being quieted by him, controlled…it pushes me over as heat spirals out of control.

I erupt in another explosion, of color and sound, sensations rolling over me. And he keeps going, taking me with him, higher. It isn’t just his agile caresses, but the feeling of him inside me, filling and possessing me.

It’s no longer a question of whether I might lose my composure as I did when with Salvatore, thrashing, screaming, and clawing my way through the multiple orgasms.

I’ve already lost it.

My body is caught up in a spell he’s determinedly cast.

“Again, Tesoro,” he groans, hammering himself inside me. “I’m coming. Let go with me.”

“Oh,” I breathe. “Oh, Enzo.”

I want that cataclysmic moment to last forever.

I wrap myself around him, trembling through the lingering pulses as I feel him thrust deep into me, once, twice, and then he grunts, arching, beautiful in his climax.

As I close my eyes, I feel kind of a betrayer. But to my confusion, he doesn’t feel as if he is a total stranger, non, and I don’t regret having given myself to Enzo.