Torture to Her Soul
Page 71
Laughing, I wave at the man and head inside. "Ciao."
"Do you want to—?"
"Nope."
I stall, standing in the middle of the hotel room, a cold sense of dread sweeping through me when Karissa cuts me off mid-question, not letting me finish what I was going to ask.
Déjà vu.
I thought we were past this nonsense. Yesterday had been better than ever. I've never felt as close to her as I did laying in bed last night, holding her, no clothing between our bodies, no secrets separating us anymore.
I expected to wake up to a new day, a fresh start, but instead she does this?
Karissa's stretched out on the bed, wearing only one of the big white robes supplied by the hotel, her hair still damp from her shower. She's flipping through channels. There are only a few, mostly in Italian. She doesn't know a damn thing that's happening on any of them, but they're stealing her attention.
I don't like it.
The urge to punch the television nearly overwhelms me.
My hands clench into fists involuntarily. Almost like she can sense it, Karissa stops on one of the channels and tosses the remote down, her attention turning to me. Her brow furrows as she takes in my stance before she smiles. "If it requires walking, abso-freaking-lutely not. After yesterday, I am beat. The only way I'm going anywhere is if you carry me."
"I offered to carry you yesterday and you refused."
"Yeah, well, not today," she says, relaxing back against the pillows as she gazes at the television again. "The only way you're getting me to move from this bed is if you pick me up and physically move me."
"Ah, well, lucky for you, I can think of plenty of ways we can pass the day without leaving the bed," I say, sitting down beside her. "And I was going to ask if you wanted breakfast. I was going to order room service."
"Uh, yes, I take it back... that would be amazing. Do they have bacon and eggs? Oh, and French toast, or does France have a monopoly on that in Europe?"
"Actually, the French didn't invent French toast," I reply. "That was probably the Ancient Romans."
"So I can get it here?"
"No."
She pouts dramatically as I grab the bedside phone and press the button for the main desk. I ask that some espresso and cornettos be sent up. It only takes a few minutes before there's a knock on the door. I answer it, letting the man wheel the tray in, and wait until he's gone again before bringing it over to Karissa. I hand her an espresso and set the tray near her feet.
"Seriously? A croissant?" she says, picking one up and eyeing me as I sit down beside her. "Now this I know is from France."
"I think they originated in Austria, actually."
"Jesus, Naz, next you're going to tell me pizza isn't Italian."
"Oh, no, pizza is certainly Italian, just not pepperoni pizza. You order that on your pizza here, and you'll get peperoni, with one 'p', instead."
"What's the difference?"
"They're sweet peppers."
She scrunches up her nose. "Way to kill the fantasy."
"It's what I'm good at. One of the many things, anyway."
Before she can respond, I reach over and run my hand up her inner thigh. She squirms, taking a sip of her espresso, and moans just as my hand reaches her bare pussy. I graze her clit, lightly stroking it, as she continues to sip from her cup, throat muscles flexing as she swallows. Her moans grow louder, throaty groans of pleasure, as I rub circles a little harder, caressing her beneath the robe. I can't see what I'm doing, but I know her body better than my own.
Even blind, I could rock her world.
I set my own drink aside, moving the tray of food out of the way, and shift in the bed to settle between her legs. She doesn't move an inch as I shove her robe up, starting at her knees and trailing kisses up her thighs, my hands settling on her hips.
Bringing my mouth to her pussy, I slide my tongue along her center before licking her clit, lightly sucking on it. She cries out, the sound muffled as she still sips on that goddamn drink. She guzzles what's left of it, throwing it back like it's nothing, before flinging her hand. The small cup goes flying across the room, slamming into something before hitting the floor.
"Oh God," she groans, her hands resting on the top of my head. "That's it."
I lick and suck, nibbling on her inner thighs, pumping two fingers inside of her, curving them to hit her g-spot. She comes apart, easily, quickly, her legs shaking as she grips my hair tightly. Her back arches as an orgasm sweeps through her. I can feel her pussy contracting from the pleasure, squeezing my fingers, her body practically begging for more of me.
Before it even subsides, I'm on top of her, my knees pushing her legs apart wider as I pull my cock out of my boxers, shoving my pants down just enough to thrust inside of her. She wraps her arms around me, her cheeks flushed, her lips curved in a sly smile. I kiss her, my tongue meeting hers, and grin against her mouth.
I know she can taste herself on my lips, but she tastes like espresso.
"Was it good?" I whisper.
"Best fucking coffee ever," she mumbles.
Karissa's running around again.
Dodging from room to room, tugging on her curled hair, slathering on lotion, putting on jewelry, and changing her shoes a dozen times.
I stand out on the balcony, holding my phone, and watch her curiously. I wonder if this is how she acted in the past every time I invited her to dinner or told her I was coming over.
"Do you want to—?"
"Nope."
I stall, standing in the middle of the hotel room, a cold sense of dread sweeping through me when Karissa cuts me off mid-question, not letting me finish what I was going to ask.
Déjà vu.
I thought we were past this nonsense. Yesterday had been better than ever. I've never felt as close to her as I did laying in bed last night, holding her, no clothing between our bodies, no secrets separating us anymore.
I expected to wake up to a new day, a fresh start, but instead she does this?
Karissa's stretched out on the bed, wearing only one of the big white robes supplied by the hotel, her hair still damp from her shower. She's flipping through channels. There are only a few, mostly in Italian. She doesn't know a damn thing that's happening on any of them, but they're stealing her attention.
I don't like it.
The urge to punch the television nearly overwhelms me.
My hands clench into fists involuntarily. Almost like she can sense it, Karissa stops on one of the channels and tosses the remote down, her attention turning to me. Her brow furrows as she takes in my stance before she smiles. "If it requires walking, abso-freaking-lutely not. After yesterday, I am beat. The only way I'm going anywhere is if you carry me."
"I offered to carry you yesterday and you refused."
"Yeah, well, not today," she says, relaxing back against the pillows as she gazes at the television again. "The only way you're getting me to move from this bed is if you pick me up and physically move me."
"Ah, well, lucky for you, I can think of plenty of ways we can pass the day without leaving the bed," I say, sitting down beside her. "And I was going to ask if you wanted breakfast. I was going to order room service."
"Uh, yes, I take it back... that would be amazing. Do they have bacon and eggs? Oh, and French toast, or does France have a monopoly on that in Europe?"
"Actually, the French didn't invent French toast," I reply. "That was probably the Ancient Romans."
"So I can get it here?"
"No."
She pouts dramatically as I grab the bedside phone and press the button for the main desk. I ask that some espresso and cornettos be sent up. It only takes a few minutes before there's a knock on the door. I answer it, letting the man wheel the tray in, and wait until he's gone again before bringing it over to Karissa. I hand her an espresso and set the tray near her feet.
"Seriously? A croissant?" she says, picking one up and eyeing me as I sit down beside her. "Now this I know is from France."
"I think they originated in Austria, actually."
"Jesus, Naz, next you're going to tell me pizza isn't Italian."
"Oh, no, pizza is certainly Italian, just not pepperoni pizza. You order that on your pizza here, and you'll get peperoni, with one 'p', instead."
"What's the difference?"
"They're sweet peppers."
She scrunches up her nose. "Way to kill the fantasy."
"It's what I'm good at. One of the many things, anyway."
Before she can respond, I reach over and run my hand up her inner thigh. She squirms, taking a sip of her espresso, and moans just as my hand reaches her bare pussy. I graze her clit, lightly stroking it, as she continues to sip from her cup, throat muscles flexing as she swallows. Her moans grow louder, throaty groans of pleasure, as I rub circles a little harder, caressing her beneath the robe. I can't see what I'm doing, but I know her body better than my own.
Even blind, I could rock her world.
I set my own drink aside, moving the tray of food out of the way, and shift in the bed to settle between her legs. She doesn't move an inch as I shove her robe up, starting at her knees and trailing kisses up her thighs, my hands settling on her hips.
Bringing my mouth to her pussy, I slide my tongue along her center before licking her clit, lightly sucking on it. She cries out, the sound muffled as she still sips on that goddamn drink. She guzzles what's left of it, throwing it back like it's nothing, before flinging her hand. The small cup goes flying across the room, slamming into something before hitting the floor.
"Oh God," she groans, her hands resting on the top of my head. "That's it."
I lick and suck, nibbling on her inner thighs, pumping two fingers inside of her, curving them to hit her g-spot. She comes apart, easily, quickly, her legs shaking as she grips my hair tightly. Her back arches as an orgasm sweeps through her. I can feel her pussy contracting from the pleasure, squeezing my fingers, her body practically begging for more of me.
Before it even subsides, I'm on top of her, my knees pushing her legs apart wider as I pull my cock out of my boxers, shoving my pants down just enough to thrust inside of her. She wraps her arms around me, her cheeks flushed, her lips curved in a sly smile. I kiss her, my tongue meeting hers, and grin against her mouth.
I know she can taste herself on my lips, but she tastes like espresso.
"Was it good?" I whisper.
"Best fucking coffee ever," she mumbles.
Karissa's running around again.
Dodging from room to room, tugging on her curled hair, slathering on lotion, putting on jewelry, and changing her shoes a dozen times.
I stand out on the balcony, holding my phone, and watch her curiously. I wonder if this is how she acted in the past every time I invited her to dinner or told her I was coming over.
