Sexy Surrender Read online

  I pulled his cock toward me, drawing him against me, and then he finally pushed his tip between my folds, spearing the flower of my pussy and driving deep inside me. I couldn't stop the scream from escaping, his name leaving my lips as he slid his cock inside, stretching me. He moved slowly, letting me accommodate his size.

  His fingers dug into my hips and pulled me back against him. I rolled with his thrust, wanting him deep, wanting to feel him come inside me. He'd given me so much pleasure, and now I wanted to return it. I let my upper torso flatten against the bed, stretching my arms in front of me and keeping my ass raised in the air, impaled by his cock.

  He bent over me as he pulled out, and then arched back as he thrust in, his sack slapping against me, his breath grunting out of his lungs, my name a breath of his lips.

  He began to move faster now, fluttering his shaft in long quick pulses.

  "Come for me, Luca," I said, the words rasping past quivering vocal chords. "Come so hard for me."

  "Oh Delilah," he said, his movements desperate now, his cock pounding into me, "I am...oh yes..."

  "Oh god, Luca, fuck me harder," I said.

  I felt a twinge of surprise at my words, but then the thought was dashed as he began to drive even harder, plunging into me with a primal ferocity. I felt his cock throb and grow thicker, rocked my pussy back down onto him as he stuttered his hips against my ass. He came with a curse, flexing into me, pausing, drawing out and stabbing deep, a hard thrust against my farthest walls. Hot seed flooded through me, and I felt my inner muscles clench and clamp, felt my belly ripple and my nipples and scalp tighten, my blood boil in my veins and my hands claw into the blanket.

  "Yes, yes, don't stop," I said, feeling him still come inside me.

  I was just starting to climax again, and didn't want him to stop after he'd come. He was still hard inside me, and he began to glide in and out once more, waves of orgasm billowing through me with each pulse of his cock against my walls.

  My eyes clamped closed as I came, and now he was driving into me as if he was coming again, but that couldn't be...He seemed as surprised as me, straightening, gasping. I felt his cock hard and hot inside, throbbing as if full again, but he'd just come, I felt his seed inside me, but he was, he was pounding hard and fast, surprise rife in his ragged moans. He paused long enough to roll me to my back, my pussy rotating around his cock and my leg passing over his head, resting on his shoulder, the other next to his leg.

  He wrapped a hand around my thigh and crushed into me, head thrown back and eyes closed. He let go of my leg and I hooked them around his back, pulled him down to me and kissed him as he came again, shuddering into my aftershocks, his thrusting small, hard, desperate quivers of his hips against mine, so frantic as to be rhythmless.

  "Fottimi...mio dio...Delilah," Luca whispered, collapsing half on me, half next to me, one leg thrown over mine, "What did you do to me? What was that?"

  I could only shake my head and try to calm my breathing. "I don't know. Intense as hell, is what that was."

  Exhaustion swept over both of us, and we slept.

  I woke disoriented, unsure where I was or what had happened, and then I felt Luca's hot, solid bulk next to me, his soft, rhythmic breathing echoing in the darkened hotel room. The drapes were still open, showing the shadows of night-blanketed Paris. I wasn't sure what time Luca had shown up, how long we had made love, how long we had slept.

  I slid out of the bed and crept across the room to my netbook, plugged in and sitting open but asleep on the table near the window. I tapped the space bar to wake it up: four-oh-three a.m.

  I wrote the preceding entry, letting the emotions of the past five days wash over me and through me.

  Now I'm sitting and watching the black fade into gray, bathing Luca's body with dawn light. The sheet covers one leg, revealing his torso, finely muscled and dusted with hair, his limp cock draped over one thigh, his balls sagging to one side. His mouth is slack in sleep, unruly strands of ink-black hair across his forehead and eyes, one hand curled near his face.

  I'm struck again, watching him sleep, with the deep, piercing pangs of affection for him, struck again by how beautiful he is, how amazing.

  My fingers want to tap out eight letters, a simple declaration of how I feel, but I...I just can't. Not yet.

  He's stirring, sensing my absence.

  I'm going to save this entry and then crawl back into bed with him, stroke his soft penis until it's hard again. I'm going to slip him inside me as we lie side by side, wake him up with my body flush against his. His hands will wrap around me, his arms cradling me, one hand cupping my breast, the other my mound, his cock inside me, his breath on my neck. He'll begin to move, and he'll moan my name before he's really awake, and then I'll feel his lips curl against the nape of my neck in a smile, and he'll clutch me tighter. He'll move in a purposeful rhythm, then, maybe biting my shoulder, fingering my clit and pinching my nipple and thrusting all at once, and we'll come together in the pink and gray of impending dawn, come together in a slow, soul-deep swelling of merged love.

  Love.

  There's the word I'm so terrified of.

  Four of the eight letters: l-o-v-e.

  I can write those others, out of order: I; h-i-m.

  It's not a puzzle to me. I just can't admit it, even in writing, because I'm too afraid of it being taken away, of it all being a dream, of him changing his mind, of something terrible happening.

  Maybe I can try it in Italian: Io lo amo.

  Still scary.

  No way can I say it to him, in any language. Not yet. If he says it to me, I know I'll freak.

  God help me. I don't know if I believe in God anymore, but if you're real and you're out there and you care, God, just...help me through this. Somehow.

  He's stirring again. Time to go.

  June 22

  Good gravy, that didn't go as planned.

  He's out getting breakfast for us, so I don't have long.

  It started out like I'd thought, as written above. I climbed in bed, took his flaccid cock in my hand and stroked him gently, rubbed my thumb in small circles around the tip. He began to grow under my ministrations, but not quickly enough for my taste, so I scooted down on the bed and got him hard with my mouth. He moaned in his sleep as I licked his crown, massaged his balls until they tightened, grazed him ever so gently with my teeth. Finally, he was fully erect, and I was dripping with anticipation.

  I turned my back to his front and guided him in, took his hand in mine and pressed his palm to my heavy breast. I rolled my hips against him and he moved into me instinctively.

  I felt him rumble deep in his chest, and his fingers flexed. He stretched, pulling almost out of me and then arched his back to thrust in.

  "Well, a good morning to you," Luca said, a smile in his voice.

  "I woke up, and wanted you again, so..."

  "You can wake me up like this any time," he said, squeezing my breast and grinding into me.

  We moved together, rolling in tandem, and his arm snaked underneath me to pinch my nipple, his other hand drifting down to cup my mound.

  Still all was going according to plan.

  Then he reached into the drawer of the bedside and produced a little bottle of lubricant.

  "Where did you get that?" I asked.

  "You are not the only one who wakes up in the middle of the night to do mysterious things, you know," Luca said.

  "You got up and bought lube?"

  "I did not buy it. I brought it with me from home. I simply fetched it from my car."

  We were still moving together, but neither of us were near orgasm yet. Luca pulled out of me, slipped his finger down to my ass, and I felt him apply a generous amount of cold, tingling liquid to the tight knot of muscle. I knew this sensation now, and I liked it. I'm sure what that says about me, and I don't care. It feels good, and he's careful.

  His finger slipped in, easier than ever thanks to the lube. The bulbous tip of his cock was brush
ing the entrance of my pussy, and I wanted him back inside me, but he wasn't thrusting, and his finger was fully within me, pinning me in place. I could only squirm, impaled by his middle finger.

  And then he slipped in another. So, so slowly. Time ceased to pass. All I knew was his fingers inside me, wiggling gently, moving in, stretching me. His other hand circled my waist, hovered on my belly, dipped down to my pussy, slipped in and brushed my clit, pressing it, flicking it, swirling around it.

  Juices flowed, fire blossomed, and the not-quite-but-almost painful stretching of his two--three, now?--fingers in my asshole became less painful and more pleasurable. He began to move his fingers in and out, and his hand at my pussy vanished, more lube coated his fingers, and something else, something long and hard yet soft.

  I was writhing in helpless abandon. His fingers were inside me, I didn't know how many, couldn't count or feel a difference, just the stretching, stretching, accommodating, filling.

  Oh god, oh god, just the memory has me quivering, has my asshole quivering as I sit on the bed and type this.

  Luca filled me, stimulated me, stretched me, moved in and out of me, and his fingers were in my pussy again, swirling, moving, driving and delving and pushing me closer to orgasm. And now I felt his fingers withdrawing, cold lubricant easing the passage of something huge and hard filling me where his fingers had been.

  For the first time in our sexual relationship, I felt fear that I couldn't handle what he giving me. My mouth was wide in a silent scream, then a soft, barely audible gasp scraped past my clenched throat, and my fingers curled in desperate claws into the bed.

  I was still on my side, my knees drawn up, one leg slightly lifted. Luca rolled me in a quick, deft maneuver that had me on my knees with him positioned behind me. I didn't know how much of him I had inside me, but it was enough, almost too much.

  "Are you okay, mia bella? Is this okay?" Luca's voice was soft, gentle.

  I wasn't sure, but I didn't want him out of me. I knew that much, so I nodded, unable to speak. He moved in farther, a slow, careful slide. His fingers were on my hips, more in restraint of himself than an encouragement for me. I felt, through the touch of his hands on my hips, the quivering of his body, the tension of restraint. He wanted to plunge hard, wanted to drive into me, but he wouldn't allow himself.

  A little farther, then. Oh god, so full. Again, I felt a rush of panic that it would be too much, that I would split in half from his presence inside me. But then he pulled out a little, and the low waves of building climax abruptly peaked as he slid out with excruciating slowness.

  I whimpered; Luca growled, tense and trembling. He moved back in, a hesitant, questing thrust, and my entire body convulsed in an orgasm so powerful I felt it in every fiber of my being. I felt it in my teeth, in my scalp, in my fingers and toes and belly and eyes. A scream stuttered out of me, muffled when I buried my face in the bed. Luca growled, a long, low rumble in his chest, and his fingers dug even harder into the crease of my hips as he slid out and plunged back in.

  He set a rhythm, slow and steady, and I came with every motion.

  But no, this was not exactly an orgasm for each thrust, this was merely the build up.

  Oh god.

  When the true climax came, it would shatter me. I knew it in my bones, felt it coming like a freight train.

  Luca's sliding cock moved inside me with increasing urgency now, and still with each thrust in, each pull out, I felt a spike of pure intensity, wave after wave building up one atop the other until there was no higher they could go, no more intense they could get.

  But they did.

  When he'd first begun to move his cock in my tight-clamped channel, I supposed he'd never be able to move freely, that I wouldn't be able to take it like that. But now, somehow, he was pounding into me and I was slamming backward onto him with a ferocity that matched his own, biting the blanket to keep my teeth from cracking in my jaw, my fingers scrabbling at the blankets, my hips moving of their own accord.

  I felt his cock burgeon and thicken and pulse, felt his balls tighten as they slapped into my pussy, and then he came with a teeth-grinding roar, slamming into me once, twice, three times; on the third nearly-savage plunge I came.

  "Came" doesn't begin to describe it. I'm not sure there are words in any human language for what happened. My universe detonated, shattered, dissolved, imploded. Lights burst behind my eyes, my entire body seized up and convulsed, chemicals rushed through my brain and my boiling blood.

  It lasted for an eternity.

  I've used the phrase "an agony of ecstasy" before, but in this case, it truly was that. It was something beyond ecstasy that blurred the lines between pleasure and pain.

  When it was over, Luca drew out of me, even slower than he had pushed in, and I felt my muscles contracting as he withdrew. At last I was left limp and exhausted and shuddering in the blissful haze of aftershocks, some of which were more powerful than some orgasms I've had.

  Luca lay down next to me and I turned into him, clutched my arms around his neck and buried my face in his chest. I might have been crying.

  "Are you okay?" He must have felt the moisture of my tears against his skin; he sounded worried. "I hurt you?"

  I shook my head and tilted my face up to meet his eyes. "No, no. It was...beyond anything...everything..."

  "This is good? You are okay?"

  "I'm not hurt. It was good. More than good." I kissed his jaw. "It was just so intense. I'm not sure I can handle that very often. It was almost too much, too intense."

  Luca nodded his head and smoothed my hair with his hand. "I am not sure I could do that so often either."

  "Why not?" I asked.

  "To hold back, so as not to hurt you, but wanting with so much desperation to just...go so hard in you, it takes much restraint, much controlling of the self. You know? So, when I was finally able to release myself, it was all the more intense for having held it back for so long." He kissed my cheek and then my lips. "And you have a way of making nothing of my control. You make me lose my restraint. You are...so beautiful, so amazing, and I want you so much, all of the time. I just cannot help myself."

  Tears pricked my eyes at his words, spoken so casually. I was already emotional from the intensity of our lovemaking, from the volcanic power of my orgasm, and now, such sweet words, said as if it should have been obvious. I couldn't help the sobs.

  "Oh, my dear Delilah. Why do you cry?"

  I didn't know how to say it, and I was crying too hard to speak. He held me as I wept, didn't ask any more questions, just held me and wiped the tears from my cheeks as they fell.

  When I could speak again, I said, "It's just you. The way you treat me, the things you say."

  "Is it wrong? The things I say and my treating of you?" Luca sounded confused.

  I laughed. "No, no, baby no. Don't you know women cry from happiness, sometimes?" I sniffed and rubbed my cheek against his stubbly one. "You treat me right. You say things that make me feel...cared for."

  "So why does this make you cry? I confess I am puzzled."

  "Because no one has ever treated me the way you do. No one has ever said the things to me that you do." I brushed a lock of hair away from his eyes. "It's intense. It's kind of scary. It's a complete change. When you've spent your entire life feeling different, feeling like you're not enough, not good enough, not skinny enough, not pretty enough, it can be really difficult to accept that someone thinks differently, even if it's a good thing."

  "Ah, now this I understand." Luca propped himself up on an elbow and caressed my body with his other hand, not a sexual touch, but an affectionate, explorative, tender one. "You do not always see your own worth, I think. You are not so skinny as I think the American ideal of perfection is believed to be."

  My brow furrowed and I opened my mouth to speak, but he held up a hand.

  "No, please. Only listen. I like you as you are. I say 'like' because I think the other word makes you worried, but it is true enough. I
would not like you so much if you were skinny, all sticks and skin. You have curves, you have a body to touch and hold. And also please remember, I am not American. I am Italian, and we have different ideals of beauty. And you, amore, are my ideal of beauty."

  I melted at that. Who wouldn't? I'm his ideal of beauty? He must see something when he looks at me that I don't.

  It occurred to me, as we were drifting off to sleep once more, that I'd called him "baby".

  I think I know why people say they're "falling in love."

  I've always hated that phrase. I never really understood it. Love was a choice. Something you worked at. I mean, yeah, I understood that you didn't always choose who you fell in love with, that it happened outside of your control. But, the verb "to fall". Why that one? Why falling? It implies a complete loss of control, a total helplessness to stop your tumbling over the edge. When you fall, you transition from solid ground, from balance, into open space, off balance.

  When I think "to fall" I think of standing on the edge of a skyscraper. There are no guard rails or Plexiglas walls, just dizzy height, people like ants and cars like toys, the hard ground hundreds of feet below, and you're wavering on the edge, arms flailing, but you can't regain your balance. You're falling. Air rushes past your face in a deafening roar, and you have time to realize, "this is it, I'm going to die."

  It's like that with Luca. It's inevitable. I can feel it happening, and I can't stop it. Unlike falling off a building, however, I'm not entirely sure I want to. The loss of control is scary. The vulnerability is frightening.

  I wish you could choose to fall in love. Or rather, not fall at all, but walk into love. Live into love. Be in love without falling.

  But then, if we didn't fall, implying all the trust and loss of control and complete vulnerability, would it be as sweet? Would it be as satisfying and life-changing? If you could choose it, and control it, would it be as potent and soul-searing?

  I think perhaps not, as Luca would say.