“Is that so?” I ask her, suddenly envious of spaghetti.
She sucking more of them down her mouth and, at my words, she stops when the last of them disappear into her mouth. I grab the noodles this time, holding them over her lips. I hold them a little high so I can watch while her delicate neck stretches up. She sucks them into her mouth slowly, her eyes on me the entire time. She’s deliberately trying to turn me on, even while she’s blushing wildly. The combination is sexy as hell.
“Not like you. I mean, I was talking like a father, but he doesn’t really qualify for that either. He gives the term ‘dead-beat-dad’ a new meaning.”
“I see. And your mother?” I ask her, already knowing the answer but enjoying the way she’s opening up so frankly to me. No games. No hidden meanings. Ana doesn’t do mysterious or coy and I like it. She’s also not trying to buy me with sympathy. Too many women have tried to make me their meal ticket by giving me sob stories. It never seemed to matter that I didn’t really care what their stories were. Ana might be different in that respect too—yet another surprise.
“She split before my father did. Though she did make appearances here and there, mostly when she needed money. I won the lottery in the parental department,” she says, reaching around for the bread. She grabs a piece, but before she can do anything with it, I take it away. She starts to protest, but I pinch a corner off of it and pop it into her waiting mouth, letting my finger slide over her bottom lip, the butter from the bread makes the touch on her lips smooth.
“Who raised you?”
“My father didn’t go MIA until I was sixteen.” She shrugs, leaving me to fill in the blanks. Which I do.
“Was it just you and your brother?” I prod, wondering exactly what she will say.
“Yeah. Drink, please?” she asks this time, instead of getting it herself. I get the water and guide it to her lips. She scrunches up her face but takes a drink.
“I’m not really a water drinker,” she says.
“It’s good for you.”
“So’s spinach. I find I don’t like it, either,” she says, her nose curling.
“But water is very useful.” I put the glass down on the table.
“To grow spinach?”
“To make you wet,” I tell her, shifting her body so that she has a leg on either side of me now and her back is against the table.
“I know of other things that do that,” she whispers, biting on the corner of her mouth again, which I’ve come to realize is a nervous gesture of hers.
I reach into the glass with one hand capturing a piece of the ice. I flick the sash to her robe loose, revealing one of her breasts. I put the cube into my mouth sucking it in and then letting the tip out. I lower my lips to her, letting the ice hover there. She sucks the tip, her eyes open.
“Roman,” she whispers brokenly, her voice laced with hunger. I lean down so I can rake the ice down her chin, following an imaginary line down her beautiful neck. An immense feeling of satisfaction comes over me when I see the trail of wetness I leave in my wake. Her head is back, allowing me access, and after a couple of passes down her neck, I move to her breast. I circle the outside. Ana really has gorgeous breasts. They’re big, but not obscenely so. I can cover them with my hand and they are full, soft, and pliable. Perfect, really. I move the ice around her areola. Her nipple, which was already hard, is pebbled so tightly it looks painful. The ice is almost gone, so I move to her other nipple, letting the icy water drip down. It’s stunning to watch the way the water drips and runs around the nipple and then along the fine ridges that have been made on her areola because of her excitement. I watch until I can’t anymore, and then I take the nipple in my mouth, my tongue swirling the last remnants of the ice around, and I suck it so hard it may bruise. A combination of the cold and my mouth makes Ana cry out. Her hands go to my head and she tries to drag me into her. When I finish, I pull away to look at the stormy violet depths staring back at me. They’re full of hunger and need.
“Your dinner is getting cold, pet,” I remind her, doing my best not to grind against her body. My cock is as hard as brick, pushing up against her bare pussy. The sweatpants I pulled on do nothing to block out the feel of her.
“I’m not hungry for food,” she whispers.
My hands flex into her hips, biting into them, and even the sting of that doesn’t bother her. I pull her roughly to the side, using my hand to swipe the dishes from the table. They fall to the pristine granite floor in a heap of broken glass, porcelain dishes, and food.
“What are you—” Ana rasps, grabbing my shoulders tight as I stand up, placing her on the table.
“Having my dinner. I’m starved,” I growl, putting pressure on her chest so she falls gently back, flat against the table.