Mom Married the Don for Peace, So I Made His Son Kneel novel · Chapter 4 of 24

Chapter 4: The Carriage House

The carriage house door was unlocked, and he was on his knees at the top of the stairs.

He wore jeans and nothing else.

One lamp burned behind him.

The long room above the garage was all brick and dark wood, with a skylight and a big iron bed.

I closed the door at the bottom of the stairs behind me.

I climbed slowly, with my coat on and my boots loud on the treads.

Riccardo did not lift his head until I stopped in front of him.

"You did what I said," I said.

"You told me to."

"I did."

I reached into my coat pocket and took out his tie.

It was navy silk, folded small.

"You left this," I said.

"I know."

"Why?"

"I wanted you to have something of mine," he said, and a flush went up his throat.

I wound the tie around my hand.

"Stand up. Take off the jeans."

He stood and pushed the jeans down.

He had no shorts on under them, and he was already hard, and I smiled.

"You've been like this since I texted," I said.

"Since you texted, and before."

"Turn around."

I took his wrists, the left with the long burn scar and the right with a pulse under my thumb.

I crossed them in front of him.

I wound the tie around them twice and tied it off.

He pulled against it once, to test it.

"Tighter," he said, in a low rough voice.

I laughed and pulled it tighter.

"Walk," I said. "To the bed."

He walked, naked and stiff and flushed, and I took off my coat and followed.

At the iron bed I turned him by the shoulder and pushed him down to sit on the edge.

Then I lifted his bound wrists over his head.

I looped the loose end of the tie around the rail of the headboard.

He had to lie back with his arms stretched above him.

He lay there on his back with his cock jutting up and his chest rising and falling.

"Look at you," I said.

He gave me a half smile.

"I'm looking," he said.

"Don't make a sound unless I tell you to. My mother is in that house."

"So is my father."

"Then you'll be quiet," I said.

"Yes," he said.

I undressed in front of him, slowly, one thing at a time.

I took off my boots, my jeans, my sweater and my bra.

He watched every inch, with his mouth open, and the tendons stood out in his forearms as he pulled at the tie.

"Don't," I said. "Keep still."

He went still.

I climbed onto the bed on my knees.

I straddled his chest, facing him, and looked down.

"I want to sit on your face," I said.

His eyes went dark.

"Please."

"That's not a request I'll refuse."

I moved up his body until my knees were on either side of his head and my thighs framed his face.

I lowered myself, slowly, and felt the heat of his breath on me before his mouth.

Then I felt his tongue.

"Oh," I said, and my hands went to the iron rail above his head.

He licked me, deep and slow, from the entrance up to the clit and back.

I rocked against his mouth and he took it, tongue flat and eager, groaning into my wet skin.

I could feel him fighting the tie, trying to get his hands on me, and not being able to, and knowing it made me wetter.

"You want to touch," I said.

His answer was a muffled yes against my clit.

"You can't."

He moaned.

I ground down on his face, harder, and he gave me everything.

His tongue circled and flicked and then pressed in deep, and I shook so hard the headboard rattled.

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