Massimo Torricelli smut

You weren’t even out the door before he grabbed you.

Hair curled to perfection. Lipstick deep and dangerous. Your dress hugged your body like a second skin, heels clicking against the floor as you made your way toward the entrance.

“You’re not leaving like that,” Massimo said from behind you, voice low and lethal.

You turned, brows raised. “Like what?”

“Looking like that. Without me tasting it first.”

And before you could argue, he was on you.

His mouth crashed into yours, smearing your lipstick instantly. The kiss was hard, possessive—tongues tangling, teeth grazing, his hand sliding into your hair as he tilted your head and kissed you like he wanted to steal the breath from your lungs.

You gasped into his mouth as he backed you into the nearest wall, one hand sliding up under your dress without pause. His fingers found your heat through barely-there lace, pressing in, rubbing just enough to make your knees buckle.

“Massimo,” you warned, panting against his lips. “We’re gonna be late.”

He smirked. “Let them wait.”

Then he dropped to his knees.

Your heels clicked against the floor as he spread your thighs, pulling your panties aside with one rough tug. He looked up at you, the sight obscene—a man in a suit, on his knees, eyes dark and wild.

And then his mouth was on you.

Tongue hot and fast, lips wrapping around your clit like a man starved. You cried out, head hitting the wall behind you, one hand flying up to steady yourself as the other clutched at his hair.

“F-Fuck, Massimo—my makeup—”

He groaned against your core, tongue flicking faster, like your ruined lipstick and smudged mascara turned him on even more.

“Messy looks good on you,” he rasped between strokes. “I want you going to that event with my mouth still on your pussy.”

You whimpered, thighs trembling as he slid two fingers inside, curling deep while his tongue worked in perfect, ruthless circles. Your lip gloss smeared across your chin as your mouth fell open in silent moans, your lashes damp from the tears of pressure building behind your eyes.

You came hard—a wet, broken moan against the quiet of the room, hips jerking as he devoured every bit of it. His jaw worked you through it, fingers fucking you slow and deep while your thighs clenched around his head.

When he finally stood, his mouth was slick, lips stained red from your ruined lipstick. He looked at you like a goddamn storm.

Your mascara had run in streaks down your cheeks, your lipstick was gone, and your hair was a tousled mess of lust and heat.

He took one look and smirked. “You’re not going anywhere until you look like this in my bed.”

You tried to protest, but he kissed you again—slow and deep—and you tasted yourself on his tongue.

30 minutes pass, and you stood at the vanity, trying to fix the chaos he left behind.

Mascara smudged beneath your eyes. Lipstick kissed clean off. Your thighs still trembled, and your breath hadn’t evened out yet — but you were determined to pull it together, at least long enough to walk out the door.

Massimo leaned against the doorway behind you, arms crossed, watching you with a look that said he wasn’t done. Not even close.

“You really think I’m going to let you fix that makeup,” he said low, “before I finish what I started?”

You met his gaze through the mirror, heart pounding.

“Massimo,” you warned, your voice shaking slightly as you held up your lipstick, trying to reapply. “We’re already—”

Too late.

He was behind you in an instant, hands gripping your hips, pinning you to the edge of the vanity. You dropped the lipstick as he pressed into you, his cock hard and heavy against your ass, grinding against the thin fabric of your dress.

“Look at yourself,” he growled, one hand sliding up your body, across your stomach, between your breasts, up to your throat. He gripped it gently, just enough to tilt your head back against him. “Look at how fucking wrecked you are… and all i did was touch your pretty pussy earlier.”

He pushed your legs apart with his knee and bent you forward, palms landing flat on the vanity surface. The mirror was right there, giving you a perfect view — of yourself, flushed and desperate, and of Massimo behind you, shirt sleeves rolled, tie loose, eyes black with hunger.

He shoved your dress up, your panties already soaked. In one motion, he slid them to the side and lined himself up.

“You should’ve known better,” he whispered into your ear. “You don’t fix that face until I ruin it completely.”

Then he thrust into you.

Hard. Deep. No pause.

You cried out, fingers gripping the edge of the vanity as your body jolted forward from the impact. He was thick, stretching you to your limit, his rhythm ruthless from the start. Your eyes rolled back, but his voice snapped you to attention.

“No. You don’t look away,” he growled, one hand tangling in your hair, yanking your head up so you had no choice but to watch. “You watch yourself getting fucked.”

Each thrust slammed you against the vanity, your breath fogging up the mirror, your lipstick smeared even further across your cheek. Your mascara ran more with every moan you couldn’t hold back, tears pricking the corners of your eyes from the overwhelming pressure of him inside you.

He grabbed your wrists, pinned them down on the counter, his hips never faltering.

“You see what you do to me?” he panted. “You think I give a fuck about being late when your pussy feels like this?”

You couldn’t answer. You could barely breathe.

You felt it building fast—white hot and unstoppable. He knew. You saw it in his reflection: that sharp, hungry grin just before he reached around and rubbed your clit in tight, punishing circles.

“Come for me. Right here. On this fucking vanity.”

Your body obeyed before your mind could catch up—a wrecked moan, thighs shaking, walls clenching around him as the orgasm tore through you. He groaned as you squeezed him tight, his pace faltering just enough before he spilled inside you, deep and hard and full.

He stayed buried, hips pressed tight against your ass, his breath hot against your neck.

Your makeup?

Destroyed.

Your body?

Wrecked.

Your reflection?

Unapologetically ruined.

And he loved it.

“You’re going to walk into that event like this,” he murmured against your ear. “Still dripping with me. And every man who looks at you is going to know exactly who the fuck you belong to.”

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