Chapter Twenty-Two – Lunetta
The water’s gone cool in the bathtub. My knees are pulled to my chest, arms wrapped around them. The rosary’s pressed between my fingers, each bead digging into my palm like tiny punishments. My thumbs glide over the smooth surface of the cross again and again, but the words… they won’t come.
I open my mouth.
Hail Mary….
Soap suds slip down my arms in lazy trails, and all I can feel is the ache—between my legs, the soreness from my sin.
From when he was inside me.
Last night wasn’t a dream. He told me I would give myself to him.
I did.
And the worst part—what makes bile rise in my throat—is that I don’t regret it. I should be on my knees, begging forgiveness. I should feel the pain of sin. But all I feel is…
Nothing. At least not the things I should be feeling.
I press the rosary harder, knuckles paling. I can’t stop thinking about the life I always imagined—marrying a kind man of God, raising children in a house filled with light, my hands covered in flour and grace, not bruises and heat and the memory of a man like him.
I want to scrub the memory away, to wash it down the drain with the soap and steam, but it’s inside me now.
I clutch the beads tighter until they creak beneath the pressure, and then—I scream.
It rips out of me, from the depths of my soul. My fingers snap open and the rosary flies from my hand as I toss it against the tiled wall. It falls with a sharp clatter before scattering across the floor.
My heart hammers.
What have I done?
I stare at the tiny crucifix lying face-down on the cold tile.
I don’t even realize when I step out of the bathtub. Water runs in rivers down my thighs, leaving me cold and shaking. My foot slips once, and I catch myself against the wall. The soap hasn’t been rinsed from my skin—bubbles still cling to my shoulder, the curve of my waist.
I lower myself slowly, my knees hitting the floor harder than I mean to. I reach and I gather the rosary into my wet hands. A single tear falls onto the crucifix, and then another. Until I can’t hold it in anymore.
I bow my head. And I sob.
Realizing that I just lost a part of me that I won’t get back. I press the beads to my lips, shaking so hard it hurts, and try again to pray.
I step out of the bathroom, the towel clutched high on my chest, my skin still damp, my hair clinging down my back.
He's there even though I hoped he wouldn’t be.
He's sitting on the edge of the bed, shirtless. His elbows rest on his thighs, hands folded loosely between his knees. He looks like he hasn’t moved since I locked the door behind me. His eyes flick up, tracing the water gliding down my collarbone.
Memory cuts through me like glass:
“You’re doing so well,” he whispered against my ear last night.
There are clothes laid out beside him. I can tell they are his, he wants me to wear them. It’s a plain shirt and jeans as usual. Does he know I hate jeans?
I take the clothes from the bed and go back into the bathroom. When I step out again, I’m wearing the clothes. The fabric smells like him. The jeans are tight at the waist. The shirt hangs long, swallowing my hips. My rosary is wrapped tightly around my wrist, looped three times until the beads press into my skin.
I feel his eyes on me.
“I did everything you wanted.” I pause, hands clenched at my sides. “I want to go back to Nonna now.”
He stands and my pulse spikes as I take a step back.
“Don’t tell me you hit and run,” he says quietly. His voice is different. “Shouldn’t we talk about last night?”
“It was a mistake.” The lie scalds on the way out.
He laughs. Not cruelly—almost like he’s amused. Or disappointed.
“A mistake, you say?”
I hate that I can feel him smiling. I hate that I want to cry. I hate that the truth is burning behind my teeth and I can’t swallow it.
Why can’t I ever lie to him?
Why does it feel like he sees through me—without trying?
“I gave myself to you,” I say, voice thinner than I mean. “Just like you said I would.” My gaze flickers to the floor. “Let me go back to my family. Please.”
His chest rises.
“I never planned to let you go,” he says.
The words punch the air from my lungs.
“What?”
“I had no plans of letting you go,” he repeats, slow this time. As if he’s daring me to misunderstand.
My mouth opens, but the words stumble. “You’re… going to lock me up? Keep me here?”
He steps forward.
“I could kill you,” he says, voice low, head tilting slightly.
Then he stops and he shakes his head.
“Stop being silly,” he mutters, walking past me and grabbing a shirt from the closet. “Get something to eat.”
He pulls the shirt over his head. I stay where I am, standing near the wall like a misplaced ghost. My fingers dig into the fabric of his shirt, the hem damp against my thighs from where my hair’s still dripping down my back.
Without another word, he leaves. This time, the door stays open.
I stare at it, unsure if it’s a trap, unsure if I even care. The hallway is quiet. His footsteps echo briefly then fade altogether.
I breathe out, then I slip out the door slowly, barefoot, each step light against the cold floor. I haven’t been out alone since I got here. It feels like ages ago since I ran through these walls, desperately hoping to be saved.
“Lunetta?” a familiar voice calls softly from somewhere near the stairs, and then Enzo appears around the corner—hair wild, t-shirt crooked.
He jogs toward me, his face lighting up, until he sees the look on mine. His arm is bandaged from shoulder to wrist.
My throat tightens at his hand. From where he had been shot yesterday. I almost forgot about that, consumed with thoughts of Vieri.
“It’s because of me, right?” I ask. “I’m sorry.”
He reaches out and takes my hands in both of his, warm and steady. His fingers are gentle around mine, but I notice the tension in his shoulders.
“Nonsense,” he says, brushing his thumb lightly over my knuckles. “Don’t say that. Come on—come have breakfast with us. You look like you could blow away in the wind.”
I hesitate, but he tugs gently, coaxing me toward the stairs.
“I was so worried,” he murmurs. “Oh my God… I thought you were gone.”
I don’t know what to say. I don’t think I can say anything. But I let him lead me.
The dining room opens up slowly around the corner, warm light spilling in through tall windows. At the long table, Alfio and Omero sit with plates already half-finished between them.
Alfio’s face lifts first. His bruised eye is vivid—violet bleeding into yellow—but his smile is there.
“Well, look who made it out of the dragon’s den,” he says.
Omero glances up next. “Thank God you’re alive,” he says.
Alfio chuckles under his breath. “Vieri made sure of it.”
I glance at Alfio’s eye and my stomach twists again. He also got this yesterday. Another person that I haven’t noticed with Vieri hounding my every sense.
“I’m sorry,” I murmur.
He waves me off. “Don’t be. Not your fault he decided to punch the guards at Lapo’s gate like a lunatic.” He pauses. “Though I do wish he’d done it after they let us in.”
Enzo pulls a chair out for me. I sit slowly, my body stiff, unsure if I’m intruding or being welcomed. But Omero reaches across the table and sets a spoonful of scrambled eggs on my plate. Alfio pours tea into the empty cup beside me.
I look at the tea, then at them. “Thank you.”
“You eat,” Enzo says, nudging a slice of bread toward me. “You’ll feel better.”
I nod. The eggs are warm. Soft. I chew slowly, quietly. No one pushes me to talk.
Enzo taps the table lightly. “Anyone heard from Riccardo?”
Alfio lets out a breath through his nose. “No.”
Omero shakes his head once. “He left before dawn. Didn’t say where he was going.”
“He does that,” Omero mutters. “When he’s pissed.”
I look down at the eggs again, push them gently with my fork. I don’t ask what Riccardo was angry about. I already know. My existence has always annoyed him.
“I said she can’t be here!” one of the guards yells from outside and the front door slams open. A woman’s voice cuts through the house.
All three of them freeze. Enzo rises instantly, his hand brushing my shoulder as he steps in front of me. Omero is already halfway to the window. Alfio gets up slowly, wiping his mouth with a napkin as a woman steps into the room.
Her body is full, like mine. But she wears her curves like weapons. She has on a fitted short red dress and her hips move like she wants them watched. Her thighs glide past one another in tall black boots. Her chest strains proudly against the sweetheart neckline, and there’s a cut just low enough to make sure no one misses it. Reddish curls bounce around her face, glossier than mine, styled to fall just right. I see it immediately—how similar she is to me.
And how utterly different.
Omero glances at her. Then at me. Then back again, eyebrows lifting. I catch Enzo’s quick frown—he sees it too. The resemblance.
Two guards try to block her path. “Ma’am,” one says sternly, “you can’t be here.”
“I want to see him,” she says sweetly. “Vieri.”
Before the guards can speak again, Omero lifts a hand, voice curious. “Let her through.”
She offers him a wink.
“What the fuck is all this noise?”
Vieri’s voice barrels through the corridor.
He comes into view, his shirt open, still in dark slacks, his hair slightly tousled. His eyes scan the scene.
Then they land on her.
She beams. “Hi.”
“Donna?” His voice loses all sharpness.
Alfio leans slightly to the side, intrigued. “So… you do know her?”
Vieri drags a hand over his face, muttering something under his breath. “Why are you here?”
She pouts. “You haven’t called since that night. I was worried.” Her tone softens. “I missed you.”
He takes her hand.
“Come with me,” he says slowly.
She giggles—actually giggles—and lets him guide her past us, her fingers twined with his. They walk slowly, like they’ve done this before.
My fingers twitch at the hem of the shirt. The cotton is damp under my palm. I press my thighs together, the fabric of the jeans pulling across my skin.
Alfio turns to the guards still hovering by the hallway. “What are you staring at? Back to work.”
They scurry away.
My lungs feel heavy. I don’t even realize I haven’t taken a breath until Enzo speaks, his voice careful.
“Are you okay?”
My mouth curves a smile.
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
I reach for the fork and continue with my meal.
****
My heel squeaks once against the polished floor, and I pause mid-step, glancing over my shoulder.
The guard by the staircase looks away quickly, pretending he hadn’t been watching. I bite down on the side of my thumb—not hard, just enough to feel skin stretch.
I am outside Vieri’s study. Enzo and others left to “work” a few minutes ago. Enzo offered to stay, hang out with me, since he couldn’t take me anywhere.
Said Vieri would kill them if something happens again.
I told him I was fine. He didn’t believe me.
My feet carry me back to the door again, slower this time. I am not stalking or trying to eavesdrop, I am just curious. Who wouldn’t be curious in this situation? After last night, it’s normal to wonder when I see him with a woman I have never seen here before.
Why haven’t I heard anything?
A laugh comes almost immediately as an answer.
My teeth press into the inside of my lip. She’s laughing?
Why?
I move back to the door. I lean in and rest my ear against the wood, heart tapping steady beneath my ribs. I press my palm against the door for balance, leaning just closer, trying to catch—
The latch slips and the door opens. I stumble, catching myself on the edge of the frame before I can fall face-first into the room.
They're standing there.
She’s by his side, hip cocked slightly, one hand smoothing the edge of her red dress. Her boots gleam up the length of her calves.
Vieri stands just beside her.
“You have good taste,” she says, looking at me. Then she leans into him, voice lower. “When you’re tired of her, I’ll be one call away.”
She walks past and her perfume follows.
His fingers wrap gently around my wrist before I can turn. He pulls me into his study and the door shuts behind us. My hand lifts on its own, brushing a curl off my cheek, tucking it behind my ear. The skin along my neck feels too warm. I smooth the shirt at my waist, then immediately wish I hadn’t—it only draws attention to how oversized it is.
I notice in relief that his shirt is buttoned now. That’s a good thing, right?
His hand wraps around my wrist and he pulls me towards his oak desk. One hand presses lightly against the small of my back. The other grazes the curve of my thigh.
Then I’m lifted. He places me on the edge of the desk. The surface is cool beneath me. My legs dangle slightly, knees brushing against the side of his hips.
His body fills my view. His scent—warm, faintly spiced—floods in. I glance away.
“Why were you snooping?” he asks. My lips part, but I don’t bother lying.
His fingers brush my cheek, coaxing gently. He tilts my face back toward him, his thumb resting lightly beneath my chin.
“Were you worried?” he asks. “Jealous?”
The questions land softly, but they buzz under my skin.
“Ask me what I did with her.”
My hand comes up fast and swats his hand away from my lips.
“I don’t care,” I whisper.
His smile widens, amused. “Liar.”
His gaze drops to my hands. To the rosary looped tightly around my wrist.
He reaches gently, fingers closing around my forearm. His thumb brushes the beads once before he unfastens it. The chain slips through his fingers.
He turns to the drawer beside him. Opens it. Places the rosary inside.
The drawer shuts with a soft click.
When he turns back to me, his face is calm.
“I don’t like snoopers,” he says, voice smoother now. “Your snooping distracted me.”
I follow the angle of his gaze. My breath halts in my throat. The bulge beneath his slacks is visible and huge.
My stomach twists, low and warm. I grip the edge of the desk without meaning to.
Then his fingers lift—softly brushing the corner of my mouth again.
“You caused this,” he murmurs. “I was fine when she was here.”
His breath grazes my lips. “The moment I saw you, this happened.”
He pauses.
“You have to fix this.”
I lift my eyes. My voice doesn’t shake. “Show me how to.”
His brows lift.
I reach for his hands—fingers curling around his, light and certain.
“Show me,” I say again.
His voice wraps around me like velvet.
“On your knees, sweetheart.”
I don’t hesitate. I slide off the desk and sink to the floor, eyes locked on his. The cold surface bites into my skin, but all I feel is the fire radiating from him. He steps in, towering over me—body heat, masculine scent, and pure authority pressing down on me like gravity.
His fingers thread through my hair, firm but not rough—controlling. His thumb brushes the side of my cheek as I tilt my head back to meet his gaze.
The way he looks at me—like I belong here, like this—is a rush of arousal straight to my core. My heartbeat pounds against my ribcage like a fist.
“Good girl,” he murmurs, deep and dark, like praise forged into power. “Now unzip me.”
My hands move, trembling slightly as I reach for the fly of his pants. I tug the zipper down, and his penis springs free—thick, flushed, and already hard. My fingers wrap around the shaft. He’s hot to the touch, veins bulging along the length. The head is swollen, slick with pre-ejaculate.
“That’s it,” he says, voice dropping lower. “You’re doing so well.”
He gathers my hair again, more intentional this time, twisting it into a loose grip. It’s a tether. A command. My hand strokes his shaft instinctively as I lean forward, lips parted, unsure.
“Nice and slow,” he soothes, though the undercurrent in his voice thrums with control. “You don’t have to rush.”
I slide my tongue along the underside of his penis, tasting the heat of him, the salt. My lips close around the head, easing just the tip into my mouth. My jaw stretches, lips pulling tight, and I try to take more—but my gag reflex kicks in, and I flinch, the sound humiliating.
But his grip stays gentle.
“Hey,” he whispers, voice a low caress, stroking the back of my head. “That’s okay. You’re doing perfect. Just breathe through it. Let me help you.”
The way he says it—commanding, encouraging—makes my thighs clench. I nod, adjust, and try again.
He guides me this time, easing himself into my mouth, shallow at first, letting me learn the shape of him. My lips glide over the head, saliva wetting the length as I work in a slow rhythm. Every soft grunt from him is another jolt of validation.
“You feel incredible,” he breathes, voice fraying at the edges. “So warm… so good.”
I take more of him, relaxing my throat, letting the head of his cock press past the back of my tongue. He groans, hips twitching forward slightly.
“God, that mouth…”
His hand tightens in my hair.
He pulls back just a bit, then pushes forward again, deeper. My tongue flattens along the underside of his shaft as he fucks into my mouth with slow, purposeful strokes.
“You’re taking me so well, Lunetta,” he breathes, tone thick with control and hunger. “You don’t know what you do to me.”
His hips begin to thrust. Not violently—he’s not trying to hurt me—but with a deliberate force that sends his cock deeper into my mouth with every roll of his body. My lips stretch wider, and my jaw aches. Saliva drips down my chin as I fight to keep up.
“Just like that,” he whispers, eyes pinned to mine. “Look at you… such a good girl for me.”
The praise ignites something deep in me. I moan around his cock, and the vibration makes him groan through gritted teeth.
“F—God, do that again.”
His thrusts stutter, slow for a breath. His hand slides to cup my cheek, tender for a moment, then curls back into control.
I adjust, tightening my lips, cheeks hollowing as I suck him harder. His cock slides deeper, now coated in spit, gliding in and out of my mouth with slick, filthy sounds.
“Oh… that’s it,” he groans, voice cracking with restraint. “You’re learning me so fast.”
I want to undo him. I want to ruin his control. I push myself harder—taking him to the back of my throat, working his cock like it’s mine to worship.
“You’re doing so good, sweetheart,” he rasps, panting now. “So fucking good for me.”
His hips drive harder. The rhythm picks up, cock slamming into my mouth with growing force. My throat stretches to take him, spit dripping down my neck, but I stay there—needing to be used, to give him everything.
His grip tightens, holding me in place.
My moan is swallowed by his cock—and that’s what sends him over.
“Fuck—don’t do that unless you want me to lose it.”
But I do. I want to feel him fall apart in my mouth.
He thrusts deep, past the back of my throat, and I feel him jerk.
“Shit… I’m—baby, I’m gonna…”
His cock pulses, and then he unloads—thick, hot streams of cum spilling across my tongue, coating the back of my throat. I swallow as much as I can, but there’s too much. It leaks from the corners of my mouth, trailing down my chin.
His body shakes, breath ragged, hand still firm in my hair.
“God… look at you.”
He wipes the corner of my mouth with his thumb, smearing the release across my cheek.
“You’re unreal.”
I look up at him, lips parted, eyes glossy. His other hand cups my jaw, reverent and rough all at once.
“You didn’t have to take it all,” he says, voice low and serious. “But you did. For me.”
I nod faintly, the pulse between my legs throbbing.
“Come here,” he says. “Let me take care of you now.”
He crouches, curling his fingers under my chin and lifting me as if I weigh nothing. My legs tremble, knees weak from the strain, but he holds me steady, strong arms around me like I belong there.
Then he kisses me—full, filthy, and possessive. His tongue slides against mine, tasting himself on my lips, and he groans like it undoes him.
“You’re so damn beautiful,” he whispers into my mouth. “So sweet. So good.”
Before I can catch my breath, he lifts me—hands gripping under my thighs—and sets me down on the desk behind us. I gasp, hands bracing on the edge, legs falling open.
He steps between them, eyes locked on mine.
His fingers hook into the button of my jeans. He pauses.
“Can I?”
I nod, heart thudding.
He pops the button, pulls the zipper down, then peels my jeans off, slow and hungry. When the fabric snags at my calves, he growls like the delay is delicious.
“God, you’re gorgeous,” he murmurs, kissing the inside of my thigh. “Every inch of you.”
He tosses the jeans aside.
Then his fingers hook into the waistband of my panties, knuckles brushing the sensitive skin just above my pubic mound.
“These too.”
They come off with a slow drag, my panties clinging slightly to the moisture between my legs before sliding past my thighs. His hands are firm as he spreads my legs wider, guiding me toward the edge of the desk until my hips tip forward and my labia part naturally under his gaze.
He lowers himself between my thighs without a word. The first stroke of his tongue is soft—too soft—and it shocks me. My entire body jolts as if struck. I gasp and reach for him, fingers fisting into his hair, but he’s already got me locked in place—his strong hands pressing into my hips, thumbs brushing my skin just beside the curve of my pelvis.
Then he dives deeper.
The sound he makes is filthy—a groan, raw and low in his throat—as he presses his mouth into my vulva like he’s starving for it.
“Sweet,” he murmurs against my flesh, lips brushing my inner labia. “So sweet… I could stay here forever.”
His tongue starts to move—slow, circular passes over my clitoris, each one firmer than the last. He’s not sloppy. He’s calculated. He listens to my body, to every breathless whimper and twitch of my thighs, and reacts to it—adjusting pressure, dragging his tongue slower, then faster.
When my hips buck instinctively, his grip tightens like a vise.
“Stay still, Lunetta,” he growls. The sound of his voice vibrates against my clit, sending a jolt of sensation straight through my abdomen. I moan as he sucks it between his lips, tongue flicking rapidly.
“You taste like heaven,” he says again, voice muffled between my thighs.
His hands move from my hips to my thighs, curling beneath them and dragging me forward until my vagina is flush against his face. I feel the tip of his nose pressing just beneath my mound as his tongue flicks downward—lower—until the flat of it slides between the lips of my vagina and plunges into me.
I cry out, sharp and high-pitched. His tongue pushes deep into my vaginal canal, fucking me with slow thrusts, then harder ones. It’s filthy, and it’s everything.
No one’s ever done this to me.
I grab his hair, grinding my pelvis against his mouth, but he holds me down with both arms like he owns me. The table digs into my back, but I don’t care. His tongue retreats, finds my clit again, and laps it with tight, controlled circles. Every flick builds the pressure faster, tighter. I’m close.
So close.
Just as I’m about to break—
He stops.
He stands up, mouth and chin glistening, lips parted with hunger and breathlessness. I cry out, half-broken, needing him back between my legs. But he kisses me instead—deep, consuming, possessive. I taste myself on his tongue.
Then he pulls back, his voice velvet-soft.
“Tell me…” His thumb brushes my cheek, then my lip. “Were you jealous of the lady?”
His eyes lock on mine, and my brain barely works through the fog of need. I nod, whispering, “Yes.”
He smiles—a dark, satisfied smile.
“I told her I wasn’t interested,” he says, tracing my bottom lip. “I wished I was… but only you can make me feel this way.”
I glance down between us and see him—his penis fully erect, flushed, thick, and already leaking. My thighs twitch open even wider in silent invitation.
He steps closer. One hand grips my thigh hard, fingers digging into flesh as he spreads me wide, exposing every inch of my dripping vagina. His hips press forward until the head of his penis nestles against my opening.
He holds there—just long enough to make me ache.
“I need to feel you,” he growls. “All of you.”
And then he drives in.
I gasp as his shaft stretches me open, the thick, blunt head of his member forcing past my entrance. My vaginal walls clench instinctively around him, slick and tight, swallowing him inch by inch.
I grip the edge of the desk with both hands, bracing myself as he pushes deeper.
“You’re so wet,” he groans, biting his lip. “So tight… god, you feel like fucking heaven.”
He bottoms out—balls flush against me—and my lungs seize with the fullness. He stays there for a beat, letting me feel the throb of his cock pulsing inside my vagina.
“Is it too much?” he asks, voice tight.
I shake my head, fast, desperate. “No. Don’t stop.”
That smile again. A dangerous one.
“Good girl.”
He pulls out halfway, then slams back in with force, dragging a cry from my throat. His hands lock around my waist, guiding me against each thrust, driving himself deeper with every stroke.
The sound is obscene—wet, rhythmic slaps as his length slides in and out of my vagina. He leans over me, chest grazing mine, and his hand finds my breast beneath my shirt. He palms it, squeezes it roughly, pinching my nipple until I gasp.
“Look at how you take me,” he growls into my ear. “Like your pussy was made for my cock.”
My inner muscles clench, clinging to him. My thighs wrap around his hips, ankles locking at his back as he starts to really thrust into me—harder now, faster, with all the restraint burned away.
The desk creaks violently beneath us.
He grits out every word like it costs him to hold back.
“You feel so good. So fucking good.”
He kisses me again, tongue fucking into my mouth in rhythm with his length plunging into my vagina. Then he pulls back to see my face as he pounds into me—deep, brutal strokes that make the desk rock.
“Fuck,” he groans, throwing his head back as his cock jerks deep inside me.
I cry out, thighs shaking, as I feel the first hot rush of his cum flooding my core. His rock pulses again and again, painting my walls, spilling everything he has.
He doesn’t stop moving. He grinds into me, pushing it deeper, making sure every drop stays inside my pussy.
We’re both soaked in sweat and slick, our bodies trembling, lips brushing but not kissing, gasping for air.
Then I feel it—his cock, thickening again inside me, stretching me wider.
I gasp.
“Already?” I whisper.
He leans down, growls against my neck.
“I’m not even close to done with you.”
Then he pulls out, slow and careful, and I feel his penis slip free of my vagina, the wet, sticky trail of our release dripping down my inner thighs. I’m still panting, body limp across the desk, every nerve ending fried.
But before I can even think about standing, his arms wrap around me.
I let out a surprised noise as he lifts me—his arms sliding under my thighs. His chest is heaving, skin slick with sweat, but his grip never falters.
“You think I’m done?” he rasps, voice ragged in my ear.
I barely shake my head before he’s striding across the room, carrying me like a man possessed. I cling to his shoulders, breasts pressed against his damp chest, legs still trembling from the orgasm that ripped me apart. He lowers me onto the couch, setting me down with a careful roughness that makes my stomach flip.
The second my back hits the cushions, he spreads my legs wide—palming the insides of my thighs to open me, to see me. His cum is still leaking from my swollen vagina, mixing with my own slick. I should feel exposed, filthy—but under his gaze, I feel worshipped.
“You’re a fucking vision,” he growls, eyes dark, fixed between my legs. “My cum dripping out of this pussy, and you still want more, don’t you?”
My breath hitches. I nod.
He grips the base of his shaft, already hard again, veins thick beneath the flushed skin. He strokes it once, the tip glistening, and lowers himself over me.
“I’m not stopping until I’ve given you everything. Until this sweet cunt is wrecked.”
He lines himself up, the blunt head of his penis pressing against the raw, tender entrance of my vagina. I suck in a breath as he pushes inside—slow, firm, relentless. The stretch is sharper now, my vaginal walls swollen and oversensitive, but still aching for him.
We both gasp as he sinks in deep again.
“You drive me insane,” he breathes, his voice unsteady, mouth dragging along my throat.
He hooks one of my legs around his waist and starts to move—each thrust deeper than the last, grinding into my pelvic floor with brutal precision. The angle hits something devastating inside me, and my whole body trembles. My clitoris throbs, overstimulated, begging for more and twitching beneath the friction.
The couch shifts beneath us with every movement, creaking under the weight and rhythm of his thrusts. The back of it digs into my shoulder blades, but I don’t care. His cock fills me so completely, I swear I can feel him in my stomach.
He kisses along my chest and neck, tongue dragging over my skin until he reaches the space behind my ear. The sound of his breath—hot and ragged—mixes with the slick noise of his penis sliding in and out of my vagina, wet and raw.
He reaches up, grabs a fistful of my hair, and tugs—enough to make me whimper. My head tips back, baring my throat.
His mouth finds my ear. He nips the lobe, then whispers, voice thick and frayed, “You like that.”
I moan—loud, helpless, trembling.
“I can feel it,” he says, each word a growl against my skin. Then, lower, coaxing, like he needs to hear it: “Tell me how much you want me.”
My heart thunders.
“I… I want you,” I whisper.
And just as the words leave my mouth, he slams into me—deep and brutal. My voice cuts off in a gasp, my walls clutching at him.
“Say it again,” he urges, softer but more commanding. “Don’t stop.”
His hand stays tight in my hair. I try again, barely able to think, every word trembling from my lips as he drives into me, his penis dragging across every sensitive ridge inside my vaginal walls.
“I want you… so much…”
He groans, grinding his hips, mouth dragging along the curve of my neck.
“That’s it. Keep going. Let me hear how much you need me.”
We move together, slick with sweat, skin slipping against skin, the pressure unbearable. My clitoris brushes his pelvis with each stroke, the friction maddening. I feel my walls contracting again, the pressure mounting hard and fast.
His name is a broken moan on my lips.
His hips slam into mine, deep and rough, hitting a spot that makes my whole lower body spasm.
The heat crests—and then it happens.
My legs shake uncontrollably, thighs quivering around his waist. My cries tear out of me, sharp and broken, as I come hard, my vaginal walls pulsing around his cock like they’re trying to hold him in.
“F—fuck,” he groans, voice breaking.
His rhythm stutters. He buries himself to the hilt, cock twitching violently inside me, and then he’s coming—thick, hot spurts spilling deep in my pussy again. His hands crush into my hips, holding me in place as he thrusts twice more, forcing it as deep as possible.
We collapse together, breathless.
He doesn’t pull out right away.
He stays inside me, soft kisses pressed to my neck, my collarbone, my jaw. His cock still buried in my wet, aching vagina, the heat of him a brand.
“Fuck,” he whispers. “You ruin me.”
And I let him.
Because I’m not done either.