20. Marco #2
Her nails dig into my back. Her breath stutters. Her legs lock tighter.
“Fuck, Aria,” I pant against her neck, forcing myself to remain still until she’s ready. “You have no idea what you do to me.”
She rolls her hips experimentally, and whatever restraint I had left snaps like a dry twig. I begin to move, slowly at first, savoring each delicious drag and thrust. But the fire between us is too intense to maintain such control for long.
“Harder,” she demands, her voice nearly unrecognizable with lust.
“Tell me, Aria what do you need?” I ask, slowing my pace torturously. “Say it.”
Her eyes burn with challenge, but her voice trembles with need. “I need you to fuck me like it’s the last time. Like you’d burn the world to keep me.” She leans in, breath ragged. “Take me like you own every inch of me—like you’ll never fucking let me go.”
A growl tears from my throat as I increase the force of my thrusts, the desk creaking beneath us. “I do own you,” I say, the words harsh and possessive. “You’re mine, Aria. Mine to protect. Mine to pleasure.”
“Yes,” she moans, meeting each thrust with equal force. “Yes, yours, Marco, take me hard—like it’s the end of us.”
Something inside me shatters. Her words—raw, desperate, final—ignite the wildfire I’ve been barely containing.
Not just lust now, but panic, possession, heartbreak.
If this is the end, I’ll make damn sure she never forgets what it felt like to be mine.
Every inch of me slams into her with a purpose that borders on vengeance, a claim carved in flesh and breath and fury.
I feel her beginning to tighten around me again, her second orgasm approaching. But I’m not done with her yet. I pull out suddenly, ignoring her cry of protest, and flip her over onto her stomach.
“Hands on the desk,” I command, pulling her hips back so she’s bent over the polished surface, ass raised invitingly. She complies immediately, spreading her legs wider as I position myself behind her.
I enter her again in this new position, the angle allowing me to go deeper than before.
“Do you want more, Aria?” I lean down and whisper in her ear. “Do you want pleasure to border pain?”
“Yes,” she whimpers. “Please…”
My hand comes down on her ass with a sharp slap that makes her yelp in surprise, then moan as the sting transforms to pleasure.
“You like that?” I ask, delivering another slap to her other cheek, watching the pale skin turn a lovely shade of pink.
“Yes,” she admits, pushing back against me. “God, yes.”
I establish a punishing rhythm, one hand gripping her hip, the other tangled in her hair, pulling just enough to arch her back at the perfect angle. The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room, punctuated by our labored breathing and broken moans.
“Look at you,” I pant, admiring the curve of her spine, the way her body accepts mine so perfectly. “Taking my cock so well. Made for me, weren’t you, Aria? Made to be fucked by me.”
“Yes,” she cries, the word becoming a mantra as she meets each thrust. “Yes, yes, Marco, yes?—”
I can feel my own release building, a tight coil of pressure at the base of my spine. But I refuse to come before she does again. I reach around, my fingers finding her clit and circling it in time with my thrusts.
“Come for me again,” I demand, my voice strained with the effort of holding back. “One more time, Aria. Let me feel you coming around my cock.”
Her entire body goes tight as a bowstring, and then she’s screaming my name, her inner walls clenching around me so intensely that stars explode behind my eyes. I drive into her once, twice more before my own orgasm tears through me like a hurricane, obliterating everything in its path.
For a moment, there is nothing but this—our bodies joined, pleasure coursing through us like electricity, binding us together in a way that transcends the physical. In this perfect instant, there are no secrets between us. Just Aria and Marco, man and woman, husband and wife.
Reality returns slowly. I become aware of the cool air on my sweat-slicked skin, the soreness in my muscles, the weight of Aria beneath me. Carefully, I pull out of her, helping her turn over so I can see her face.
Her eyes are half-closed, lips swollen from our kisses, cheeks flushed with exertion. She’s never looked more beautiful to me than in this moment of complete vulnerability.
I lean down and press a gentle kiss to her forehead, an unexpected tenderness welling up inside me. “Are you okay?” I ask, my voice rougher than intended.
She nods, a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth. “Better than okay,” she murmurs, tracing my jawline with her fingertips. “That was… intense.”
I lift her off the desk, gathering her against my chest, and carry her to the leather sofa in the corner of the office.
I sink down with her in my lap, holding her close—not ready to let go, not yet.
Because I know the second this moment ends, reality will come crashing in like a blade to the throat.
But on the floor beside us, the DeLuca folder lies open, papers half-spilled across the rug like a wound waiting to bleed. Neither of us says a word, but we both know—this isn’t over. Not even close.
Yet despite all the odds, I pray I’m enough for her to stay.
Even as I hold her, I feel the clock ticking. Every breath she takes beside me is a moment I’ve borrowed from a truth that wants to tear us apart.