Chapter 4 #5
The first brush of him at my entrance has my hips shifting restlessly.
His thrust comes fast, deep, and merciless, tearing a cry from my lips.
Tears sting my eyes at the sudden stretch, the ache of being split apart.
It hurts, yes, but the thought of him filling me so ruthlessly, so completely, sends excitement spiraling through me.
“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck,” he chants, and then he does exactly that. He drives into me at a punishing pace, crashing through every barrier, forcing my body to yield and take every blessed inch.
His fingers roll over my clit, and I gasp, body caught between pain and pleasure.
“That’s it. Look at my naughty girl taking my dick so fucking good.”
He shifts, angling deeper, and I swear he touches places inside me I didn’t know existed.
Skin on skin, raw and unprotected. The thought flashes through me like lightning. We never even discussed a condom. “I’m on the pill,” I moan between ragged breaths. Hopefully he has been careful. I should have thought about this. He should have, too.
“We discussing this now?” his voice grates, breathless. “Fine. I’ve never fucked without a condom. Ever.” He stills, just for a moment, and I swear he thickens inside me. “But with you, the thought of my seed mixing with your come and virgin blood drives me insane. Capisci?”
“Yes,” I whisper. “I understand.”
“Good. Now fucking hang on.”
“I can’t. My hands are bound above my head.”
He stiffens. “You asking me to stop?”
I wiggle and thrust. “Don’t you dare.”
Leaning forward, he presses a gentle kiss on my lips.
I blink in surprise.
He grins. “You ready to be completely fucked?”
Why do I get the feeling he means more than the physical act?
Before I can answer, he thrusts deep, his full weight pressing into me. Again and again, relentless, consuming. My body strains to hold him. Good Lord, he is going to split me in two. But the thought only makes me want it more.
He lowers his head, claiming the swell of my breast with his lips. Marking me, owning me. His palms grip my ass and lift me, tilting my body, angling him deeper inside me until I can no longer tell where I end and he begins. Perhaps that is the point. There is no beginning or end. There’s only us.
My first time is nothing like flowers or chocolate, rainbows or magic. It is gloriously painful, exquisitely pleasurable, and knowing he is savoring every second sends me soaring.
“Fuck yeah. That’s it. Come for me, Fina. While I fill your sweet body with my seed.”
I go off like a rocket, body collapsing around him. He drives in deeper, sprawling atop me, warmth flooding me from the inside out. Our hearts hammer in unison as we pant together, spent and trembling.
I make the mistake of thinking this is it—the kinkiest moment I’ve ever experienced.
He rolls up, withdrawing, then dips his fingers inside me. My throat hitches when I see the blood mingled with our come, dripping and oozing down my thighs. His eyes linger on the mess, fascinated, as if imprinting a memory for later.
Then his gaze snaps to mine. Slowly, deliberately, he drags the wet mixture across his chest, tracing circles around his nipples and crisscrossing his abdomen, like he’s making a ritualistic marking. Like he is branding himself with me.
He returns to my sex, repeating the motion, leaving a sticky, slick trail across my skin.
Pleased with his work, he licks his fingers clean. The wicked, deliberate act sends a bolt of lightning straight to my core, igniting every nerve ending, like dry brush in the firestorm that is Renzo.
Minutes tick by, so many I lose count. My mind numb, my senses tangled in knots.
“Shit, you’re crashing.” Without another word, he frees me from the rope and tosses it aside. His hands pull my trembling body into his lap, anchoring me. “Shhh,” he murmurs, his voice unexpectedly calm. “Adrenaline rush.”
I melt into his chest, accepting the comfort he offers. My pulse is still wild, my body still shaking.
For a long moment, he says nothing. Then softly, “Look, Fina …”
“I’m fine,” I lie. Because I’m anything but fine. I’m already in too deep, drowning fast, desperate for him to keep holding me up. “I wanted this.”
“That’s not what I was going to say.”
I lean back and look up at him. In unguarded moments like this, I see him clearly. The clever wheels in his mind are turning, pulling him toward a conclusion he clearly hates.
“Fuck.”
My heart jumps; my fingers reflexively reach for the pearls at my throat.
But they’re gone, lost somewhere between the car and the desert earth.
I don’t need a damn necklace to prove I’ll survive anymore.
The weight it carried and the small comfort it gave me are no longer necessary after today. “What is it?” I whisper.
“I want to do more to help you.”
I frown, not understanding. “Okay …”
His jaw tightens. “I don’t want to, but … we’re getting married.”
The blunt declaration hits me like a shock wave. “What?” I spring from his lap then straddle his thighs, facing him.
“After Rome, I’ll go to my father. If he agrees—”
I cut him off. “You will?” Hope bursts inside me, fierce and unexpected. Lorenzo Beneventi is untouchable. If I marry him, neither Carlo nor my father can touch me. It’s why I approached him with the same idea when I was sixteen, where he didn’t just shoot me down but ran away.
He curses under his breath.
“When? My wedding to Carlo is on my twenty-first birthday.”
His entire body stiffens. “That miserable bastard couldn’t wait to have you.”
I flash him a teasing smile, trying to lighten the weight pressing down. “Won’t be my first.”
But he doesn’t smile back. Instead, the air chills, the warmth between us icing over as if he regrets opening his mouth. As if he is already retreating.
“You sure about this?” I demand.
“Like I said earlier, I’m not husband material. Not now, not ever. Don’t get your hopes up, and don’t fall in love with me. We’ll marry, then divorce. You’ll be free. That’s all this is.”
The words cut through me, sharp and piercing. I hide the sting behind a sigh and say lightly, “You’re so romantic.”
His mouth curves into something almost like a smile, but his eyes stay bright with warning. “And you’re obsessive.”
I brush my lips against his, a gentle seal on our agreement. “I guess if it is a marriage in name only, there will be no more sex.”
The heat flares back into his gaze, tension rippling through him. I wink, letting him off the hook, and climb off his lap.
The sun slips below the horizon as we dress in silence.
The desert stretches endlessly around us, painted in reds and golds while the sky melts into night.
Even as darkness falls, the world feels brighter.
Possibilities I never dared imagine flicker across the horizon, promising a life I can almost touch.
My eyes drift to the backseat. “The leather is ruined,” I murmur. “My father will be livid.”
He laughs behind me. The sound should warm me, but it carries something brittle, something false. A warning I am too dazed from wicked sex and fragile hope to fully hear.
Instinctively, I ask, “You promise?”
He holds my gaze, silent and unreadable. A slight nod is all I get, but it’s enough. “Better call us an Uber,” he says flatly, and stalks away.
I cling to his promise with both hands.
Cling without knowing it is hollow.
Cling without knowing what I’m holding is a cruel lie.