Chapter 20
Chapter Twenty
Valentina
Without waiting for my answer, he shrugs off his jacket and tosses his tie aside.
Then he follows me onto the bed, bracketing my hips with his knees, trapping me with his weight and power.
He unbuttons his shirt, and it falls open, revealing the scarred, powerful chest I have only ever imagined in nightmares.
I fist the duvet to keep myself still.
With his knees, he spreads my thighs
Air kisses the slick folds of my pussy, and I bite the inside of my cheek to keep my promise of remaining silent.
“You’ll beg,” he reminds me.
I keep my lips sealed in defiance.
With a sensual chuckle, he settles his palm on my lower belly, heavy and warm, thumb stroking once just above where I ache.
The touch is possessive, not tender, and I hate it.
I know he feels every tremor, sees every flush, notices every conflicted thought racing through my head.
His touch sure, he parts my labia, his fingers gliding through the evidence of my unwanted arousal.
One of his thick fingers circles my clit with maddening patience. “Yield to me.” Determinedly he eases inside.
My inner walls flutter around the invasion.
He adds a second finger, stretching me, curling them just right. Pleasure coils tight and low. I fight it. I fight every wave that builds, every helpless roll of my hips that chases his hand.
He doesn’t rush. He watches my face while his fingers work me open, learning every sensitive spot, every rhythm that makes my breath catch.
When I try to close my thighs, his free hand pins one knee wide.
“No, no, princess. You’re going to let it happen.” He murmurs the words against my ear. “You’re allowed to feel good, Valentina. You’re allowed to want this. To want your husband.”
I shake my head, teeth clenched. “I don’t.”
“No?” The word is decidedly unconcerned.
He returns his thumb to my clit, pressing firm circles while his fingers stroke deep.
An orgasm crashes over me without warning, sudden and shattering, making me arch off the mattress.
A broken cry tears from my throat before I can stop it.
Wave after wave rolls through me, leaving me trembling, gasping, every muscle locked in helpless release.
He’s relentless. Rather than stopping, he rides me through it, fingers thrusting deeper, thumb relentless, until the pleasure edges toward pain and then back into pleasure again.
My second climax builds before the first has fully faded, cruel and inevitable.
When it breaks, I sob his name—Dante—the sound raw and broken and far too intimate.
Shame floods me instantly. I hate that I said it. I hate that my body gave it to him.
He withdraws his fingers slowly and brings them to his mouth.
As I watch transfixed, he licks them clean while holding my gaze, dark eyes steady, reading every flicker of emotion that crosses my face. No apology. No softness. Just the quiet certainty of a man who has finished the first part of the job he set out to do.
I lie there panting, skin damp, thighs slick, fury and humiliation twisting so tightly inside me I cannot separate them.
I hate him.
Yet my body still pulses with aftershocks, still aches for more.
He stands long enough to shed the rest of his clothes. The sight of him fully naked—broad shoulders, ridged abdomen, thick cock already hard and flushed—makes my breath catch.
Dear God. He’s fucking huge.
There’s absolutely no way that thing will fit inside me.
“Don’t worry, wife. I’ll make sure you’re ready for me.”
I shake my head.
“Trust me.”
Trust him? I clamp my legs together. The man is certifiable.
I freeze when he returns to the bed, but he relentlessly spreads my knees wide.
This time his mouth follows the path his fingers took. He kisses the inside of my thigh, then higher, breath hot against my soaked folds.
Desperately I try to close my legs again, but his palms keep them open. “You’re going to come on my tongue until you beg me to fuck you.”
“No,” I manage, voice hoarse.
He answers by licking me open in one long, slow stroke.
The sensation is electric. My hips jerk. And I scream.
He hooks his arms beneath my thighs, locking me in place, and sets to work with devastating skill—tongue circling my clit, then flattening to lap broad and slow, then spearing inside me.
Every movement is deliberate, unhurried, designed to wring every drop of pleasure from a body that still insists it hates him.
I fight it as long as I can, biting my lip, digging my heels into the mattress, fisting the duvet.
But the orgasm builds anyway, ruthless and deep. When it breaks, I cry out again, thighs shaking around his shoulders, fingers finally—helplessly—threading into his hair.
Moretti doesn’t stop.
He sucks my clit gently through the aftershocks, then starts again, slower this time, drawing out every sensation until I’m writhing, sobbing, lost between fury and need.
Three more times he brings me over the edge with his mouth and fingers. Each climax leaves me more undone, more drenched, more furious with myself. My voice cracks on pleas I never meant to voice. “Please… I can’t…”
He lifts his head at last, lips glistening, eyes dark with triumph and something deeper, something that looks dangerously like tenderness. “Say it.”
I shake my head, tears slipping free. My body is trembling, empty, aching so badly; I feel hollow.
“Ask for my cock.”
Pride warring with desperation, I shake my head.
“In that case…” He lowers his head again and resumes his exquisite torment.
Damn.
I can’t take any more.
I need him.
Pride finally loses the battle, and I have no choice but to surrender.
“Fuck me,” I whisper, voice breaking. “I need you inside me.”
“Beg.”
I do.
“The pleasure will be ours.” Very deliberately, he rises over me, and his cock nudges my entrance.
His thick cockhead presses against my slick folds, pausing there so I feel every inch of what’s coming.
Slowly, with me wiggling beneath him, he begins to move.
Then suddenly he freezes. “You’re a virgin.”
It isn’t a question. He feels the resistance, sees the truth in my widened eyes. Shock flickers across his face, quickly banked.
“Damn it, Valentina.”
“Get it over with.” Though my mouth says the words, my body longs for much more: his possession.
“Hear me clearly. I will be your first. Your last. Your only. Do you understand?”
“Moretti—”
Ruthlessly he goes on. “You will never be on birth control. You will carry my child. You will never leave me.”
The words should terrify me. Instead, they sink into the molten heat between my legs and make me clench around nothing.
He captures a breast and strokes the tip, back and forth, bringing me to full arousal again. “Tell me you want this.”
I might die if he doesn’t take me.
“Damn you, Valentina.” His words are guttural, forced. “I need to hear you say it.”
Damn him in return. I want what he’s withholding. “Yes. Fuck me, Moretti.”
He eases forward—one gentle, relentless inch at a time.
The stretch burns, exquisite and overwhelming.
Can I do this?
A broken sound tears from my throat.
He pulls back a little, giving me some breathing room, but suddenly I don’t want that.
“That’s it.”
As he presses forward again, my inner walls flutter around him, greedy despite everything.
This time, he doesn’t stop.
He takes my virginity, filling me until there is no space left between us, until his hips settle flush against mine, and the coarse hair at his base brushes my clit in a single devastating spark.
“Christ.”
I am full. Claimed. Irrevocably his.
“My wife.” A few moments later, he begins to slide back and forth, each thrust measured to wring every sensation from my already shattered body.
Instinctively I arch my back, and pleasure coils tighter with every stroke, winding through my belly, my thighs, my entire being.
I hate how good it feels. I hate that my hips lift to meet him. I hate the low, helpless moan that escapes when he angles his hips and hits that perfect spot inside me again and again.
Tears prick at the corners of my eyes—not from pain, but from the overwhelming storm of emotion I cannot name and my body’s shameless welcome of the enemy’s invasion.
“You’re taking me so well.” He slides his hand between us. Then his thumb finds my clit, and he circles it with ruthless precision.
“Take it.”
Despite my attempts to shove the orgasm away, it crashes over me, sudden and shattering, ripping a cry from my throat as my walls clamp down around him.
“Fuck, yes.” He rides me through it, thrusting deeper, harder, until his rhythm falters.
Moments later, he comes deep inside me, hot pulses that seal every legal loophole, every possible means of escape.
He stays buried to the hilt, forehead pressed to mine, our breaths mingling in the charged silence.
His solidness is both a cage and an anchor.
My body still flutters around his cock, and aftershocks ripple through me. The intimacy of it all—of being connected so completely while my mind still screams that this is wrong—leaves me dizzy.
He brushes a damp strand of hair from my temple, the gesture so unexpectedly steady that tears slip free.
I close my eyes, letting the darkness swallow the conflicting storm inside me—fury, humiliation, the terrifying bloom of something that feels like the beginning of surrender.
Ruthlessly I shove that thought aside.
I will never surrender.
Because even now, filled with Dante Moretti’s release and trembling from the force of my own pleasure, I am not finished fighting.
I now fully understand exactly what kind of war I’m being forced to wage—one fought with silk and skin.
“You are my wife now. In every possible way.”
He might believe that.
Might think he owns me.
I know otherwise.