Chapter 18 #2
Damiano unbuckles his belt slowly, deliberately, the sound of leather sliding through fabric loops oddly erotic in the quiet room. His eyes burn into mine, gauging my reaction as he unzips his pants and pushes them down along with his boxer briefs.
He stands before me completely naked, magnificent and intimidating. My eyes widen at the sight of him—thick and hard, clearly ready for me.
I can't tear my eyes away from the sight of him. Every muscle, every tattoo, every inch of skin illuminates something primal inside me.
Damiano moves to the nightstand beside the bed, pulling open a drawer. The silver packet catches the moonlight as he tears it open with his teeth. My heart pounds against my ribs as he rolls the condom down his length.
He prowls back to me, his eyes never leaving mine. When he speaks, his voice is rougher than I've ever heard it.
"Are you sure about this?" he asks. "Last chance to walk away, lupacchiotta."
A voice screams inside my head. No! Stop this! Remember who he is! Remember your father!
"Yes," I whisper, the word escaping my lips before I can stop it.
A slow, predatory smile spreads across his face. He positions himself between my legs, but doesn't move closer. Instead, he traces one finger down my inner thigh, making me shiver.
"Beg for it," he commands, his voice like velvet over gravel.
I blink up at him, momentarily confused. "What?"
"I want to hear you beg me to fuck you." His hand strokes higher, teasing but never quite reaching where I need him most. "Tell me how much you want me inside you."
Humiliation flushes through me, mixing with desire in a dangerous cocktail. This is a power play—his ultimate control over me. Making me voice my surrender.
I press my lips together, determined not to give him this victory. But his fingers finally reach my center, circling with maddening lightness that makes me arch up, seeking more pressure.
He pulls his hand away completely. "Beg," he repeats. "Or I walk away right now."
My pride crumbles beneath the weight of my goal.
"Please," I whisper, my voice barely audible.
"Louder," he demands, positioning himself at my entrance but not pushing forward. "Tell me exactly what you want."
"Please, Damiano," I say, my voice cracking with need. "I want you inside me."
His eyes darken with satisfaction as he leans down, his lips brushing my ear.
"Good girl," he murmurs.
With a single powerful thrust, he enters me, filling me completely. I cry out, unprepared for his size, the stretch bordering on pain.
"Fuck," Damiano growls against my neck, holding still for a moment. "So fucking tight."
He begins to move, each stroke deliberate and deep. My body responds instantly, wrapping around him, pulling him closer. And in that moment, looking up at his face transformed by pleasure, a horrifying thought crashes through my haze of desire.
What have I done?
The man moving inside me killed my father. The hands gripping my hips spilled my father's blood.
I close my eyes, unable to look at him anymore, but my body continues responding to his expert touch. Each thrust sends waves of pleasure through me, even as my mind recoils in horror.
This is part of the plan, I tell myself desperately. This is my role. Get close. Gain his trust. Destroy him from within.
But the excuse feels hollow, even as my back arches involuntarily when he hits a spot that makes me see stars.
"Look at me," Damiano commands, his voice rough with exertion.
When I don't comply, his hand gently cups my face, turning it toward him. "Open your eyes, Zoe."
I meet his gaze. Instead of the cold calculation I expect, his eyes hold something unfamiliar—a vulnerability that catches me off guard.
"You're perfect," he whispers, the words so soft I almost miss them.
His rhythm slows, his movements becoming less frantic and more tender. The change is jarring—this isn't just sex anymore. This is something else, something dangerous.
Damiano lowers his head and kisses me with unexpected gentleness, his lips moving against mine like a promise. Not possessive or demanding, but almost reverent.
The tenderness is worse than the roughness. I can handle his desire, his dominance—but this softness threatens to crack something inside me I can't afford to break.
I lie awake watching the rise and fall of Damiano's chest, his powerful frame finally surrendered to sleep. The sheets barely cover his waist, revealing the tapestry of tattoos across his torso.
Less than an hour ago, he jerked upright beside me, a name tearing from his throat in anguish.
"Bianca!"
His eyes had been wild, unseeing, locked in some nightmare I couldn't penetrate. Sweat beaded his forehead as his chest heaved with ragged breaths. I froze, unsure what to do, this vulnerability so at odds with the dangerous man I know.
When awareness returned to his eyes and he saw me watching, something shattered in his expression before the walls slammed back into place. He'd turned away, muttering something about getting water, but eventually returned to bed, keeping to his side until sleep reclaimed him.
I wrap my arms around myself, suddenly cold despite the warmth of the room.
I've crossed a line tonight I never thought I would.
Using my body as a weapon was one thing in theory, but the reality is messier.
My body responded to his touch in ways I couldn't control, betraying my mind's determination to hate him.
I glance at his sleeping face, peaceful now, the hard lines softened. Who is Bianca? The pain in his voice when he called her name was raw, real.
I slip out of bed, gathering the sheet to wrap around my naked body. My legs feel like jelly, and I'm struggling to process everything that just happened between us. I need space to think, to breathe without his scent clouding my judgment.
I'm halfway to the door when Damiano's voice cuts through the darkness.
"Where are you going?" His voice is rough with sleep, but alert.
I pause, clutching the sheet tighter around me. "I thought it would be better if I went back to my room."
I don't turn to face him. I can't. Not after what we just shared. Not when my body still hums with the memory of his touch—hands that shouldn't feel so good against my skin.
"Stay." Just one word, but it hangs between us, heavy with meaning.
When I finally turn, I'm struck by what I see in his eyes—need, raw and unguarded. Not just desire, but something deeper. Something that makes my chest tighten despite myself.
"Damiano—"
"Please."
That single word dismantles my resolve. I've never heard him ask for anything, let alone with that edge of vulnerability in his voice.
With a sigh, I walk back to the bed and slip under the covers, leaving space between us. "Fine. But no touching. We actually need to sleep at some point."
A hint of his familiar smirk returns. "You won't be able to resist me."
"Watch me," I challenge, turning my back to him and curling on my side.
"That doesn't help," he murmurs, his voice closer now. "This view of your ass might be even better."
Despite everything, a laugh bubbles up from my chest. "You're impossible."
"I'm honest."
I roll my eyes even though he can't see my face, then scoot closer to him. "There. Happy now?"
His arm cautiously wraps around my waist, and I tense for a moment before relaxing into his warmth. It feels strangely right, being held by him like this. Dangerous thoughts for someone on a mission of revenge.
"Very," he whispers, his breath warm against my neck.
We fall silent, and gradually his breathing evens out. I find myself matching its rhythm, my eyelids growing heavy.