Chapter 17 Adriana
ADRIANA
I can’t stop thinking about what we did. Every time I close my eyes, it comes back in flashes—his mouth on mine, the rough scrape of his hands on my hips, the hot stretch of him pushing inside me. The mess we made of the bed, of my dress, of each other.
I went back to my own room after—slipped out quietly while he was taking a shower.
But I can still feel him, still feel the way my body melted and burned and shattered for him.
I stare at the ceiling, heart thumping, skin feverish. I twist in the sheets, but every movement just reminds me how sore I am, how wet I got for him, how desperate I was for more.
Finally, I give up. I shove my legs out of bed and pad out of my room to his.
I can’t stop watching him. I stand just above the bed, half in shadow, studying every inch of him as he sleeps—his bare back, the way his arm curls under the pillow, his lips parted, lashes dark against his cheek. For a moment, I forget to breathe.
Then he twitches, a muscle jumping in his jaw.
Something about the movement makes me lean in, just a little closer, as if I could read his mind through the lines on his face.
Is he dreaming? Hurting? I reach out, barely letting my fingers hover near his shoulder, not sure if I’m trying to comfort him or just reassure myself that he’s real.
His eyes snap open.
Before I can move, he’s on me—quicker than I can blink. He grabs my wrist, hauls me forward, and in one practiced motion, flips me onto the bed. My back hits the mattress with a bounce, and I yelp, startled. He’s on top of me, hand pressing over my mouth, eyes heavy with sleep.
“What the hell were you doing?” he rasps, voice thick and rough, pinning me in place.
I freeze, heart thundering, and glance up just in time to catch a glint of metal—a gun tucked half-hidden under his pillow.
When his hand drops, I whisper, “You keep a gun with you when you sleep?”
He gives me a crooked, sleepy half smile, like this is just another part of his night. “Job hazard,” he mutters, voice soft but edged.
His body is pressed tight over mine, the sheet twisted between us. He’s still half in the world of sleep—hair wild, jaw shadowed, gaze heavy as he watches me catch my breath beneath him.
“You always that jumpy?” I try to sound casual, but my voice is shaky. His hand lingers at my jaw, thumb brushing the corner of my mouth where he’d just pressed me silent.
He smirks, sleepily. “You shouldn’t sneak up on men like me, malyshka. Bad things happen.”
I want to snap something back, but the words stick. I’m too aware of how close he is, the heat pouring off him, the scent of him in the dark. And suddenly, as his hips settle between my legs, I feel it—the unmistakable, growing press of him, thick and hard, nudging against my thigh.
My eyes go wide. He notices, his lips curling in the dark, a little smug and a little undone.
I swallow, cheeks burning. “Is this—does this happen every time someone wakes you up?”
He grins, voice dropping, rough as gravel. “Only when it’s you.”
I shiver, trapped between the weight of his body and the heat blooming between us. My heart hammers, and I know he feels it. He shifts, grinding his hips just enough that the friction sends sparks right through me.
“You should go back to your room,” he warns, but there’s no conviction in it—only hunger, slow and dark, spilling between us in the moonlight.
“I don’t want to,” I whisper, heat curling low in my belly. “I want you.”
Something eases in his face. He lowers his mouth to mine, not a rush this time but a deep, lingering kiss that unspools my nerves one by one.
His weight is warm, heavy in a way that makes me feel anchored.
When his tongue slides against mine, slow and teasing, my body answers before my mind catches up—hips tilting, a soft sound escaping my throat.
“Okay?” he murmurs, breath brushing my lips.
“Yes,” I breathe. “Please.”
He kisses a path down my neck, unhurried, like he’s got all night and plans to use it.
His palm cups my breast through the thin fabric, thumb circling my nipple until it tightens, then he eases the neckline aside and takes me into his mouth.
The pull of his lips is lazy, decadent. His hand strokes my other tit in slow counterpoint until I’m arching up, asking for more without words.
He slides his hand down my stomach, fingers slipping under my waistband to find me warm and slick.
I gasp, thighs parting. He doesn’t rush—just traces my slit, then strokes my clit in small, patient circles that make my toes curl.
When he sinks two fingers inside, it’s careful, measured; he curls them just right and the soreness from earlier dissolves under a wave of sweet heat.
“Still good?” he asks against my skin.
“So good,” I whisper, breathless.
He kisses me again and rolls to his back, drawing me over him. “Let me see you,” he says, voice low. I straddle his hips, his cock hot and heavy against me, and the look on his face—reverent, hungry—turns my pulse to thunder.
I guide him to me, the thick head nudging my entrance.
We both exhale. I sink down slowly, inch by inch, taking him, stretching around him.
He keeps his hands gentle on my hips, thumbs stroking circles, eyes locked to mine as if to catch the first sign of discomfort.
There isn’t any—only the sweet ache of fullness, the delicious drag as I slide lower until I’m seated all the way, stuffed and throbbing.
“Oh,” I breathe, shivering. “Dante…”
His jaw flexes. “Christ, you feel perfect.” He stays still, letting me set the pace. “Move how you like, baby.”
I rock my hips in a slow, greedy roll, and we both groan.
The angle sends a warm shock through me.
I chase it, finding that rhythm—long, unhurried glides that keep me full and humming.
My hands flatten on his chest. He watches me ride him, pupils blown, breath roughening as I move—up, down, a lazy grind that rubs exactly where I need it.
The friction on my clit is soft at first, then sharper as I angle forward and he meets me with shallow, patient thrusts from below.
He palms my tits, thumbs teasing my nipples while I move, and the mix of tender and filthy makes my head swim. “You’re beautiful,” he says, voice wrecked. “Look at you, taking my cock…slow like this.”
Heat floods my face. I can’t look away. I lean forward, kiss him, moan into his mouth as the tempo builds by heartbeats, not leaps—every stroke drawn out, every breath a shared thing.
He slides one hand between us, finds my clit and strokes it in time with the glide of his cock.
The pressure builds—steady, sweet, inevitable.
“Don’t stop,” I whisper, rolling my hips harder, riding that edge. “Right there…please.”
“I’ve got you,” he says, and I believe him.
The pleasure crests slowly, like warm water rising; when it breaks, it’s deep and rolling, my body clenching around him in long, liquid pulses. I bite his shoulder and cry out, the sound low and helpless, milking him while he keeps the rhythm gentle, worshipful, easing me through every last tremor.
“Good girl,” he breathes, hands firm on my hips. “Breathe with it.”
I’m still fluttering when he sits up, one arm banding my back, the other guiding my hips. He kisses me hard, then softer, and thrusts shallow and slow until his control frays; I feel him thicken and twitch inside me.
“Come,” I whisper against his mouth. “I want it.”
He groans, muffled, and spills in warm floods, buried deep, holding me tight like he’s afraid I’ll drift away. We stay there, joined and panting, the room quiet except for our breathing and the faint tick of the clock.
After a long minute, he eases back onto the pillow, keeping me seated on him, one palm soothing down my spine. I press my ear to his chest and listen to his heart slow under my cheek.
“Couldn’t sleep,” I murmur, smiling into his skin.
“Good,” he says, thumb drawing lazy lines over my hip. “I’d rather spend all night going slow.”
I hum, sated, the ache now a pleasant throb and the heat a soft glow.
He falls asleep before I do, his breath evening out, arm draped heavy around my waist. I stay curled against his chest, but my mind spins.
I watch the shadows on the ceiling, his body still joined with mine, the soreness and heat lingering as proof of everything we just did. I feel…powerful. Or maybe just reckless.
Maybe this is the way—maybe if I keep him close, keep him wanting, keep playing this game with my body and his hunger, I can get what I need.
He trusts me more when I’m in his bed. He listens differently, softer, when he’s spent and lazy and sated from sex.
Maybe if I keep him satisfied, keep him craving me, I’ll be able to ask for more—find my opening, make him let his guard down.
Maybe I’ll finally be able to leave this house, or at least move more freely.
I wonder if this is who I have to be now—the wife who fucks her husband for secrets, who trades her body for freedom. The thought burns, but I don’t turn away from it. I just tuck it away, along with all the other dangerous things I’m learning to want.
Beside me, Dante breathes slow and deep, oblivious. I close my eyes and press my lips to his shoulder, holding on to the warmth for as long as I can.
I pull on a soft sweater and a simple skirt, brushing my hair back as best I can.
My hands still tremble a little, either from hunger or nerves, but I force myself to walk tall as I make my way downstairs.
The voices rise and fall from the dining room, a steady hum of family politics, old habits, new resentments.
The moment I step into the room, I feel their eyes on me—assessing, weighing, judging. Dante’s father sits at the head of the table, a newspaper folded at his elbow. He glances up, his mouth already twisted.
“Punctuality,” he says, folding his paper, “is a form of respect. The women in this house understand that.”