Chapter 33 Raffael
She has no idea what she’s doing to me. That kiss.
That fucking kiss! I want to devour her.
I want to brand her with my body. I want to tear her apart and worship every ruined piece until it’s new again.
But she’s so breakable, so precious, and she’s looking at me like I’m the only air she’s ever wanted to breathe.
I can’t let the animal inside me take over, not yet.
She deserves tenderness, not hunger. Not the madness that’s lived inside me for years.
Carefully, I lower her to the mattress. There’s a furious ache in my chest and in my dick, but it’s the tremor in her hands that matters more. She keeps her eyes open, locked on mine, both of us refusing to blink first.
I kiss her again, slower this time, letting the heat build by degrees.
Her mouth opens under mine in a silent gasp.
I taste salt and honey, feeling the way she shudders, just barely, letting the past slough off one trembling exhale at a time.
My hands find the line of her jaw, and my thumb gently brushes her cheek.
"Are you okay?" I whisper, brushing my lips over hers, afraid of the answer, needing the answer more than air.
She nods, so small, so desperate, and her hands reach for my hips, anchoring us together. "Don’t stop," she says.
So I don’t. I lay her down like a prayer, worshipping every inch.
I start with her collarbone, the little nicks where he used to grab her too hard and leave bruises.
I work my way down, memorizing every freckle, every scar, every piece of evidence that she survived that house.
I try to kiss the shadows away, make new memories out of the old wounds.
She arches into me, and her little noises sound like broken glass under my palms. I could live here, in these sounds, for the rest of my life.
My hands move to the hem of her shirt, but I don’t rush.
I wait, watching her face for the smallest sign of fear.
She looks down, then back up. Her voice is thready, but sure, "I want this. I want you."
I want to say you don’t have to do this, that we can wait, that I’ll sleep on the goddamn floor if it keeps her safe, but she needs to take this back. She needs to write over every memory with something softer.
So I push her shirt up slowly, an inch at a time, exposing smooth olive skin.
She's not wearing a bra, and even here, I see the remnants of fingers that were never gentle.
I go slow, letting her set the pace. I look her straight in the eye.
"You’re so beautiful," I rasp, because it’s the only truth big enough to fit in the room.
She swallows, and I see her trying to believe it.
I vow to spend the rest of my life convincing her.
I cup her breasts, gently, reverently, and my hands shake as I trace circles over her skin.
She’s warm and pliant, already breathing faster; her nipples are already pebbling under my thumbs.
Her head arches back, and she closes her eyes for the first time, not in fear but in surrender.
I kiss her there, down her sternum, over her stomach, and she makes a whimper that almost undoes me.
When I hook my fingers into the waistband of her shorts, I pause, waiting for her signal.
She doesn’t hesitate. She lifts her hips for me, offering herself.
I slide them off, then kneel between her knees, just looking.
She’s exposed, trembling, but not from fear.
There’s a flush rising over her chest, a deep hunger that is battling scars, and I want to touch every part of her that he ever hurt.
I lean down and kiss the inside of her thigh, while her hands go straight to my hair, holding me there. I take my time with her, letting my mouth map every secret, coaxing out gasps that turn into pleas. She’s so fucking responsive, so desperate for pleasure that doesn’t come with pain.
Her pussy glistens under the soft light coming in from the bathroom. It's the sweetest, most perfect pussy I've ever seen. I've dreamed of this moment for so long, I can hardly believe she’s here, opening herself to me like this, but if I’m dreaming, I’ll die happy in the fantasy.
My mouth finds her, and I’m careful—so careful. I barely touch her at first, just the faintest sweep of my tongue over where she’s already dripping for me. The first taste pulls a sharp inhale from her, the sound is almost a hiss, and it’s music I want to hear again and again.
Her whole body goes taut; her thighs tighten against my shoulders.
I know exactly what she needs, but I don’t give it to her.
Not yet. I savor her, taking my time, dragging it out until she’s trembling, not from fear, but from the frustration of wanting more.
From needing me to give it to her. And because I can't get enough of that sweet taste of hers.
I hold her there, and she stiffens. Instantly, I let go; instead, I gently push against her hips to let her know I want her to keep still. Her body relaxes under my hand.
"Not yet, bella mia," I murmur against her, my breath brushes hot over sensitive skin. "I'm going to take my time with you."
Her fingers twist in the sheets, her knuckles turn white, and her chest rises and falls too fast. I give her another slow, deliberate lick, from slit to clit, and her back arches off the bed like I’ve jolted her with electricity.
God, she’s perfect. Sweet, intoxicating, every inch of her was made for me.
She lets out a broken little sound—half plea, half frustration—and I smile against her, knowing I’m driving her out of her mind. My tongue circles lazily around her clit, keeping my pace maddeningly steady, until her thighs shake and her breath comes in short, sharp gasps.
Only when I feel her nails dig into my forearms, her body nearly vibrating with the need to let go, do I give her what she’s been silently begging for, pressing my mouth to her and working her with slow, precise strokes that I know will ruin her for anyone else.
Her hips jerk, but I keep a soft pressure up to keep her where she is.
My mouth is relentless now; each stroke of my tongue is perfectly in rhythm with her ragged breathing.
When I slide one hand down between us, she gasps—surprised, she tenses for a heartbeat—until my fingers stroke over her, slow, coaxing, letting her feel every inch of my intent.
I slip one inside, careful, easing her open for me.
"Good girl," I murmur against her. "That’s it. Let me in."
Her inner muscles clench around me, and I feel the aftershocks of every breath she takes. I curl my finger just right, brushing that spot that makes her whimper. I add another, stretching her a little more, working her in the same rhythm as my mouth.
She’s shaking now, her thighs are trembling so hard I can feel it in my shoulders; her hands fist the sheets like she’s holding on for dear life.
I pull back just enough to growl, "I want every sound, bella mia. Don’t you dare hold back from me."
Then I take her again, my mouth and fingers moving together, unrelenting, until she’s twisting beneath me, on the edge, caught between begging me to stop and begging me for more.
Her breathing turns ragged, and every inhale catches in her throat.
I can feel her fighting it, holding on to that last thread of control, and I’m not having it.
My fingers press deeper, curling into that spot again and again, while my tongue works her in slow, devastating strokes.
She arches, a cry tears from her lips, and I know she’s right there, balanced on the edge, afraid to fall.
I lift my head just enough to speak against her, keeping my voice rough and commanding. "Let go for me, bella mia. Right now. I’ve got you."
The words break whatever is holding her back. Her body bows, and a choked moan spills out of her as she shatters against my mouth and my hand. She convulses, tight and wet around my fingers, her thighs clamp around me like she’s trying to keep me there forever.
I don’t let up, not until the tremors start to ease, until her cries soften into gasping breaths and her body goes heavy against the mattress.
When I finally ease my fingers from her, I press a slow kiss to the inside of her thigh, my hands stroking her hips to ground her.
"That’s my girl," I murmur, the words more reverent than I intend. "Perfect."
She’s still trembling, her eyes are hazy when they meet mine, and I know I’ve just given her something she’s never had before, something no one will ever take from her again.
"Fuck, Raffael, that was…" Her voice trails off, either because she’s shocked at herself for saying it or because she can’t find the words.
I give her a small, crooked smile, though inside I’m burning.
My cock is rock hard, so tight it’s almost painful, precum already leaking down my shaft.
I want to be inside her so badly I can taste it, feel it in every pulse of my blood.
But this isn’t about me. Not tonight. Tonight was about giving her something no one has ever given her before. And I think—hope—that I did.
She blinks at me, her lashes are heavy, and she murmurs something else, but her voice is already drifting with exhaustion.
I press one last kiss to her temple and force myself to move.
My steps are uneven, almost a limp, because every throb between my legs is a reminder of how close I am to losing my restraint.
I head into the bathroom, soaking a towel in warm water, wringing it out before coming back to her.
She doesn’t stir much when I clean her, just sighs and shifts, letting me take care of her. When I’m done, I dress her again with the same careful hands, pulling the fabric over her skin like it’s fragile silk. She’s already halfway to sleep, and I tell myself I should let her rest, give her space.
But I can’t.
I slide in beside her, curl my body around hers, and drape my arm over her waist, my face buried in the soft scent of her hair. This… this right here is both the greatest pain and the greatest gift of my life, wanting her so much it hurts, but knowing she trusts me enough to fall asleep in my arms.
And I’ll take that over anything, even with the ache in my cock and the pulsing in my balls. Before I fall asleep, I think how fitting it is for Sophia to have had her first orgasm the night I made her a widow.