Chapter 36 Sophia #2
Then I climb into his lap, straddling him, my knees sink into the cushions on either side of his hips. His hands tighten at my waist, not pulling, just holding, as if he can’t quite believe I put him here.
"Don’t stop," I whisper against his mouth, threading my fingers through his damp hair, dragging him closer. "Not today."
And when I sink against him, feeling the hard, undeniable proof of how much he wants me, there’s no fear flooding my veins. There’s only fire. Only freedom. For the first time in years, I feel like myself.
My head lowers, and I kiss him with all the desire I've kept pent up for so many years.
His response is careful, as if he's still afraid to break me, or worried that I'll pull away.
My hands search for the hem of his shirt, and our lips have to part for me to pull it over his head.
Lightning flickers, revealing his chest to me. It's filled with dark bruises.
"Raffael," I breathe, shocked, "what happened to you?"
"Not now," he rasps, reclaiming my lips. When we break the kiss for a second time, there is a question in his eyes as he grabs the ends of my shirt. I nod. He pulls it over my head.
"Those," he says, staring at my breasts, still covered in one of the lacy bras he must have bought for me, "are a gift from the gods."
A deep chuckle escapes me. But he's serious, his expression is almost worshipful as he cups my breasts, before undoing the clasp and letting them spill free.
He leans forward, "They need to be worshipped, they beg for sacrifices," his voice is low and rough, his words are more a vow than a tease. His thumbs stroke over the peaks, coaxing shivers out of me. He lifts his gaze, locking onto mine with an intensity that steals my breath. "And I’ll be the one to lay myself down for them. Again. And again. For as long as you’ll let me. "
"For a man who claims to have barely made it through high school, you’re quite the poet," I murmur, unable to stop the laugh that bubbles up.
He grins, sharp and unguarded, and for a second the scars that mark his face shift with it, softening into something devastatingly beautiful. "What can I say? You inspire me."
The words lodge in my chest, too heavy and too light all at once. My hand lifts almost without thought, my fingers trace over the scars that climb across his cheek, gentle, reverent. "I’m so sorry," I whisper.
His chuckle is low, but there’s no humor in his eyes when they find mine again. "Don’t be."
I frown; my thumb still smooths over the raised line of scar tissue like I can erase it.
"These?" he murmurs, catching my wrist, bringing my hand down to press it against his chest, right over the steady thrum of his heart. "They’re proof I made it out. Proof I’m still here. Don’t you dare apologize for what kept me alive."
My breath hitches. His chest rises and falls beneath my palm, solid and unyielding, and for a moment I think I feel more of his soul than his body.
His words hit me deeper than the touch, as if he’s not just talking about his body, but every broken part of me.
My chest tightens, heat and tears collide all at once, until the only thing I can do is thread my fingers into his hair and pull him closer.
But when my hands drift down again, over scars and muscle, something stops me—ink etched into his skin, sharp lines beneath my fingertips. I pull back just enough to look, to trace the shape with trembling fingers.
It’s on his left ribs. A queen. Black, fractured but not broken, her crooked crown tilted as if defying gravity. Thorns twist around her body, curling like a cage and armor both, and roses are blooming, sharp enough to bleed.
I trace the design, my throat tight. "This one… when did you get it?"
His breath hitches, just once, and I feel the subtle tremor beneath my touch. "After you married him." His voice is low, rough. "I went on a bender. Three days. When I sobered up, I sat in a chair and told the artist to carve what I couldn’t say out loud."
I swallow hard, my fingers following the fractured lines of the queen. "It’s beautiful. But… what does it mean?"
His eyes burn into mine, unflinching. "You."
The word punches through me, stealing the air from my lungs.
He cups my hand, pressing it more firmly against the ink, against the ribs that rise and fall with every breath.
"It’s not your name on my skin, Soph. But it’s what you are.
A queen. Power. Grace. You have wounds no one sees, but you are still standing, still fighting.
That crooked crown—it’s you. Flawed, maybe, but only because no one else is worthy to wear it straight. "
Emotion swells so thick in my chest it hurts—my vision blurs. "You carried me here. All these years…"
His mouth twists, a mix of pain and devotion. "Every line. Every cut. I thought I’d never get to say it, never get to touch you again. So I made sure I’d never forget."
I lean into him, my lips brushing the scarred ink, reverent. My voice shakes as I whisper against his skin. "You never lost me, Raffael. Not really. Even when you thought you had."
His answer hits me harder than I expected. "I inked her into my skin because even when I couldn’t have you, I needed to remember why I was building everything. Every scar, every fight, every night alone, it was always for you."
For a heartbeat, the storm outside is nothing compared to the one that breaks open inside me. Power floods my veins, hot and shocking, like someone turned a light back on in the hollow spaces I thought were dead forever. He made this—his empire, his body, his scars—for me.
I can’t sit still another second. I rise to my feet, my hands trembling but sure as they pull my slacks off. The fabric falls away, then the rest follows, until I’m bare before him, scars and all. For once, I don’t flinch. I don’t hide.
His eyes darken, and his breath comes out sharp, but he doesn’t move—not until I tug at his jeans.
He obeys, helping me shove them down, and when he kicks them aside, his cock springs free, hard and thick.
The sight of it makes my mouth water. My pulse stutters.
God, he’s beautiful. Brutal and beautiful.
I’m already wet for him. Soaked, aching, desperate. Not like before, never like before. Roberto always needed to force it, needed lube, and still it was pain. This… this is heat. This hunger. This is mine.
I straddle him, my knees sinking into the sofa cushions as I guide him to me. The stretch when he pushes inside makes us both gasp. His head falls back against the couch, and my nails dig into his shoulders for leverage.
"Christ," he groans, his voice sounds raw, almost broken, his hands clutch my hips like he’s afraid I’ll vanish. "You’re so fucking tight. You are a goddess, Sophia. My goddess."
The words make me shiver, make me press down harder, taking him deeper, until he’s filling me completely. My body clenches around him, and his moan rumbles against my chest.
My mind reels. This is what it’s supposed to be.
Not pain. Not humiliation. Not silence while I prayed for it to be over.
This is fire licking through my veins, pleasure curling my toes, the kind of connection that makes my entire body come alive.
I move, rocking over him, and each thrust sparks higher, harder.
I’m already close, teetering on the edge, shocked at how fast my body responds to him.
My head tips back, a moan tears from my lips, because he feels so good inside me, better than I ever dared imagine.
And all I can think is: So this is what it means to be wanted.
The storm rages beyond the glass, the wind howls, and rain lashes the house like it wants to break its way inside. A thunderbolt cracks so close that the windows shudder, lightning blazes white through the room, and I gasp, but it’s not fear that seizes me. It’s him. It’s us.
Raffael groans beneath me, the sound is rough, guttural, like he’s holding himself back on purpose.
His hands find my breasts, cupping the soft weight, reverent even as his thumbs brush over my nipples.
Heat sparks low in my belly, sharp and insistent.
Then he leans forward, takes one peak into his mouth, and my entire body jolts.
"Raffael—oh God," I gasp, as my fingers knot in his damp hair.
He sucks, hard enough to make me whimper, then soothes with his tongue, tugging with his teeth just enough to send another wave of heat crashing through me. My hips rock faster, harder, chasing that unbearable edge. The thunder booms again, shaking the walls, and his moan vibrates against my skin.
"Fuck, bella mia," he groans against my breast, his voice muffled. "Take it. Take everything."
He rocks his hips up, and I do. It explodes inside me, white-hot, shattering.
My body seizes, my walls clench tight around him, and pleasure crashes over me so violently I almost sob.
My nails rake down his back, my cry tangles with the roar of the storm, and my orgasm tears through me with a force I’ve never known.
It’s new. All of it. Every shudder, every wave, every pulse of his cock buried deep inside me. I’ve never felt this kind of pleasure before. Never felt powerful and free in the same breath.
Lightning flashes again, and I see him beneath me, his head thrown back, eyes half-lidded, sweat slick on his scarred skin. His expression is wild, undone, like I’m destroying him in the best possible way.
For the first time in years, I don’t feel broken. I feel alive.
"Raffael!" I scream his name, raw and unrestrained, the sound ripping straight from my soul.
His roar tears through the storm, deeper than thunder, primal and unrelenting as his body bucks beneath mine. He comes inside me, hot and thick, spilling into me like he’s branding me from the inside out.
It’s not just release—it’s a claim.
A vow.
A surrender.
His hands clutch my hips like he’s anchoring himself to the only thing keeping him tethered to this earth. His chest heaves, his eyes burn into mine, and in that moment, I know, there’s no undoing this. No taking it back.
We’re fused.
Not broken. Not lost.
We’re alive. And we’re together.