Chapter 45
The next morning…
I used to hate waking up in a bed with Roberto.
When he pressed himself against me early in the morning, there was only ever one reason for it, and I hated it.
His arms around me weren’t warmth—they were iron bars.
A prison. Claustrophobic. It made me want to claw at his skin just to get free; it made me want to scream.
But now?
I feel Raffael’s warm breath against my hair, slow and steady, fanning the shell of my ear.
His chest rises and falls against my back; the weight of his arm draped over me is not a trap, but an anchor.
And then there’s the press of him, hard, insistent against the curve of my ass.
It should repulse me. Once, it would have.
But instead, heat flickers through me, curling low in my belly.
Because it’s not demanding.
It’s not entitlement.
It’s just him.
His body, being honest in its sleep, unguarded in a way he never lets himself be awake.
I keep still—with my pulse thundering in my ears—afraid to move lest I wake him, because I don’t want to lose this moment. My skin hums where his arm brushes the slope of my waist, where his fingers twitch slightly, as though even in sleep, he doesn’t want to let go of me.
I close my eyes and breathe him in. Leather and smoke, with the faintest trace of soap. The scent of something wholly him that makes me feel… safe. Desired. Alive.
It’s so different. God, it’s so different.
To be held not like property, not like leverage, not like something to be used, but like I’m someone he would fight for even in his dreams. My heart aches with the truth that I could live a thousand mornings and never grow tired of this.
Carefully, I let my hand slide lower, slow and uncertain.
My fingers brush over the waistband of his boxers, then beneath, until I find him, hot, heavy, and thick in my palm.
I freeze.
Not because I’m afraid, but because I can’t quite believe I’m doing this. That I want to do this. That I'm initiating this.
He’s so hard. So big. My fingers don’t even circle all the way around him. A soft pulse runs through him as I trace gently down his length, and again, he twitches in my hand.
My breath catches.
But Raffael doesn’t wake.
His arm tightens a little around me, his chest presses closer to my back, but his breathing stays steady.
My heart pounds louder than footsteps in an empty hall.
One thought drives me forward: I want to see him.
Very slowly, I shift in his arms, turning to face him.
He murmurs something unintelligible in his sleep, the barest sound, and my heart does something ridiculous in my chest.
He’s been so good to me. So gentle. Never asking, never taking. Not once using what I owe him—or what he’s done for me—as leverage.
This… this is nothing like it was with Roberto.
He used to shove himself in my mouth like it was a punishment, like making me gag was part of the pleasure. I still remember the burning in my throat, the tears, the shame.
But this, this doesn’t feel like shame.
It feels like control.
Like power.
And maybe that’s why I want to keep going.
Not for him. For me.
I ease the covers down and slip out from beneath his arm, barely daring to breathe.
For a second, I worry he’ll wake, and that the spell will break; that the world will snap back to before.
But he only flinches, then sighs deeper, as if he trusts me to go wherever I want.
As if I could flee, and he’d let me. Not anymore. Not from him.
I ease his boxers lower, careful not to wake him.
His cock springs free, thick and flushed and almost beautiful in its own threatening way.
The morning light paints a blue-gold edge along the shaft, and I stare for a heartbeat, transfixed.
This is the first time I’m seeing him, all of him.
I want to catalog every vein and angle, memorize how he looks when he doesn’t know he’s being watched.
I run my thumb gently over the tip. There’s something so alive about the way he jerks in response, even still half-lost to sleep.
I let my tongue flick out for a taste. Salty, yes, but clean.
No sourness, none of the chemical stink I remember from Roberto.
His taste shouldn’t shock me, but it does. It tastes vulnerable, like trust.
He groans, deep and human, his hips move slightly against the sheet.
I press my lips to the crown, just a kiss, and then another.
The next time I lick and take him in deeper, my mouth stretches until my jaw protests, but not like the old ache of helplessness.
This is want, burning through each nerve in my tongue.
I take him deeper, let my lips seal against his warmth.
His hand finds the back of my head, not shoving, just cradling. I could stop if I wanted, but I don’t. God, I don’t.
Raffael wakes with a ragged inhale. His eyes open slowly, a flash of blue darkened by sleep. He watches me for a long second, as if he can’t quite believe what’s happening.
"Sophia," he rasps, his voice is thick with sleep and want, "what are you… fuck, bella mia."
I smile with my mouth full, hollowing my cheeks and pulling up slowly, tongue working on the way.
He groans again, his hand tightening in my hair.
The sound makes my insides clench, makes me want more, so I dip again, this time taking him even deeper, until it stings at the back of my throat.
My eyes sting, too, but I don’t stop. Not now.
Not ever if he keeps looking at me like that.
He tries to pull away, gently, like he’s afraid to hurt me. "Sophia, you don’t—"
But I do. I want to. I want to give this, take this, be the one who makes him lose control.
I hardly recognize my voice when I interrupt him, “If you want me to stop, say it. Otherwise, you’re mine to play with.
” The disbelief in his eyes makes me smirk, and I continue my work.
With every bob, every swirl of my tongue, he comes undone.
The string of rough Italian that tumbles from his lips only makes me hotter and wetter, hungrier to see him break apart.
His hips barely thrust, holding back, but the need in him builds, coils tight.
I can feel it, taste it in how he leaks against my tongue.
The thought that he's holding himself back for me makes it all the hotter.
He shows how much he loves me in every way, even at the cost of his own pleasure.
He gasps, and then he’s close, so close, his voice unsteady. "If you keep going—Christ—"
That’s exactly what I want.
And when he finally can’t hold back, when he shudders and curses and empties himself into my mouth, I swallow every drop, licking him clean, and only then let him slip free.
He stares at me in disbelief, then pride, then something older and more wounded. "You said you didn’t—"
I wipe my lips, crawl back up his body, and nestle into the crook of his arm. "I wanted to. With you, I wanted to."
There’s something in his laugh, something almost like hope.
He kisses my hair and then my forehead, his hands gentle on my back.
For the first time after this act, I don’t feel dirty.
I don’t feel used. I feel strong, all the way through, like I’ve wiped the taste of the last three years off my tongue and replaced it with something clean, something mine.
It's another step toward reclaiming my old self.
His heart’s still pounding, echoing against my cheek.
I think I could lie here forever and not want for anything more.
But then his fingers begin to play with my nipples.
He plucks and gently twists, and the juices that were already building inside me go molten, slickness spilling as the ache builds, sharp and sweet.
He pinches a little harder, rolling the pebble between his thumb and forefinger, and I gasp before I can help it.
The sound is sharp and undignified, the kind that in another life, I’d have strangled back down into nothing.
He feels it, the way my entire body shudders, and he freezes for half a breath, one hand hovers over my chest like he’s scared to break me.
"Too much?" His voice is a destroyed thing, soft and jagged in the early light.
"Not enough," I hear myself say, and it’s true. God, it’s true.
He makes a sound low in his throat. A threat, a promise, a plea. He drags me until I’m face-up, flat on my back, and shifts above me, still naked, still hard, all the blood and adrenaline raw and new in his veins.
"Is this okay?" He asks because up until now, it's always been me on top; I've felt too trapped under him to enjoy myself.
This morning, I don't feel the slightest bit panicked or discomforted; it's the opposite—I feel cradled. "This is perfect."
He smiles down at me, warm and heady. "Tell me if it makes you feel uncomfortable."
"Yes, sir," I smirk.
"Smartass," he traces the edge of my jaw with his nose and nuzzles at the spot just below my ear, his breath so hot it makes my skin tingle. His palms slide up my camisole, pushing it higher. I can’t help but arch to help him, and suddenly, I’m exposed.
Two tight peaks, already aching, straining for him.
He looks at me like I’m art. He bends, slow and deliberate, and puts his mouth to my nipple.
At first, it’s just the heat and the wet, but then he draws it fully in, and when his tongue flicks and sucks, I’m reduced to nothing but helpless thrashing.
He hums, pleased and greedy, like he could live off the noise alone.