Chapter 45 #2
I don’t realize I’m clutching his hair until he tilts his head back, mouth still latched, and the dark fall of it slides through my fingers.
His hand splays across my ribs, his thumb strokes the soft underside of my breast, never rough, never careless, but leaving me wanting more, so much more.
The other slides between my legs, and I gasp.
I’m soaked already, the fabric covering me is translucent and clingy, and his smile is the kind that could burn everything to the ground if it wanted.
He tugs the panties aside, just enough. His fingers find me and slide between my lips, teasing the slick entrance once, twice, a circling patience that isn’t at all what I expect.
Then he eases a finger in, not aggressive, just deep and certain.
I whimper, legs quivering, as he buries his face in my tits again, groaning like he can taste the way I’m coming apart for him.
He adds another finger, curling them just right, and my body opens, hungry and desperate for the pressure.
He talks to me while he works—quiet, brutal Italian, words I only half recognize. "Sei così bella," he murmurs, "sei perfetta," words like spells while his hand fucks me slow, relentless, knuckles grinding against the spot that makes me see stars. "Così brava, amore. Let me hear you."
I do. God, I do. I can’t hold it in, not with the way he’s devouring my chest, not with the way his fingers make ruin of my insides, good ruin, necessary ruin.
I buck and writhe, clutching at his shoulders, dragging nails down his back hard enough to leave marks.
He only goes harder, tongue and teeth and spit, the messy, frantic worship of a man who wants you more than air.
"Raffael—" I’m crying it out, desperate, "please—please—"
He grins against my skin, savage and proud. "You want to come for me, princess?"
I nod, but it’s not enough, I need more, so I grab his wrist and grind myself down onto his hand, fucking myself on his fingers like I’ve never needed anything so bad. The friction is perfect, obscene, and I feel something rising in me, a scream gathering at the base of my lungs.
His mouth finds my nipple again and bites, and that’s it, I shatter, with my hips bucking and my vision whiting out at the edges. I scream, truly scream, too loud for this hour, but I don’t even care. He works me through it, not stopping, not slowing, holding me together while I come apart.
When I finally collapse, a sobbing, ruined heap, he doesn’t let go. He kisses my chest, my collarbone, my open mouth, low words pouring from him like he can’t keep them in.
"Brava, amore," he whispers, his lips wet and smiling. "So fucking brave."
I can’t move. Can barely breathe. But I’ve never felt more alive, more awake, more in control of my own goddamn body than I do right now, with his hands and mouth all over me.
After a minute, I blink back the tears and laugh, raw and a little wild. "Your turn," I tell him, daring myself, having felt his already hard erection all the way through.
He laughs, but it’s shaky, like he’s not sure he can even trust his own body anymore. "You’ll be the death of me, Sophia."
Good, I think, and for once the violence in that isn’t scary. It’s just true.
He kisses me then, slow and deep, and I taste myself on his tongue.
It should be gross, but it isn’t. He’s so hard again that his cock throbs against my thigh, so I wrap my hand around it and guide him toward me, the head nudging against my entrance.
He hesitates, breathing like he just ran a mile.
"Are you sure?" he asks again. I am. He's not Roberto. He would never hurt me.
I grab his shoulders and pull him down so our foreheads touch. "Yes, Raffael. Please."
He pushes in slow, almost painfully slow, and I feel every inch, every bare, deliberate inch as he splits me open.
There’s no rushing, no conquering. He lets me feel it, lets me want it.
His body is over me, surrounding me, but there is not a trace of panic rising up in me.
Only longing. Tears gather in my eyes at the realization that I'm reclaiming yet another part of me.
I know it wasn't easy for Raf to let me take the lead every time we were together, and now I'm giving up some of the control I've worked so hard to regain, and I'm giving it to him. The only man I know who would never abuse it.
He growls my name, teeth bared, hands braced on either side of my head.
I wrap my legs around him, digging my heels into the small of his back, and pull him deeper.
He fucks me just like that, hard and then gentle, holding eye contact the whole time, ready to release me if I give even a hint of discomfort.
It’s overwhelming, the fullness, the warmth, the way my body molds to him.
I dig my nails into his arms, desperate for somewhere to put the sensation, and he gasps, "Fuck, Soph…
" then curses in Italian again, a string of filthy, perfect words.
He pounds into me, and it hurts in all the right ways. There’s no shame, only need—his, mine, both of us burning up in the middle of the bed. "Say it," he commands, voice hoarse. "Say you’re mine."
I do. I say it. "I’m yours. I’m all yours, Raffael. Only yours."
He stills, lost in the words, and then fucks into me harder.
"Again," he says, and I scream it, sob it, chant it until it’s all I am. When he comes, he crushes me to him and moans my name, the moment so violent and so soft it’s like nothing in the world but us exists.
He shakes, spills inside me, and kisses my tears until the shaking stops.
We lie there for a long time, a mess of sticky, tangled limbs and bodies. My body aches, but it’s a good ache, the kind I want to feel again and again.
He strokes my hair until I can breathe easily, until the sun is higher and the room is full of golden light. I burrow into his chest, and he wraps himself around me, holding me close like I’m the most precious thing he’s ever had.
Safe, I think, before I fall back to sleep. I am safe.
And this—this world, this life, this man—could never, ever be mistaken for a prison.