Chapter 52 SOPHIA #2
"Yes," I whisper against his neck, my voice trembling. "Yes, yes, yes."
He holds me, strong and solid, and I know that even in this world of fire and blood, somehow… I’ve found love.
The kiss that follows is hot and sweet, filled with feelings that we're both unable to say.
It's so much deeper, so much heavier, so much more.
He's the part of me I've been searching for all my life.
The part I reached for in my darkest hours, and he's here. Now. I clutch his shirt, feel his hard muscles underneath my fingers, and press myself so close that I can feel the hard beat of his heart. His breath is hot on my face, his lips press against me, but it’s not enough. Never enough.
Before I know what I'm doing, my hands rip open his shirt, but when I feel his naked skin, it’s worth the sacrifice. Just as frantic, his hands work on my sweater. The chilly air pebbles my skin, but my blood is so hot that I swear I can see steam rising off my body.
His kisses turn hotter, moving from my lips to my throat, and I lean my head back to give him better access.
He nibbles and bites, and a desire that liquifies my entire being shoots through me.
My nails rake over the hard grooves and valleys of his back, leaving marks, I'm sure of it.
This is not a slow bout of making love like we have been doing.
This is going to be a hard, rough fuck, and I'm already soaking wet with anticipation.
Impatiently, he rips my bra off, and my nipples harden under the cool air.
His mouth moves a path down my collarbone; his hand grabs my breast, holding it, kneading it.
His mouth closes around the other breast's nipple, and a deep, guttural groan escapes me.
His strong hands move over my flesh, branding it, marking it, while mine are raking over his.
I fall back, and he catches me, his breath coming out in hot foggy tendrils, and in the firelight, he looks like a beast from ancient times. Especially with that scar on his face. My monster. Hell, if that doesn't turn me on even more. I feel like we're timeless, ageless.
His hands drag my pants down and rip my underwear. Just as impatiently and wantonly, I open my legs, greedy for his cock to be inside me.
"Fuck, you're the hottest sight I've ever seen," he grunts, freeing his beautiful cock from the restraint of his pants.
The head glistens in the flickering light, already leaking precum.
He's staring at my offered pussy, and instead of shame, all I feel is power and desire.
He wants me. This magnificent man wants me!
"Look at you. So wet already." His right hand reaches forward, his left strokes his heavy dick, and a shudder of desire moves through me. He touches my folds. "So slick, so hot!" He groans.
His palm on my pussy is rough, giving just the right friction, and I can't help but rub myself shamelessly against him to ease some of the ache inside me.
"Raffael," I moan.
"So wet, so beautiful. Mine!" he rasps, switching hands to rub my juices over his cock. The hollow ache in my pussy intensifies to nearly unbearable degrees.
"Raffael, please."
His eyes are hooded, his pupils large. He's still stroking himself with my juices. "You're so sweet when you want me. Say it again."
"Please."
"Fuck," he groans, his head falls back like he's fighting his own desires.
Intentionally, I spread my legs further and arch my back. My hands grab my breasts, rubbing them, and he freezes to stare at me.
"Baby," his voice is rough.
I lick my fingers and move my hand between my legs, reaching the hot little nub down there that pulses with need. His eyes burn on me as he watches, but stroking myself is not the same as him doing it. I look up, "I want you. I need your cock, Raffael!"
"Oh fuck," he keeps stroking, and his neck muscles stand out in his effort to restrain himself. "Fuck, I can't stop watching," he pants.
A devious smile spreads across my lips. I can't help it. Seeing him come undone, feeling so… achingly horny, it does things to me that border on a climax in their own right.
I keep the show going, fingers circling my clit, loving the way Raffael’s entire body locks up as he watches.
I’m wet, so wet I hear the sound of it as I keep playing, all the while never breaking eye contact with him.
Even the fire seems to pause. The stars prick extra-bright, and the woodland night holds its breath.
I want him to break. I want to see him crack open and take me, no holding back, no pretense of restraint or control.
I want his beast, all of it. So I push two fingers inside, moaning as I arch up into my hand.
"Do you want to fuck me, Raffael?" I ask, voice honey-thick and mean because I know the answer and want it anyway.
His chest is moving so fast it’s like he’s forgotten how to breathe. "Jesus Christ, Sophia."
"Tell me," I say, crooking my fingers just right, "how badly do you want me? Tell me what you’re going to do."
He’s on me before I can blink, his hand clamps around my wrist to pin it above my head, and the other grips my thigh to spread me open even wider.
His cock presses against my slick entrance, needy and hot, but he waits, just for a second.
His lips are on my ear, his voice torn from somewhere low and volcanic.
"I’m going to fuck you until you can’t walk tomorrow.
I’m going to ruin you for any other man, but mostly for myself. "
I shiver, arching harder, desperate for him inside me. "Then stop talking," I whisper, "and do it. Fuck me."
He slams inside in one smooth thrust, and the shock of it makes me cry out, my nails dig into one of the random pillows beneath my head.
It’s everything: too much, not enough, everything.
He’s so deep, I swear he’s in my soul. There’s no relief, only escalation; his movements are brutal and perfect as he pistons in and out, each thrust leaving me emptier, hungrier, until I think I might scream.
He’s snarling filthy things at me, most of them in Italian, and I don’t need a translation to know what they mean.
"Senti come mi stringi? Sei fatta per il mio cazzo—hear how you grip me? You’re made for my cock," and he’s right.
I’m tighter than I’ve ever been, soaking him, milking him like my body knows what it wants.
He reaches between us to thumb circles on my clit while he fucks me, and the sensation detonates like lightning—sharp, electric, everywhere at once. I arch, I writhe, I sob his name.
He watches me fall apart—doesn’t look away, doesn’t blink—as the orgasm rips through me and I lose my goddamn mind. I’m barely coherent, whimpering as my cunt clamps down on him, squeezing so hard he swears and goes still for a second, cock twitching, like he’s barely holding it together.
There’s blood on his lip from where he bit it, and sweat drips down his forehead, onto mine, as he bends so we’re kissing again, no, not kissing: Devouring.
He pounds into me again, rougher, harder, his hands lock on my hips as if he’s afraid I might fly away.
"Mio fottuto angelo perfetto," he pants—my perfect fucking angel—and I almost come again from the sound of it.
I dig my nails into his ass, pull him deeper, make him hiss with pain and pleasure. "More," I croak, "don’t you dare fucking stop."
He laughs, the sound wild and mean, and his hand slides around my throat, not tight, just claiming. "You want to be used? Taken? Absolutely destroyed?"
His words run through me. Not long ago, from another man, they would have been a threat, and panic would have woken in me. But not with Raffael.
He doesn’t say it to dominate me; he says it like a vow.
Like he’s naming the places I want to go and promising to carry the weight if I stumble.
His hand on my throat isn’t a shackle—it’s a question in the shape of a touch.
Two fingers’ worth of pressure, thumb resting at my pulse, eyes on mine.
I could lift his wrist, and he’d let go.
I could whisper Catskills, and the world would stop.
Roberto used destroy to mean erase me, make me smaller, quieter, less. With Raffael, destroy means something else entirely: tear down the walls I built to survive and leave the girl standing there breathing. He doesn’t take; he receives. He doesn’t own; he holds. The difference is everything.
I feel the old fear look up—and then back down—because power sits in my mouth now.
I’m the one who asked for this. I’m the one who tips my chin into his palm.
I like it because it’s mine to like. Because he’d rather disappoint his body than break my trust. Because I can stop this at a breath, and he’d thank me for using my voice.
Used. Taken. Destroyed. The words are new animals in my hands. With him, they translate: Chosen. Opened. Remade.
I nod—small, deliberate—and his grip stays light, no tighter than a necklace I chose to wear. His eyes darken, yes, but they’re clear, checking, worshipful in the roughest way.
Break me open, I think, not apart. And when I finally speak, my voice doesn’t shake.
“Only because it’s you,” I breathe. “And only on my terms.” It’s the truest thing I’ve ever said.
I want him to fuck me into oblivion. To do dirty, naughty, wicked things to me and my body, that will forever erase anything Roberto ever did.
I want to come and writhe under Raffael and scream his name and know it's him who owns me, always.
He flips me like I weigh nothing, ass up, face pressed to the blanket, and he’s inside me again, harder, the new angle rubbing something desperate and sharp inside me.
I brace myself on my forearms and push back onto him, meeting his thrusts.
I want more, always more, and I know he loves me being wicked, greedy, and insatiable.
We fuck with abandon, teeth and nails, biting and scratching, until I hear his breath hitch. He’s close.
"Where do you want it?" he growls in a hoarse voice.
"Inside me," I moan, "I want you dripping out of me all night, I want you in me even when you’re not here. Mark me, Raffael. Make it so no one can ever forget who I belong to."
He groans—one of those primal, soul-deep sounds—and his thrusts lose rhythm, then he’s coming, hot and thick and endless, and I swear I can feel every pulse, every spasm, all the way through me.
He stays buried, panting, caging me with his body until the world settles back into the shape of something real.
When he finally collapses, rolling me onto my back and cradling me against his chest, I can’t stop shivering. I feel raw, claimed, worshipped, and wrecked all at once. The stars overhead blink lazily, and the fire crackles, indifferent to the chaos we made.
"Fuck Sophia, was that too much?" He's still panting, fighting with his composure, but I can see the worry in his eyes. "Did I hurt you?"
"Only in the best way," I manage breathlessly. "That was just what I needed."
He strokes a few stray hairs off my face and kisses my forehead, lighter than air. "You've been through so much," he murmurs, his thumb brushes at the bite he left on my neck. "I wasn't sure if you could…"
I take his hand and move it to my chest, letting him feel my heart. "Don't you get it? This is what I wanted—what I needed. I feel more alive right now than I have in years. You don't have to treat me like glass."
He laughs at that, shaky but genuine, and pulls me tighter into his arms. "I love you wild. I love it when you fight back. When you want."
"Then you’re in luck," I say, nestling into the crook of his body. My whole everything feels molten and fluttery, but at peace in a way I’ve never known. "Because if you ever try to cage me, I’ll just claw my way out."
He kisses my nose, my eyelids, the corner of my jaw. "Good. I’d be disappointed if you didn’t."
We lie tangled together while the stars slide overhead and the woodland makes its noises around us. Warm and safe, not in a fortress or a mansion, just here, surrounded by smoke and grass and the ghosts of our old selves.
He runs his fingers over my scars, the faded lattice from before, not with curiosity, but reverence. "What are you thinking?" he asks.
I stare up through the mesh of leaves, watching the faint clouds drifting in the navy sweep of sky. "About how I don’t want to let go of this. Any of it. Even the crazy. Even this version of me that used to scare myself."
His hand rests at my hip, thumb drawing endless little circles. "Then don’t. Keep all of it. Be everything you are."
I turn to face him. The only man who lets me be all the things—soft, hard, vicious, tender—without asking me to apologize. "You’re not afraid of what I might become?"
His eyes search me, something gentle blooming in them that I have never seen before. "I’m only afraid of losing you. The rest…" He grins, the wolfish edge to his mouth matching the teeth marks on my thigh. "The rest turns me on."
We both laugh then, all the tension from before turned into something bright and sharp and living. I rub at the raw spot on my neck, linger on the places he marked me, and wonder if one day they’ll all blend together, so I’ll never be able to tell where I end and he begins.
"Can I tell you a secret?" I ask.
"Always."
"For the longest time, all I wanted was to go back. Back to before the wedding. Before the mansion. Before him." My voice wavers. "Before you."
I pause, "But not anymore. We're where we were supposed to be all along, and I'm at peace with it. All of it. If this is the only way we can have worked, then I'm not just okay with it, I'd do it all again. And again."
"Bella mia," his eyes turn liquid, burn into me, "You talk like peace is a gift you got for free.
" He brushes his thumb across my cheek. "But I know what it cost you to get here.
You bled for it. You broke for it." He leans in, and his forehead rests against mine.
"You think I love you because you're soft? No. I love you because you're steel wrapped in velvet. Because no matter how many times they tried to bury you, you came back stronger. I'd burn the world for you, yes. But that’s the easy part." His voice drops to a vow. "I’d walk through fire with you. I’d carry your rage, your scars, your silence. I’d take your pain and make it mine—every last fucking piece—because I’d rather bleed beside you than breathe without you. "