Chapter 9 – Azrael
The late afternoon sun filters through the haze, casting a dim, golden glow over my rented apartment in Rome.
A warm wind rattles the curtains, tugging at the edges of my control as I pace the hardwood, boots scuffing the floor.
My shirt’s unbuttoned, sweat beading on my chest, and my cock’s already half-hard, twitching in my jeans just thinking about her—Isolde D’Angelo.
Last night at that safehouse, her voice raw with doubt about her father, her body pressed to mine in the fog—it’s been looping in my skull, a reel I can’t stop.
She’s under my skin, a fucking fever, and that alley fuck—her tight cunt squeezing me, her moans shredding me—only made it worse.
I taste her still, cum-sweet and rain-soaked, and I’m losing my goddamn mind.
I stop by the window, staring out at the city’s sprawl, my hand gripping the frame hard enough to creak.
Leonardo’s attack on my docks lit the war, I nearly blew his head off, and she—fuck, she begged me to spare him, green eyes blazing, hand on my arm like a lifeline.
I did it—for her—and it’s tied us tighter, a secret knot of warnings, rescues, and that filthy, wall-pounding sex.
Salucci’s the puppet master, pulling strings to pit our families against each other, and last night, we agreed to dig—together.
But it’s more than that now; it’s an itch, a hunger, an obsession I can’t shake, and I need her here, now, to figure this shit out—or fuck it out, I don’t care which comes first.
Twenty minutes later, the door creaks, and she’s here—Isolde, auburn hair loose and wild, green eyes sharp, a black tank clinging to her tits, jeans hugging her ass like a second skin.
Rain from yesterday’s storm still dampens her scent—jasmine, musk, pure sex—and my cock jumps, straining against my zipper.
She shuts the door, locking it, and turns to me, her gaze raking over my bare chest, lingering on the bulge in my jeans.
“Varela,” she says, voice low, a little rough, stepping closer. “You look like shit.”
“D’Angelo,” I reply, smirking, closing the gap, heat rolling off me. “You look like you need to be fucked again. What’s the intel?”
She laughs—short, sharp, a sound that hits my balls—and tosses a folder on the table, papers spilling. “Salucci’s moving—meeting like you said. But there’s more—orders, payments, shit that doesn’t add up. He’s got someone inside both families, feeding him.”
I grab the folder, scanning it—dates, routes, names blurred but familiar—and my jaw tightens. “He’s playing us hard—wants this war to burn us out. We stop him, we stop it.”
“Together,” she says, stepping into my space, her breath hot against my chest, eyes locked on mine. “Secretly. No one knows—not my father, not yours. Just us.”
“Fuck yeah,” I say, voice dropping, tossing the papers aside. “A dangerous proposal, Isolde—us against the world. You sure?”
“Dead sure,” she murmurs, fingers curling around my bicep, and it’s electric—same spark from the alley, the safehouse, every goddamn time. “We’ve got no choice—Salucci’s tearing us apart. But…” She hesitates, eyes flicking to my mouth, and I feel it—her want, my need, coiling tight.
“But what?” I growl, stepping closer, pinning her hip to the table with mine, letting her feel my cock, hard and thick against her.
“This,” she whispers, hand sliding up my chest, nails scraping, and I’m done—done pretending, done talking.
I grab her face, kissing her—hard, messy, tongue shoving into her mouth, a wet, filthy clash that drags a moan from her throat.
She fists my hair, pulling me deeper, and my hands drop—yanking her tank up, exposing those full, perfect tits, nipples already stiff, begging for me.
“Fuck, been obsessing over these,” I mutter, breaking the kiss, palming her tits, squeezing hard, thumbs flicking the peaks. She gasps, arching into me, and I shove her onto the table, papers scattering, her ass hitting the wood with a thud.
“Azrael,” she pants, legs parting, and I’m between them, ripping her jeans open, zipper tearing, dragging them down with her panties—black lace, soaked already, sticking to her cunt.
I toss them, spreading her thighs wide, and groan—her pussy’s glistening, pink and swollen, dripping down her crack, a wet mess I’ve been jerking off to since that alley.
“Gonna wreck you,” I say, voice rough, unbuttoning my jeans, freeing my cock—thick, veined, leaking pre-cum, twitching for her. “Been fantasizing about this cunt every fucking night.”
“Do it,” she hisses, hands clawing my shoulders, and I’m on her—rubbing my cockhead through her slick folds, teasing her clit, watching her squirm, moan, beg.
I’ve got her thighs spread, my cock in hand—thick, pulsing, the head smeared with pre-cum—and I rub it through her slick folds, slow and dirty, dragging it over her clit, watching it throb, watching her squirm.
She’s moaning—low, filthy, a sound that’s been haunting my dreams since Venice—and her nails claw my shoulders, digging in, leaving red streaks I’ll wear like fucking medals.
“Azrael—fuck, do it,” she hisses, hips bucking, trying to take me, and I grin, feral, loving her desperation, her need matching mine.
“Greedy little cunt,” I growl, teasing her hole, pushing just the tip in—stretching her, feeling her tight walls flutter—then pulling back, smearing her juice up her slit.
She curses—“You bastard, fuck me”—and I laugh, rough and unhinged, before slamming in—hard, deep, no mercy, burying my cock to the balls in one brutal thrust. Her pussy’s a furnace—hot, wet, choking me—and she screams—sharp, wild, back arching off the table, tits bouncing, nipples hard as bullets begging for my mouth.
“Fucking tight,” I grunt, pulling out slowly, her cunt sucking at me, glistening with her slick, then ramming back in—splitting her open, feeling her stretch, her walls clamping down like a fist. The table creaks, rocking with every snap of my hips, and I pound her—fast, relentless, balls slapping her ass, wet and loud, a filthy rhythm that fills the room over the warm wind whining through the window.
She’s dripping—cum gushing, soaking my cock, running down my sack, dripping onto the floor—and I feel every pulse, every shudder, her pussy gripping me so hard I’m growling with every thrust, sweat beading on my brow.
“Been jerking off to this,” I rasp, slamming deeper, bending over her, biting her tit—teeth sinking into the soft flesh, tongue lashing the nipple, sucking hard till it’s red and swollen. “Every night—your pussy, your moans—fuck, Isolde, you’re ruining me.”
“Ruin me back,” she gasps, voice breaking, hands fisting my hair, yanking so hard it stings, sending a jolt to my balls. “Harder—fuck me harder, Azrael, make me feel it.”
I snarl, obliging—grabbing her hips, bruising her, lifting her ass off the table to angle deeper, pounding her cunt like a fucking jackhammer.
Her pussy’s a mess—stretched wide, lips puffy, clit throbbing, dripping so much it’s pooling under her, a slick, sticky puddle of her cum mixing with the sweat on my thighs.
I reach down, thumbing her clit—rough, fast circles—and she bucks, screaming—“Fuck, yes, there!”—her walls spasming, squeezing me tighter, a hot, wet grip that’s got my balls pulling up, aching to blow.
“Dirty fucking slut,” I growl, grinning, spitting on her cunt—watching it slide down, mix with her juice—then rubbing it in, thumb grinding her clit harder. “Been dreaming of this since I danced with you—wanted to bend you over right there, fuck you raw in front of everyone.”
“Do it now,” she moans, legs trembling, heels digging into my ass, pulling me deeper. “Fuck me—cum in me—mark me inside out.”
Her words snap me—I’m obsessed, lost in her, and I slam in harder, brutal, the table slamming the wall, papers flying.
My cock’s swelling, stretching her wider, and I feel her cum—hot, gushing, a flood soaking my balls, running down my legs, her pussy pulsing, begging for me.
I grab her throat—not choking, just holding, feeling her pulse race—and bite her lip, sucking the blood I draw, tasting her raw and real.
She’s screaming my name—“Azrael, fuck, Azrael!”—and I’m grunting, animalistic, thrusts turning sloppy, desperate, my balls tight, ready to explode.
“Gonna fill this cunt,” I warn, voice wrecked, slamming so deep I hit her cervix, making her yelp, her pussy clenching hard enough to choke me. “Pump you full—make you leak for days.”
“Yes—inside, fucking do it,” she gasps, nails raking my back, tearing skin, and I lose it—growling primal, slamming in one last time, cock pulsing like a goddamn cannon.
I come—hard, thick, hot spurts blasting into her, flooding her pussy, painting her walls with rope after rope of my load.
My balls empty, twitching with every jet, and she comes with me, her juices squirting, soaking my cock, my thighs, the table, a messy, filthy flood that drips to the floor in a sticky, white puddle.
I hold her there, shaking, buried deep, her pussy fluttering around me, still sucking every drop like she’s greedy for it.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” I pant, pulling out slowly, my cock thick and glistening with her cum and mine, a creamy rope stretching from her hole to my tip before snapping, dripping down her thigh.
She’s a wreck—pussy swollen, red, leaking me in thick globs, running down her ass, pooling under her, tits heaving, nipples bruised from my mouth, neck marked with my teeth.
“Fucking hell,” she breathes, voice hoarse, laughing—raw, dazed—sliding off the table, legs wobbly, cum dripping down her thighs as she stands.
She swipes a hand between her legs—fingers coated in our mess, white and sticky—and sucks them clean, slow, deliberate, eyes locked on mine, tasting me, tasting her, a filthy little show that makes my spent cock twitch, already wanting more.
“Yeah,” I mutter, zipping up, jeans soaked with her, cock slick and sensitive, sticking to my thigh.
I grab her face, kissing her—deep, nasty, tongue fucking her mouth, tasting our cum on her lips—and she moans into it, hands clawing my chest, nails scraping through the sweat.
Her tongue’s sloppy, eager, licking into me, and I suck it, biting her lip again, drawing another drop of blood I lap up like a fucking animal.
We break apart, panting, her face flushed, hair plastered to her cheeks, and dusk creeps in—the warm wind carrying rain’s scent, cooling the sweat on our skin.
“We’re fucked, Isolde. It’s our undoing if they catch us.”
“I know,” she whispers, eyes fierce, no regret—just obsession, mirroring mine. “But I’d do it again—every thrust, every drop.”
“Damn right,” I say, grinning, pulling her close, her body fitting mine—wet, trembling, marked by me. “We’re in this—Salucci, the war, us. Together, secret, till it burns us down.”
She nods, hand sliding to my cock—still slick, half-hard—squeezing through my jeans, a promise of more. The wind howls, dusk deepening, and I know—this is it, an obsession turned real, a night that could end us, and I’m not stopping, not for anything.