Chapter 23
Alina
“Of course,” Raffaele says, his voice a deep rumble that vibrates through the air between us.
My hand hovers near him, trembling slightly as I gather my courage. The enormity of what I’m about to do hits me all at once—I’ve never touched a man like this before, never seen one completely naked and aroused.
His body is a study in contradictions—beautiful yet intimidating, inviting yet dangerous. When my fingers finally make contact with the hot, silky skin of his shaft, a shuddering breath escapes both of us.
I wrap my hand around him tentatively, surprised by how impossibly hard yet velvety soft he feels. Like steel wrapped in silk. My fingers can’t close around his girth, and the realization sends an unexpected pulse of heat between my legs.
“Like this?” I ask, my voice hardly more than a whisper.
Raffaele’s jaw tightens. “Harder,” he instructs, covering my hand with his much larger one. “Don’t be afraid to grip me.”
He guides my movements, showing me how to tighten my fingers, how to stroke from base to tip in one fluid motion. His skin slides beneath my palm, and I’m fascinated by the contrast—the rigidity underneath that impossible softness.
“That’s it,” he encourages as I find a rhythm. “Fuck. Yes. Just like that.”
His hand falls away, allowing me to continue on my own.
I watch his face carefully, cataloging every reaction.
The way his nostrils flare slightly with each exhale.
The tightening of the muscle in his jaw.
The slight furrow between his brows that deepens when I twist my wrist experimentally at the end of a stroke.
I look down at him, taking in every detail. Prominent veins run along the length, and when I trace one with my thumb, he hisses through his teeth. The head is smoother than the rest, and as I continue stroking, a bead of clear fluid forms at the tip.
“What’s this?” I ask, running my thumb through it.
“Fuck,” he growls, his hips jerking involuntarily. “Pre-cum. It means I’m enjoying what you’re doing.”
The knowledge that I’m the cause of his pleasure emboldens me. I spread the moisture around the head, watching with fascination as his stomach muscles contract in response.
Sweat has begun to bead on his forehead, and a vein stands out prominently on his neck. Each breath he takes is deeper than the last, his chest rising and falling in a quickening rhythm that makes the tattoos across his skin seem to dance.
“Can I…” Pausing, I clear my throat. “Can I touch you elsewhere?” I ask, my free hand hovering uncertainly.
“Anywhere,” he pants. “Touch me anywhere you fucking want.”
I let my palm rest against his chest first, feeling the thunderous beating of his heart. Then I slide my hand lower, over the ridges of his abdomen, tracing the sharp V of his hips that points like an arrow to where my other hand continues its steady rhythm.
His muscles twitch beneath my exploring fingers, hard and defined in a way that makes my mouth go dry. When I reach lower and gently cup the heavy weight of his balls, he lets out a strangled sound that’s half curse, half groan.
“Is this okay?” I look up at him, oddly thrilled by the tension I see in every line of his body.
“Cazzo, yes,” he rasps, his accent thickening as he slips into Italian. “You’re driving me crazy.”
I squeeze him gently at the base while my other hand continues to cradle him, and his eyes roll back slightly, lips parting as a guttural groan escapes him. The sound ignites something primal inside me—a heady sense of power I’ve never experienced before.
I’m the one doing this to him. Me, Alina Brewer, the girl who’s spent her entire life trying to make herself smaller, is reducing this dangerous, powerful man to desperate groans and uncontrolled thrusts.
His reaction gives me the courage to increase my pace. His hips begin to move in rhythm with my strokes, seeking more friction. Fascinated, I watch the muscles in his thighs tense and release with each thrust.
“Fuck,” he growls, his hand suddenly covering mine again, adjusting my grip to be even tighter. “Just like that.”
Sweat now glistens across his chest and shoulders, highlighting the contours of his muscles. His breathing has grown ragged, punctuated by curses in both English and Italian that fall from his lips like prayers.
I feel the way he pulses in my hand, growing impossibly harder—larger. His entire body is coiled tight like a spring about to release.
The raw vulnerability on his face—the furrow between his brows, the tightness around his eyes, the slight parting of his lips—makes something twist in my chest.
He’s always so controlled, so careful to maintain his power. But right now, he’s letting go for me. Because of me.
“Alina.” He says my name like it’s being ripped from deep inside him. It’s a warning, a plea, a prayer.
I tighten my grip further, twisting my wrist at the top of each stroke the way he showed me. My other hand gently rolls his balls between my fingers, and I’m rewarded with a string of Italian curses that make his voice vibrate with intensity.
“You’re perfect,” he groans, his eyes fixed on my face despite the pleasure contorting his features. “So fucking perfect.”
The desperation in his voice, the naked need in his eyes—it’s intoxicating. For the first time in my life, I feel truly desired. Not tolerated. Not accommodated. Desired.
And more than that—needed.
I continue stroking him, memorizing every detail of this moment. The tension in his powerful thighs, the way his abdominal muscles contract with each thrust, the slight trembling of his hands as they hover near my arms as if afraid to touch me and risk breaking the spell.
“Don’t stop,” he growls, his voice so deep it’s almost unrecognizable.
I have no intention of stopping. Not when I can feel him throbbing in my grip, not when I can see the way his chest heaves with each labored breath, not when I finally understand what it means to hold power over someone else.
The power isn’t in force or cruelty—it’s in this. In watching Raffaele Russo, a man who collects debts and breaks bones for a living, coming undone at my inexperienced touch.
And I want more.
The thought surprises me even as it settles firmly in my mind. The sheer intimacy of touching him like this has awakened something inside me—a curiosity that won’t be satisfied by just my hands.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I lower myself down, bringing my face level with his erection.
It’s intimidating up close—thick and straining, the head flushed dark with need. I glance up at Raffaele, finding his green eyes watching me with an intensity that makes my skin prickle with heat.
“You don’t have to,” he says, voice strained despite his words.
But I want to. I want to know everything—how he tastes, how it feels to take him into my mouth, how much pleasure I can give him. Especially after what he’s given me.
Taking a deep breath, I lean forward and hesitantly run my tongue across the smooth head. The taste surprises me—salty yet somehow sweet, with an underlying muskiness that’s uniquely male. Uniquely Raffaele.
When I swirl my tongue around the tip, collecting the bead of fluid there, his entire body jerks. “Oh! Fuck!” he growls, his hand coming down to cup my cheek. “That feels incredible.”
Emboldened by his reaction, I do it again, this time tracing the ridge where the head meets the shaft. His sharp intake of breath tells me I’ve found a sensitive spot.
“Do you like this?” I ask between experimental licks, genuinely wanting to know what brings him pleasure.
“Yes,” he groans, his thumb caressing my cheekbone. “Just like that.”
I explore him with my tongue—the prominent vein running along the underside, the smooth skin stretched taut over rigid hardness. Each new area I discover draws different sounds from him, creating a map of pleasure I’m determined to memorize.
“How about this?” I wrap my lips around the head, taking him into my mouth.
His hand moves to my hair, fingers tangling in the strands. “Perfect,” he growls. “Take more if you can.”
I try to obey, opening wider, taking him deeper until I feel the stretch at the corners of my mouth. The weight of him on my tongue, the fullness—it’s foreign but not unpleasant. When I hollow my cheeks and suck gently, his grip on my hair tightens.
“Such a good girl,” he praises, the words sending a thrill through me.
His guidance is gentle but firm. When I accidentally touch the head with my teeth, he guides me to cover them with my lips. When I struggle with the depth, he shows me how to use my hand on the base where my mouth can’t reach.
The control he maintains even in pleasure impresses me—he’s teaching me his body while letting me explore at my pace.
I return to my task with renewed determination, establishing a rhythm that has his breathing growing increasingly ragged. His hips begin to move in subtle thrusts, pushing himself deeper.
While I snake my tongue around the tip, he tangles his fingers in my hair and uses the hold to guide my movements, controlling the pace and depth.
It’s surprisingly thrilling to surrender this control to him, to let him use my mouth while still maintaining enough gentleness that I never feel overwhelmed.
The muscles in his thighs are rock-hard beneath my palms, his abdomen contracting with each thrust.
“I’m close,” he warns, his voice tight with restraint.
I want to ask what he’s close to, but before I can give voice to such a stupid question, the meaning dawns on me.
Before I can decide how I feel about him finishing in my mouth, he pulls me back, his hand firm in my hair as he guides me upright to kneel facing him again. His other hand wraps around himself, stroking rapidly.
I can’t look away from his face as pleasure overtakes him. His jaw clenches, and his eyes—usually so controlled and calculating—grow unfocused for just a moment before locking back on mine with an intensity that steals my breath.