Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
Isabella
I’m aware of how sick and twisted this is, but I need it.
Each thrust slams into me, stealing my breath and shattering the argument I was about to toss back in Lorenzo’s face. My palms press firmly against the marble counter as if trying to anchor myself, but it’s no use.
His hand is still clenched in my hair, yanking my head back hard enough to make my eyes water, and fuck, I want the pain.
I crave the burn of it. The honesty in it.
There’s no politics in the way Lorenzo fucks me.
No careful maneuvering. No pretty lies wrapped in silk sheets.
Just heat, hate, and the kind of need that consumes people alive from the inside out.
He slams into me again, this time harder, and I cry out—a broken, desperate sound that reverberates through the kitchen. I bite down on my lip hard enough to draw blood.
“You still mad at me, Bella?” he growls, his voice rough against my ear.
Am I?
I don’t know anymore. I should be. But now I’m trembling, shaking apart at the seams, his cock buried so deep inside me it’s as though he’s trying to fuck the rebellion and the defiance out of me.
As if he can somehow reach inside and reshape me into something softer.
Something that doesn’t fight him at every turn.
But I’m not soft. I’ve never been fucking soft.
“Fuck you,” I spit out, the words rough and breathless.
And he responds by slamming into me harder. Again. And again.
Lorenzo pulls my head back more forcefully, exposing my neck. His other hand presses into my hip, fingers bruising, holding me steady as he takes what he desires. What we both want, even if I’ll never say it aloud.
This is who we are. Violence and need. Blood and desire. Two people who keep coming back for more.
The marble is cold and unforgiving under my palms, but he is fire behind me—burning me up and consuming me entirely.
And I let him. God help me, I give in every single time.
Because this is the only honest thing between us.
The only place where the masks come off, and we’re just two people trying to feel something real. Even if that something is destruction.
My eyes flutter shut, the pressure between my thighs unbearable in the best way possible.
Every nerve end lights up, raw and overstimulated, sparking with electricity that threatens to burn me alive.
The sound of him behind me—the low grunts, the obscene slap of skin on skin, the hiss of his breath through clenched teeth—feeds something dark inside me.
He leans down, with his chest pressed against my back, and his hand slides around my throat. Not squeezing. Not yet. Simply holding. Claiming.
“Say it,” he growls, breath hot against the shell of my ear.
“Say what?” I whisper, choking on the words, on him, and on the weight of everything left unsaid between us.
“That you want this.” His fingers flex against my throat. “That you want me.”
I squeeze my eyes shut tighter, refusing to give him the satisfaction.
Lorenzo pulls out halfway, the drag of his cock sending sparks up my spine. He then slams back in, rough and unrelenting, going so deep I feel him everywhere.
“Say it.”
I bite my bottom lip again, hard enough to split it open, tasting copper and defiance. And when I open my mouth to tell him to go to hell, I fucking moan.
I sense him freeze for a moment, his cock buried so deep I can barely breathe, one hand still wrapped around my throat, the other bruising my hip with his grip.
He growls against my skin. His grip tightens around my throat, not too much, but enough to make me gasp. Enough to remind me who’s in control. Or who thinks he is.
“You’re fucking soaked for me,” he murmurs, dragging his cock out in one agonizingly slow motion. The stretch burns and the emptiness stings. I hate how much I miss the fullness of him. “Dripping down your thighs, Bella, and yet you still pretend you hate me.”
I suck in a breath through my teeth, just to spite him. To prove I still can. “I do fucking hate you.”
He slams back in, hard enough to make me see stars.
I gasp again, and this sound is less controlled, more desperate. My fingers slip against the marble, scrambling, trying to find something solid to hold onto. Trying to pretend this isn’t exactly what I wanted when I walked into his office this morning.
“I hate your rules,” I pant, the words coming out broken and breathless.
He fucks into me harder, deeper, hitting that spot inside me that makes my vision blur.
“I hate your voice.”
Another thrust, punishing and perfect.
“And I hate this fucking house.”
He grinds into me, rolling his hips in a way that makes my toes curl and thighs shake.
“And I really… really hate your fucking coffee.”
That gets a low, dangerous laugh from him. His hand snakes under my shirt, rough palm sliding over my ribs before he palms my breast. His fingers are unapologetic as he rolls my nipple between them, pinching hard enough to make me whimper.
“Anything else you hate, wife?”
Wife.
The word oozes mockery and ownership.
I don’t answer. I can’t because he’s moving again, fucking into me with a rhythm that’s both brutal and calculated, like he’s trying to tear me apart piece by piece.
His hand on my breast, his other hand on my throat, his cock driving into me over and over until I can’t remember why I was angry with him in the first place.
“That’s what I thought, Bella,” he rasps against my ear, and I can hear the smirk in his voice. “All that fire. All that attitude and look at you now. Taking my cock so fucking perfectly. Like you were made for it. For me.”
“Fuck you,” I manage to say, but it sounds more like a plea than an insult.
“Already am, Bella.” His teeth scrape against my neck, biting down hard enough to leave a mark. “I’m fucking you, Bella.”
His pace changes until it’s filthy, punishing, and intense.
The pleasure intensifies.
Every thrust hits deeper, harder, angled just right to brush against that spot that makes my vision blur. My legs are trembling so violently that my knees almost give out, but he catches me before I fall and he pulls me back against him with bruising force.
“You gonna come for me, Bella?” he growls against my neck, teeth scraping skin. “Or are you going to defy me in that, too? Are you going to do what I ask and come all over my cock while you’re still lying to my face?”
A sharp and sudden heat rushes through me.
It starts low in my belly, then explodes outward in waves that crash through every nerve ending in my body.
I shatter with a cry I can’t swallow, can’t control, the sound ripping from my throat raw and broken.
My pussy clenches around his cock in rhythmic pulses.
My legs give out completely, but his grip holds me up.
He angles me higher, bending me forward over the counter so he can drive deeper and fuck me through the orgasm that’s tearing me to pieces.
My fingers scrabble uselessly against the marble, nails scraping, trying to find something to anchor me to reality.
But there’s nothing. Just him and the brutal pleasure ripping through me, making my thighs shake, causing my whole body to convulse.
I’m drowning in it, choking on it, and he doesn’t stop.
Doesn’t soften. He lets me ride it out, the tremors ripping through me in violent waves, as my skin burns and my mind goes completely blank.
I hate that my body betrays me every single time he touches me. And I really fucking hate that part of me that wanted him to break me this way. To push until I snapped. Until the fight bled into something hotter, filthier, and I couldn’t fake my way out of it.
His breath is hot against the back of my neck. It’s ragged and heavy. Controlled only because he’s forcing it to be. His hand slides down my stomach, fingers spreading across the slick mess between my thighs, feeling where we’re joined, where his cock is still buried deep in my pussy.
“You come for me again,” he mutters, voice wrecked and low, “and I’ll make you say my name this time.”
“I’d rather choke on it,” I pant, as the aftershocks still roll through me.
“Be careful what you ask for, Bella,” he snarls, voice dripping with dark promise. “You don’t know how rough I play when I’m given permission to make someone choke.”
He pulls out, the emptiness is a punishment, and I hate the whimper that escapes me at the loss.
He grabs me by the waist and flips me around, my back slamming into the cold marble counter hard enough to knock the breath from my lungs. My legs are yanked open as he steps between them, spreading me wide. His cock glistens with my wetness, thick and angry and demanding.
Lorenzo leans down, one hand gripping my jaw hard enough to leave a bruise, thumb sliding across my bottom lip where I bit down earlier.
“Say it.”
I glare up at him through my lashes, still defiant. “Say what?”
“That you want me.”
I smirk, tasting blood and rebellion.
“I don’t want you. But I’ll take your cock to get myself off. I’ll use you the same way you use me. So stop talking and fuck me already, or get the hell out of my way so I can finish the job myself.”
His eyes flare—a dangerous and possessive flicker shining in those dark depths. Something that appears almost feral.
He thrusts his cock back in, and I experience every thick inch stretching me open. The burn is exquisite, the fullness overwhelming, and I can’t stop the moan that spills from my lips. When I force my eyes open to glare at him, to salvage some shred of dignity, I find him watching my face.
His eyes are fixed on mine, dark and intense, examining every flicker of pleasure that crosses my face. Every gasp. Every tremor. He’s memorizing me, cataloging each reaction as he fills me completely.