Chapter 21 Giulia #2
I should probably be scared. I should push him away and demand that he treat me with more respect, more care.
But I don't care about any of that. I want this.
I want to feel something other than the constant ache of his absence.
I want proof that I still affect him, that he still wants me even if he hates me.
His hand leaves my throat to grip my hip, his fingers digging in hard enough to bruise.
He's not being careful with me. Not treating me like I'm fragile or precious.
Not treating me like I'm fragile or precious.
He's treating me like he's angry, like he's punishing me.
Like he's working out six weeks of rage and resentment on my body.
And I let him. I welcome it.
His mouth moves to my neck, teeth scraping against sensitive skin, and I gasp his name. My hands are in his hair, pulling him closer, silently begging for more even though I know I shouldn't. Even though I know this is just going to make everything worse.
"Tell me to stop," he says against my throat, his voice ragged. "Tell me you don't want this."
"I can't." My voice cracks, and I arch against him, my legs tangling with his. I can feel his cock pushing out of his boxer briefs, hard and scalding against my thigh. "I can't tell you that."
"Fuck." He pulls back just enough to look at me, his eyes dark and wild and full of loathing, for himself and for me. "I hate that I still want you, that I can't stop thinking about you. Hate that even knowing what you did, I still—"
His voice is choked. He doesn't finish the sentence. He just kisses me again, harder this time, like he's trying to punish us both.
His hands are everywhere, rough and demanding, completely unlike the way he used to touch me. There's no tenderness here, no reverence. Just raw need, anger, and desperation.
He strips my nightgown off, tossing it aside. His boxer briefs follow, and then there's nothing between us but skin and heat.
His cock slides against me as he grips my hair with one hand, tugging my head back. Hate and lust gleam in his eyes, and I’m fucking soaked. I’m aching, so turned on it hurts.
This is hate sex, pure and simple, and we both know it.
He reaches down, angling his cock against my drenched pussy.
He lets out a hiss between his teeth, his body shuddering at the brush of his swollen flesh against mine.
“This doesn't mean I forgive you,” he growls.
“Doesn't mean anything except that I'm weak and you're here and I can't fucking help myself. "
He enters me in one hard thrust, and I cry out from pleasure and the overwhelming relief of finally, finally having him inside me again. It's been so long since that last night at the club before everything fell apart. Since before he knew who I really was.
He doesn't give me time to adjust. He thrusts, again and again, hard and fast and brutal, his hands gripping my hips with bruising force.
He's claiming me, punishing me, working out his anger on my body in the only way he knows how.
And I take everything he gives me. I wrap my legs around his waist and meet him thrust for thrust, my nails digging into his shoulders hard enough to leave marks.
"Say my name," he demands, his voice rough. "I want to hear you say it."
"Luca." It comes out as a gasp. "God, Luca, please—" He isn’t bothering to try to pleasure me, but his pelvis grinds down hard on my clit with every thrust, his thick cock stretching me until I’m so full it’s almost too much, and I know I’m going to come.
I’m going to come on his cock, because I’m helpless not to come apart for this man who hates me and that I’m desperately in love with.
"Please what?" His rhythm doesn't falter. "Please fuck you harder? Please hurt you? Please what, Giulia?"
"Please don't stop." My voice cracks and shakes, on the verge of the pleasure I need so badly. "Please don't stop touching me. I can't—I need—"
"You need this." His hand finally slides between us, finding the place where we're joined, and I arch off the bed with a cry. "You need me to fuck you like I hate you. Is that it?"
"Yes." If I say anything else, he might stop, and I’ll take whatever he'll give me, even if it's just this. I need him inside me. I need this release. "Yes, please, I need—"
He cuts me off with another brutal thrust, and I'm lost. The orgasm builds fast and hard, pleasure coiling tight in my belly. I'm gasping his name, my body trembling, right on the edge—
"Come for me," he orders, his voice harsh. "Let me feel it. Come on my cock. I know you want to."
That’s all I need. I shatter around him, my body clenching around him in waves of pleasure so intense it's almost painful. He groans at the feeling of me tightening and rippling around him, thrusting hard, and I feel his muscles go solid beneath my hands as his cock throbs and spurts inside of me. For a searing moment, we’re nothing but skin and heat and raw pleasure, our climaxes feeding each other until it feels like it could go on forever.
He comes until I can feel it trickling out around his cock onto my thighs, his cock still pulsing as he breathes hard above me.
And then he pulls out and rolls away from me without a word.
I lie there in the darkness, my body still humming with sensation, hoping he'll say something—hoping he'll reach for me or pull me close and admit that this meant something to him.
But he doesn't. He just lies there on his back, staring at the ceiling, his chest rising and falling with harsh breaths.
The silence stretches out between us, heavy and suffocating. Eventually, I realize he's not going to speak or acknowledge what just happened. He’s not going to give me anything beyond what he already has.
I get up on shaking legs and find my nightgown on the floor, and pull it on with trembling hands. My legs feel unsteady as I walk to the door.
I pause in the doorway, looking back at him one last time. He's still staring at the ceiling, his expression unreadable in the darkness.
"Luca—"
“Get out.”
My chest contracts, and I flee back to my room. I climb into my cold, empty bed, and I don't let myself cry even though I want to.
Crying would mean admitting that I'd hoped for more, that I'd thought maybe this would change something between us.
And I can't afford to hope anymore. Hope is what got me into this mess in the first place.
—
We don't speak about it the next day. Luca is gone before I wake up. The ginger tea is on the counter, as usual. The prenatal vitamins are waiting next to it, as usual. Everything is exactly the same as it was before.
Except it's not. Something has shifted. The physical barrier between us is broken now, and the tension is somehow even worse than it was before.
I catch myself watching him at dinner that evening—a family gathering at my father's house where we have to play our roles again.
He's talking to Romeo about something business-related, his expression serious, his hands gesturing as he makes a point.
And all I can think about is the way those hands felt on my body last night, the way his fingers dug into my hips.
The way he touched me like he was trying to brand me, claim me, and punish me all at once.
He glances over and catches me staring. For a moment, our eyes lock, and I see something flash in his, what looks like heat and anger mingled together. Then he looks away, and the moment is gone.
The next three days are torture. I find myself making excuses to be in the same room as him, staying up late in the kitchen, hoping he'll come downstairs for water or a drink or anything that will put us in proximity again. I feel pitiful and desperate, but I want him so badly I’m past caring.
I feel starved for touch, thirsty for that connection with my husband, no matter how it happens.
The next night, I can’t sleep. I feel hot and restless, my skin tight. I go down to the kitchen to make myself some tea that I know won't help. My stomach is unsettled, not from morning sickness this time, but from anxiety and the desperate hope that he'll appear.
And then he does.
He walks into the kitchen in sweatpants and nothing else, his hair mussed from sleep, his eyes dark and unreadable.
He stops when he sees me, his body going tense.
I can see his muscles flex, all that bare, hard, inked skin on display.
I try not to look down, but I can’t help it.
I can see the imprint of his cock against the front of his sweatpants, already thick and half hard just from the sight of me.
My entire body responds, going tight, wetness flooding between my thighs. My voice comes out choked when I speak. "I couldn't sleep.”
"Neither could I." His voice is rough. His gaze holds mine, and we stand there in the dim light from the stove hood, the silence stretching between us. I can feel the tension building, crackling in the air like electricity before a storm.
We can both feel what’s about to happen. Neither of us moves.
He closes his eyes, his jaw clenching. "This is a bad idea."
Excitement thrums through me. "I know."
"It doesn't change anything."
"I know that too." My voice is high, breathless. I see his cock jerk against the front of his sweats, tenting the fabric, fully hard now. He hasn’t even touched me, and he’s got a raging erection.
"I'm still angry with you."
"I know." I take a step toward him, my heart pounding. "I know all of that. I'm not asking you to forgive me. I'm not asking you to love me. I'm just—"
I don't get to finish. He crosses the distance between us in two strides and backs me against the counter, his hands gripping my waist, his mouth crashing down on mine with the same desperate intensity as three nights ago.