Chapter 21 Giulia #3
This kiss is just as angry and raw. His hands are rough as they pull down my sleep shorts, leaving me in my tank top as he grips my thighs and lifts me onto the counter. There's no gentleness, no tenderness. Just need and anger, and the terrible awareness that we're both too weak to stop this.
His hand closes over my breast through my tank top, thumbing my nipple until it’s hard and tight.
He yanks down the waist of his sweatpants just enough to free his bare cock, fisting it in his other hand as he guides it between my thighs.
The blunt tip spreads me apart, pushing into my drenched entrance, and I gasp as I feel him sliding into me.
He’s always just on the edge of being too big, too much, but it feels so fucking good.
He doesn’t give me time to adjust. He thrusts in hard, yanking me forward to meet the base of his cock as he leans me back and starts to fuck me.
Every thrust feels so good, I can’t stop the sounds coming out of my mouth, and he presses his thumb against my clit, rolling it roughly as he drives me toward a quick, messy orgasm.
I come hard around his cock, squeezing, gasping, clutching the edge of the counter.
The orgasm rolls through me in unceasing waves, and I hear him growl, feel his hands tighten on my breast and my hip as he shoves himself inside me again, and I feel the hot spurts of his cum inside me.
He groans, rocking his hips as he fucks it into me, drawing out the pleasure.
It’s still over too quickly. He pulls out, and I see a drop of cum still pearling on his slick cock as he shoves it back into his sweats. He turns on his heel and stalks out of the kitchen without another word, leaving me half-naked on the edge of the kitchen counter and dripping his cum.
I should feel ashamed, degraded by the way he's using me—by the way I'm letting him use me.
But I don't. I feel alive for the first time in weeks. I tell myself that maybe, eventually, this will be enough to build something on. That maybe if I'm patient, if I take what he's willing to give without asking for more, he'll eventually soften and forgive me.
Eventually, he might even love me again.
For two weeks, we keep fucking each other without ever talking about or acknowledging it.
We never mean for it to happen, or at least I know he’s telling himself that.
He fucks me on the kitchen table late at night again, when he comes home late and finds me sipping tea there.
We pass each other in the hall one morning, and he grabs me and turns me around, pushing me up against it as he yanks my sleep shorts to one side and thrusts into me, fucking us both to quick, gasping orgasms before he pulls out and leaves me there.
He comes into the bathroom one night while I’m showering and waits, watching me, toying with his cock through his sweatpants until I get out and he bends me over the counter, fucking me with his hand on the back of my neck while he watches me cry out for him in the mirror’s reflection.
It’s filthy, and it’s hot, and it has nothing to do with love or anything that I would ever have imagined would exist between us.
It’s always charged with anger and resentment and desperation, rough and fast, tinged with something that feels like punishment.
It always feels, clearly, like we’re both seeking out something we need and can’t ask for outright.
But there are brief, fleeting moments when something shifts.
Once or twice, his touch softens just slightly. His hand lingers on my skin after we're done, like he's not quite ready to let go. I cling to those moments and tell myself they mean something, that he's slowly forgiving me even if he won't admit it.
A week after he fucked me in the kitchen the first time, I’m in his bed.
He caught me walking down the hallway as he was coming out of his room and pulled me inside, picking me up and tossing me onto the bed before stripping me bare.
He’s thrusting inside me brutally, hands gripping my hips, his breathing harsh against my neck.
But then something changes. His rhythm slows, and his grip loosens. His mouth finds mine, and for the first time in what feels like forever, he actually kisses me.
"Giulia," he breathes against my lips, and there's something in his voice I haven't heard in weeks… something that sounds almost like longing.
I open my eyes and find him looking at me with an expression I can't quite read. The anger is still there, but it's mixed with something softer.
My pulse leaps. "Luca—"
"Don't." He closes his eyes, his jaw clenching. "Don't say anything. Just—"
He doesn't finish. He kisses me again, deeper this time, and I feel something crack in my chest, even as he starts that punishing thrusting again, his hand locking around my throat as he fucks me hard while his mouth crushes against mine.
Some small, fragile hope that maybe we're not completely broken.
That maybe there's still something here worth saving.