Chapter 12 #3
When he ordered me to my knees, his cock had been rock-hard, straining desperately against his pants.
I had seen the hunger in his eyes.
Then he walked away.
To Violet.
And ever since... nothing.
No hands sliding over my skin. No rough kisses. No demands for my mouth or my body.
Just this icy, calculated distance.
The thought twisted inside me.
Was I really so repulsive to him?
Or was he deliberately withholding himself — punishing me by letting me feel the constant ache of being unwanted while he gave everything to her?
The thought burned.
I shifted closer on the bed.
The distance between us felt smaller than it should have.
He was there—close enough that I could see the slow rise and fall of his chest in the dim light, the steady stillness he wore like armor.
I hesitated.
Then—
“Is the child Violet carries... truly another man’s?”
My voice faltered, softer than I intended.
I swallowed hard, forcing out the rest. “I need the truth. Please.”
For a long moment, he said nothing.
Then, without even opening his eyes, his voice came—calm, and cold.
“I already told you.”
“I don’t like being disturbed... not when I’m trying to sleep.”
The dismissal should have been enough. Should have shut me down.
It didn’t.
I pushed myself up on one elbow, the mattress shifting beneath me.
A foolish, dangerous move.
I knew it the moment I moved.
“It’s... hard to believe you’ve never slept with her,” I said, my voice uncertain.
“I have not,” his reply was clipped and cold.
“I’ve already answered that. Stop asking questions I’ve already put to rest.”
“I’ve always given Violet the freedom to sleep with whoever she wants because I cannot give her that myself.”
His voice dropped into a low warning. “Now be silent. Push me further, and you’ll witness exactly what I’m capable of.”
For the first time, I believed him.
I didn’t know why—maybe because he had no reason to lie.
But a thought lingered, heavy and persistent.
If he never slept with her... why not?
Was it a choice... or something else?
Was his cock useless?
Impotent?
My chest tightened.
Was that the real reason he had never touched me?
Because he couldn’t?
The thought hit me like a slow, sickening wave.
He had told me he was violated in the past — repeatedly.
Was that when it happened?
Was that the injury that left him unable to have sex?
Was that why he stayed so cold and distant, even when his body had clearly wanted me?
The questions spun faster in my mind, each one sharper than the last.
If he was truly impotent... then everything he had threatened suddenly felt far too real.
Before I could think better of it—I moved.
My leg swung over his body.
And I settled astride him. Knees bracketing his waist.
Hands landing on his bare chest to steady myself.
The contact sent a shock straight through me.
His eyes snapped open.
The shift in him was instant.
Controlled—but not as controlled as he wanted it to be.
For a single, fractured second—something slipped.
His pupils widened. His breath hitched.
His hands betrayed him.
They twitched, sliding instinctively toward my thighs, palms hovering just above my skin as if fighting the urge to touch.
Then he stopped himself, jaw locked tight.
“What are you doing?” he growled, voice rough and uneven.
“I need to know if my husband’s dick is—”
His fingers closed around my wrists in a bruising grip.
“Get off me, Elena.” The command sliced through the air.
I didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull back.
“No.”
His grip tightened slightly.
Just enough to remind me—he could end this.
His eyes darkened.
“Do not ignite a fire you won’t be able to control. If I start... I will not stop.”
“Start,” I challenged.
I shifted my weight slowly, rolling my hips once in a teasing grind.
The movement pressed my core firmly against the thick, rigid line of his cock, feeling every inch of him straining hard beneath the thin fabric of his sleep pants and the silk of my gown.
My pulse spiked, a sharp rush of heat flooding between my thighs.
It wasn’t just fear — it was the dangerous thrill of pushing him, of feeling exactly how much he wanted me despite everything he said.
My heart hammered violently.
What if he snapped?
What if he grabbed me, flipped me over, and punished me for daring to tease him like this?
The thought made my stomach twist with nervous excitement.
But I didn’t stop.
“Elena,” he growled, the sound rough and strained, like he was barely holding himself back. “You have never been touched by a man.”
“So what?” I whispered, pressing my palms flat against the hard, carved planes of his chest.
His heart was hammering — fast, erratic, completely at odds with his controlled voice.
Beneath me, his cock jerked and thickened even more, pressing urgently against my pussy as if it had a mind of its own.
“The only reason I haven’t buried myself inside you and fucked you raw since the first night you shared this bed,” he rasped, hands clenching into fists at his sides, veins standing out on his forearms, “is because I won’t be your first. I don’t deserve you... and you don’t deserve a man like me.”
I didn’t flinch.
His body was screaming the opposite of his words.
“So you’ll never fuck me?” I asked softly, hips still subtly rocking against his throbbing length.
The silence crackled between us.
“Then why make me sleep here every night?”
My fingers dug lightly into his chest. “Why keep me in your bed if you refuse to claim me?”
His chest rose and fell beneath my hands.
Steady again.
Like he was regaining control.
In one fluid movement, he reversed our positions.
My back hit the mattress.
Air left my lungs in a sharp breath.
Before I could recover—his weight came down over me.
Dominant.
His hand closed around my wrists in one swift motion.
Before I could react, he dragged them above my head and pinned them against the pillow with a single hand—firm, unyielding, leaving no room to move.
I stilled beneath him.
Completely immobilized.
His body hovered over mine, close enough that the heat between us became undeniable, pressing, suffocating, impossible to ignore.
“Just because I choose not to take you like this...”
His voice dropped, low and dangerous, brushing against my skin like a warning.
“...doesn’t mean you should keep testing my restraint.”
My breath hitched.
His free hand slid down my side—slow, deliberate—until it found the hem of my nightgown.
He gathered the silk in his fist.
Then yanked upward in one sharp motion.
The fabric flipped over my head.
I lifted my arms instinctively to help him strip it off completely.
Cool air kissed my bare skin.
No bra. No panties.
Just me—shaved, exposed, vulnerable.
His gaze dropped.
And stayed.
I watched his throat work as he swallowed.
His eyes traced me—first my breasts, nipples already tight from the chill and something darker; then the dip of my waist; then lower, to the smooth, bare mound between my thighs.
Heat flooded my face.
My core clenched involuntarily under his stare.
He looked back up. Met my eyes.
For one terrifying heartbeat I waited for rejection—for him to roll off, to walk away, to prove once again that Violet was the only woman who could make him feel anything real.
Instead his mouth crashed down on mine.
Hard. Hungry.
Teeth clashed.
Tongues tangled.
He kissed like a man who’d been starving himself for weeks—weeks of lying beside me, smelling me, feeling my heat through silk and sheets without ever taking what he wanted.
His hips rolled once, grinding the thick ridge of his erection against my bare sex.
I gasped into his mouth.
The friction sent sparks racing up my spine.
His hand—the one not pinning my wrists—slid up my ribs, cupped one breast, thumb brushing the peak.
I arched into the touch without thinking.
He groaned against my lips—low, raw—then broke the kiss just long enough to drag his mouth down my throat, teeth grazing my pulse point.
He released my wrists.
Both hands went to my thighs. Pushed them wider.
I tensed instinctively—legs clamping together before I could stop the reflex.
He paused. Looked down at me.
“It’ll hurt less if you’re soaked,” he growled, voice deep and gravelly.
“I need you relaxed and dripping for me. Trust me on this... I’m going to make your first time so fucking good you’ll be begging for more.”
The words were soft.
Almost tender.
I swallowed.
Nodded once—small, shaky.
He waited.
Slowly—agonizingly—I let my knees fall open.
His hands guided them wider—gentle this time, thumbs stroking the sensitive skin of my inner thighs.
When I was fully exposed he simply stared again.
Not judging. Not mocking.
Just... looking. Like he was memorizing every inch.
“You smell so good,” he murmured—almost reverent.
Heat flooded my face.
My thighs trembled.
He lowered his head.
I felt the first brush of his lips against my inner thigh—soft, deliberate—then higher.
Hot breath fanned across my core.
My hips jerked before I could stop them.
“Vincenzo—”
“Quiet.” One word.
Commanding.
Then his mouth was on me.
Slow at first—lips parting me, tongue tracing the seam in one long, languid stroke.
I cried out—sharp, surprised.
My hands flew to his hair, fingers tangling in dark strands.
He groaned against me at the pull.
The vibration sent another shockwave through my body.
He licked again—deeper this time.
Circled my clit with the flat of his tongue.
Sucked gently.
Then harder.
My back bowed off the mattress.
A sob tore from my throat.
He didn’t stop.
One hand slid up to pin my hip when I tried to writhe away from the intensity.
The other pushed two fingers inside me—slow, careful, stretching me open while his mouth worked relentless circles.
The stretch burned for a second—then melted into something hotter, wetter, better.
I was dripping.
I could hear it—obscene, slick sounds every time his fingers thrust.
Could feel it coating his hand, my thighs, the sheets.
He curled his fingers.
Then he found it — that perfect spot.
The moment he stroked it, stars exploded behind my eyelids.
Pleasure surged through me like liquid fire, building higher and higher with every thrust of his fingers.
My hips bucked wildly against his hand as I hurtled toward the edge.
“Oh my God — Vincenzo!” I screamed, my voice breaking. “Yes! Fuck — right there!”
I came hard—sudden, shattering—thighs clamping around his head, back arching, a broken cry ripping from my throat.
He didn’t stop until the aftershocks faded.
When he finally lifted his head his lips were glistening.
Eyes black with hunger.
He rose over me—slow, predatory.
Kicked his pants off completely.
His cock sprang free—heavy, thick, veins standing out, the tip already leaking.
My breath caught.
He settled between my thighs.
One hand guided himself to my entrance—nudged just the head inside.
I tensed again.
He paused.
Leaned down.
Kissed me—soft this time.
Tasting myself on his tongue.
“Breathe,” he whispered against my lips. “I’ve got you.”
Then he pushed forward.
The stretch burned.
Tears pricked my eyes.
He stopped halfway.
Kissed my temple. My cheek.
The corner of my mouth.
“You’re doing so good,” he murmured—voice wrecked.
“Just a little more.”
Then he drove his cock deep inside me with one powerful thrust, seating himself fully until his hips pressed flush against mine.
A sharp gasp tore from my throat.
I swore I could feel the thick head of his cock pressing into my lower belly — so deep, so big, it felt like he was claiming every inch of me from the inside.
He stayed still.
Let me adjust.
Forehead pressed to mine.
Breathing ragged.
When my hips finally shifted, testing him, a low, rough groan rumbled from his chest.
Then he moved.
Slow and controlled at first — long, measured strokes that dragged every thick inch of his cock almost all the way out before sinking back in deep, letting me feel every ridge, every vein.
The sharp burn slowly dissolved into liquid heat, pleasure coiling tight and heavy in my core.
My nails dug harder into his shoulders.
“I want more,” I whispered, desperate.
He gave it to me.
His rhythm quickened, hips snapping forward with growing force.
The bed creaked loudly beneath us as skin slapped wetly against skin.
He fucked me harder, deeper, each thrust driving me closer to the edge with raw intensity.
I wrapped my legs around his waist—pulling him deeper.
He buried his face in my neck, teeth scraping over my thundering pulse point.
“Mine,” he growled, the word vibrating against my skin like a brand.
That single possessive claim sent me spiraling.
I shattered around him for the second time, my pussy clenching violently around his thick cock as I screamed his name, body trembling uncontrollably.
He followed seconds later.
His hips jerked, rhythm breaking as a deep, raw groan ripped from his chest.
He thrust deep one final time and came hard, flooding me with hot, thick spurts of his release.
We stayed like that—sweaty, trembling, tangled.
His weight pressed me into the mattress.
For the first time in weeks I didn’t feel like a prisoner.
I felt claimed.
And terrifyingly, dangerously wanted.
He lifted his head.
Looked down at me.
No words.
Just his thumb brushing a tear from my cheek I hadn’t realized had fallen.
Then he kissed me again—slow, deep, almost tender.
Exhaustion crashed down like a tide.
Then darkness.