Chapter 6 – Azrael
I stumble into my rented apartment, my body heavy from the night as I shove the door closed behind me, Rome’s outskirts blurring into darkness beyond the windows.
My boots smear mud across the hardwood with each step, and I yank off my drenched jacket, letting it fall onto a nearby chair.
The café lingers in my mind, sharp and relentless—Isolde’s voice cutting through me, her hand warm beneath mine, her words tearing apart every boundary I’ve held, her father’s plan to destroy me colliding with the way she’s already unraveling me, and I’m not even fighting it.
I drop onto the couch, the leather creaking under me, and scrub a hand over my face, rain dripping from my hair.
My shirt’s damp, sticking to my chest, and my cock’s half-hard just from the memory of her—green eyes blazing, lips parting, that shiver when I touched her.
I should sleep, shake her off, get my head back in the game.
But I can’t. She’s under my skin, an itch I can’t scratch, a fire I can’t douse.
Last night—her warning me about the ambush, me pulling her from that warehouse—it’s fucked us both, and that café talk sealed it.
We’re not enemies anymore; we’re something else, something dangerous, and I’m too wound up to let it lie.
My phone’s in my hand before I can stop myself, the screen glowing in the dark room.
I scroll to her number—still saved as “Unknown” from that first call—and hesitate, thumb hovering.
This is stupid, reckless, a line I shouldn’t cross.
My father’s voice snarls in my head: “Weakness dies, Azrael.” But I’m past caring.
I type fast, no finesse, just need: Can’t sleep. You up? Meet me. Same place.
I hit send, heart pounding, and lean back, staring at the ceiling. The drizzle’s louder now, a soft roar against the roof, and the seconds drag—five, ten, fifteen. Then my phone buzzes, her reply lighting the screen: Same. Coming.
A grin splits my face, feral and unguarded, and I’m up, grabbing my jacket, not bothering with the mud or the mess.
I’m out the door, boots splashing through puddles, the humid night wrapping around me as I head back to the café.
It’s late—past midnight—the streets empty, the drizzle soaking my hair, running down my neck.
My blood’s singing, a mix of adrenaline and want, and I don’t give a shit about the war, the families, any of it. Just her.
The café’s a faint glow ahead, its windows fogged, the sign flickering.
I push inside, the bell jangling, and she’s there—back corner, same table, scarf gone, auburn hair loose and damp, green eyes locking onto mine.
Her coat’s open, a black dress underneath clinging to her curves, and my mouth goes dry, cock twitching in my jeans.
She stands as I approach, changing her stance, no pretending anymore.
“Varela,” she says, voice low, a little rough, like she’s been fighting sleep too.
“D’Angelo,” I reply, stopping close, too close, rain dripping from me onto the floor. “Couldn’t stay away, huh?”
“Neither could you,” she shoots back, a smirk tugging her lips, but her eyes—fuck, they’re dark, hungry, mirroring mine.
I step in, crowding her, the table pressing against her thighs. “That talk—Salucci, your father—it’s bullshit now, isn’t it?”
She nods slowly, her breath hitching as my hand brushes her arm, rain-slick and warm. “Yeah. It’s not business anymore.”
“Good,” I say, voice dropping, and my hand slides up, cupping her jaw, thumb tracing her lower lip.
She shivers, leaning into it, and that’s it—the dam breaks.
I kiss her, hard and fast, no gentle build-up, just raw need.
Her mouth opens under mine, hot and wet, tongue sliding against me, and I groan, low and rough, tasting rain and coffee and her.
She grabs my shirt, fisting the damp fabric, pulling me closer, and the kiss turns messy—teeth clashing, lips bruising, a fight we’re both losing.
My hands drop to her hips, yanking her against me, and she moans, soft and desperate, vibrating through me.
The café’s empty, the barista gone, but I don’t care if someone walks in—this is ours, stolen and reckless, and I’m not stopping.
“Fuck, Isolde,” I mutter against her mouth, breaking just to breathe, my forehead on hers. “Been wanting this since Venice.”
“Me too,” she gasps, nails digging into my chest, and her eyes—Christ, they’re wildfire, burning me up. “Don’t stop.”
I kiss her again, slower this time, deeper, tongue fucking her mouth like I want to fuck her body, and she melts into it, hips grinding against mine.
My cock’s rock-hard, straining, and I press it into her, letting her feel it, letting her know.
She whimpers, a sound that shoots straight to my balls, and I’m done talking—done thinking.
“Outside,” I growl, pulling her with me, out the back door into the alley.
The drizzle’s steady, soaking us, but it’s dark, private, the humid night cloaking us in shadow.
I slam her against the brick wall, gentle enough not to hurt, rough enough to mean it, and she gasps, legs parting as I step between them.
“Azrael,” she breathes, hands roaming my chest, down to my belt, fumbling with it, and I grin, feral and wild.
“Yeah, say my name,” I say, yanking her dress up, bunching it at her hips. Her panties are black lace, soaked, and I rip them off, the fabric tearing loud in the quiet. She curses, laughing, and I shove my jeans down, freeing my cock—thick, throbbing, dripping pre-cum already.
The drizzle’s a slick sheen on the alley, rain streaming down the brick wall behind Isolde, soaking her hair, her dress, her fucking skin.
She’s pinned there, legs splayed wide, my body a hard cage against hers, and her hands are on my cock, fingers wrapping tight around the thick shaft, stroking me rough and fast with no goddamn hesitation.
I groan, loud and guttural, a primal sound tearing from my throat as my head drops to her shoulder, her grip slick with rain and the fat beads of pre-cum leaking from my swollen tip.
She pumps me hard, twisting her wrist, thumb smearing the mess over my cockhead, and my hips buck into her hand, desperate, needy.
“Fuck, you’re killing me,” I rasp, voice wrecked, gravel and lust, my balls aching as she works me like she’s been dreaming of this as long as I have.
“Good,” she whispers, smirking against my ear, her breath hot and ragged, and she bites my lobe—sharp, stinging, a jolt that makes my cock twitch in her fist. “Want you dead for this, you bastard.”
I laugh—raw, unhinged, a sound that echoes off the wet bricks—and grab her thighs, thick and firm under my hands, hoisting her up in one rough yank, her back scraping the wall with a gritty rasp.
Her legs snap around my waist, heels digging into my ass, pressing me tight, and I feel her—hot, wet, bare cunt brushing the underside of my cock, dripping like a fucking faucet, her slick coating me, mingling with the rain.
I’ve fantasized about this since Venice—her pussy, her moans, her clawing me apart—and now she’s here, real and ready.
“Gonna fuck you right here,” I growl, shifting her weight, my hands digging into her ass cheeks, spreading them as I line up, cock throbbing, tip nudging her sopping hole.
“You ready for me to ruin this tight little cunt?”
“Do it,” she hisses, nails clawing my shoulders through my shirt, leaving marks I’ll feel tomorrow, and I thrust—hard, deep, no fucking warm up, sinking my fat cock into her tight, soaking pussy in one brutal shove that splits her open.
She cries out—half-pain, half-pleasure, a sharp, filthy scream—head slamming back against the brick, hair plastered wild, and I freeze, buried balls-deep, her heat choking me, pulsing around me like a goddamn vice.
Her cunt’s so tight it’s strangling my dick, walls fluttering, stretching to take every inch, and I feel her juice dripping, hot and messy, running down my sack.
“Shit, you okay?” I pant, hands gripping her ass harder, fingers sinking into the soft flesh, holding her steady as rain streaks my face, blurring my vision. My cock’s throbbing inside her, aching to move, but I need her word—need to know she’s with me.
“Yeah—fuck, yeah,” she gasps, eyes fluttering half-shut, lashes wet, adjusting to the brutal stretch of me. “Big—so fucking big, Azrael. Hurts so good—move, goddamn it, fuck me.”
That’s all I need. I pull out slowly, her cunt clinging, sucking at me like it doesn’t want me gone, then slam back in—hard, ruthless, jolting her up the wall, her tits bouncing under that soaked dress.
She moans, loud and filthy, a sound that rips through the rain, shredding my control to fucking pieces.
I set a pace—fast, rough, hips snapping like a machine, pounding her pussy like I’ve wanted since that first night, since her voice dared me in Venice, since I jerked off to her laugh in the dark.
Her cunt’s tight, slick, a hot, wet glove swallowing me whole, and I feel every shudder, every clench, her walls gripping me so hard I’m grunting with every thrust, sweat mixing with rain on my brow.
“Goddamn, you’re wet,” I grunt, pounding her mercilessly, the wet slap of my balls against her ass loud and obscene over the drizzle, echoing in the alley. “Fucking soaked—been dreaming of this, haven’t you? This dripping little pussy begging for my cock?”
“For you,” she admits, voice breaking, hands fisting my hair, yanking so hard it stings, sending a jolt straight to my balls. “Been wet since—fuck—since you danced with me, you asshole—wanted you to bend me over right there.”
I groan, slamming deeper, her confession a match to my fuse, lighting me the fuck up.
“Dirty fucking girl,” I growl, grinning like a bastard, and bite her neck—hard, sucking a purple bruise into her olive skin, marking her as mine.
She yelps, bucking against me, her pussy gushing—hot, messy, a flood of her cum dripping down my balls, soaking my jeans, mixing with the rain in a sticky, filthy mess.
I can smell her—musky, sweet, pure sex—and it’s driving me insane, my cock swelling thicker inside her.
“Harder,” she demands, heels digging into my ass, spurs in my flesh, and I oblige—fucking her brutal, relentless, the wall scraping her back raw, my cock stretching her wide, splitting her open with every savage thrust. Her tits bounce wild under the dress, nipples hard as fucking bullets, poking through the wet fabric, and I rip the neckline down—tearing it with a wet snap—exposing them.
Full, perfect, rain-slick, they jiggle with every slam, and I dive in, sucking one into my mouth, tongue lashing the stiff peak, teeth grazing the sensitive bud.
She screams—sharp, wild, a sound that bounces off the bricks—her pussy clamping down, squeezing me so tight I nearly blow right then, my balls drawing up, heavy and aching.
“Fuck, Isolde—gonna cum,” I warn, voice ragged, thrusts turning sloppy, desperate, my rhythm faltering as her cunt milks me, begging for it. “You’re too fucking tight—gonna fill this pussy up.”
“Inside,” she gasps, legs tightening, pulling me deeper, her heels bruising my ass. “Do it—fucking fill me, Azrael, pump me full of your cum.”
That snaps me—I growl, primal, a sound torn from my gut, and slam in one last time, cock pulsing like a fucking cannon, unloading hard—thick, hot spurts blasting into her cunt, flooding her, painting her walls with rope after rope of my seed.
My balls empty into her, pulsing with every jet, and she shudders, moaning my name—“Azrael, fuck, Azrael”—coming with me, her pussy spasming, a tight, wet fist milking every goddamn drop.
Her juices gush—hot, sloppy, a torrent soaking my thighs, drenching my jeans, mixing with my cum as it leaks out around my cock, dripping down her legs, pooling on the cobblestones in a sticky, white mess.
I hold her there, shaking, buried deep, rain washing the sweat and cum from our skin, our breaths heaving, ragged and synced, her walls still fluttering around me like she’s trying to suck me dry.
“Christ,” I mutter, pulling out slowly, her pussy reluctant, clinging to me.
There’s a wet sucking sound as my cock slips free—thick, slick, glistening with her cum and mine, a creamy mix dripping from her swollen, fucked hole.
It runs down her thighs—my load, her juices—trickling in rivulets, splattering the ground, and I set her down, legs wobbling like a newborn foal.
She leans against me, laughing—breathless, hoarse, a sound that’s half-dazed, half-triumphant—her dress hiked up, torn, nipples still hard, skin flushed red from my hands, my mouth, my cock.
“Fucking insane,” she says, voice raw, throat scratched from screaming, tugging the ripped dress back up, but it’s useless—her tits stay half-out, wet and glistening, begging for more.
She swipes a hand between her legs, fingers coming away coated in our mess, and smirks, licking them clean—slow, deliberate, tasting me, tasting herself.
“Yeah,” I agree, zipping up, my cock slick and sensitive, jeans sticking to my thighs, soaked with rain and her cum.
I grab her face, kissing her—slower now, filthy, tongue diving deep, tasting the cum-sweet tang of her mouth, her pussy still on her lips—and she melts into it, hands roaming my chest, nails scraping through the wet shirt.
Her tongue fights mine, sloppy and eager, a wet dance that makes my spent cock twitch, already wanting round two.
I pull back, panting, rain streaking her face, plastering her hair to her cheeks, and reality creeps in—the war, the families, the rules we’ve fucking torched.
My father’s voice snarls in my skull, but it’s drowned by her, by this.
“This world,” I say, voice low, rough as gravel, wiping a droplet from her cheek with my thumb, “it’s not kind to rule-breakers, Isolde.
We’re fucked if they find out—your father, mine, they’ll gut us for this. ”
“I know,” she whispers, eyes searching mine, green and fierce, no regret—just fire, need, a hunger that mirrors my own. “Worth it. Every goddamn second.”
“Damn right,” I say, grinning, feral and free, and pull her close, her body fitting mine like it’s carved for me—wet, warm, trembling from the fuck I just gave her.
The drizzle falls steady, a curtain cloaking us, and I know this is it—the start of something dangerous, an affair we can’t undo, a fire we’ve lit that’ll burn us alive.
My father’s warnings, her father’s orders—they’re ash now, incinerated by her touch, her taste, the way her pussy still drips with me.
We’ve broken rules, shattered lines, and I’m not going back—not tonight, not ever.