Chapter 20
Sophie
Iunlock the door, half-expecting to find Vin sprawled on my broken couch or standing shirtless in my kitchen, but there’s only silence. The apartment feels cavernous without him in it.
My body still hums from what happened at the restaurant.
Every step sends aftershocks rippling through muscles I didn’t know could ache this way.
The counter’s edge is branded into my hip bones.
The wooden spoon’s sting burns across my ass.
And deeper, in places I can’t name, there’s a sweet, bruising fullness that makes my thighs shaky.
Scopami, ti prego, scopami, signore.
The words replay in my mind, and heat floods my cheeks. I’d begged him. Begged him to take me harder, deeper, to own every inch of me. And oh my goodness, he did.
I press my palm against the door, steadying myself as I toe off my shoes. My apron is still at the restaurant, crumpled on the floor, a happy reminder of what we did when I go in tomorrow.
Was it a game? It had to be. Maybe he was jealous of Rocco? The thought alone sends a shot of excitement through my body. Vincent Demonio, possessive of me. The way his eyes went flat and deadly when he walked in and saw Rocco’s hands on me.
Maybe he wanted to show me what I’ve been missing, what real dominance looks like. My pulse skitters at the thought. Hopefully he’ll get home soon and show me again.
I shower, letting scalding water fall over my aching muscles, the tender soreness in my ass and between my legs that makes me gasp and brace against the tile. Every ache feels just… delicious. There’s no other word. Better than the best cannoli.
Mmmm, I should make cannoli.
When I step out, wrapped in steam and a towel, I catch my reflection. My eyes look almost feverish and my lips are swollen from the wooden spoon’s handle and his punishing kisses. I look wrecked.
I look beautiful.
In my bedroom, I open the drawer where my neglected lingerie lives, lace and silk bought on optimistic shopping trips but never worn. My fingers hover over a black set, delicate and pretty, before I change my mind. Too obvious.
Instead, I pull on my favorite soft cotton sleep shorts and a thin white tank top with no bra or panties. Innocent with an edge. I wonder if he’ll like it. If he’ll come home and see me in this and lose that iron control again. My body flushes hot at the thought.
I climb into bed, still on the floor since we broke the frame, and pull the covers up to my chin. The sheets smell like him now.
I close my eyes, replaying everything from earlier. The way he’d grabbed my throat, the butter melting against my skin, his fingers stretching my ass while his cock pounded into me. The harsh demands for me to beg in Italian, over and over.
Where is he?
Sleep tugs at me, heavy and insistent, and I fight it. I want to be awake when he comes back, but exhaustion wins. My eyes drift shut, and I dream of him.
**
I wake to pressure. Not gentle pressure but weighted pressure.
My eyes snap open to find Vin straddling my face, his thighs bracketing my head, his cock hard and insistent, pressing against my mouth.
“Wake up, princess.” His voice is rough gravel. “Put that tongue to work on my balls.”
My heart hammers against my ribs as adrenaline and arousal flood my system in a crazy cocktail. He’s still dressed in jeans, the denim rough against my cheeks, but his cock is out, thick and demanding.
“Vin—” I start, but he shifts forward, cutting me off.
“I said. Tongue. My balls. Now.”
I crane my neck trying to reach, but the angle is wrong. He’s too far forward, his weight pinning me, and when I extend my tongue it barely grazes him. I strain, arching, desperate to obey, but I can’t.
He shifts again, pushing closer, and suddenly I can’t breathe. His body blocks my air, and panic flares bright and hot.
I tap his thigh twice, the universal signal for tapping out, but he doesn’t move.
Is he doing this on purpose? Does he want me to fail?
My lungs scream. Black spots dance at the edges of my vision. I thrash beneath him, hands scrabbling against his thighs, and finally, finally, he pulls back.
I gasp, sucking in air like I’m drowning, coughing, sputtering, my chest heaving.
Before I can recover, he’s off me, grabbing my arm and hauling me upright. My vision swims. My legs tangle in the sheets as he drags me from the bedroom into the kitchen.
He releases me suddenly, and I stumble, catching myself against the counter. I blink, trying to orient myself.
“You went to bed without making me something to eat.” His voice is stone. “What happened to being the gracious host? Martha fucking Stewart? You mad about earlier?”
I turn to face him, still breathless, my heart beating against my sternum. He’s backlit by the kitchen light, his face shadowed, but I can feel the anger radiating off him.
“Are you mad at me, Vin?”
“Why would you say that?” He steps closer, predatory. “You like it rough, right? I’m just doing what you want.”
But it doesn’t feel like earlier. Earlier felt like fire, warm and all-consuming. This feels like winter, sharp and cutting.
I study his face, searching for the man who groaned my name, who called me his queen, who held me afterward and stroked my hair. “It feels like you’re mad at me.”
His lip curls. “Maybe you should complain to daddy. See if that helps.”
Daddy? Does he mean himself? Some kind of dominance play? Or… my actual father?
“Vin, I don’t know what’s—”
He yanks my tank top strap off my shoulder. “Take off your clothes.”
Heat flashes through me despite the confusion. My body responds to his command instinctively, nipples hardening, pulse throbbing everywhere. But when he tries to force my tank top over my head, tries to shove me to my knees, something in me rebels.
“No.” I shove his hands away.
His eyes widen, surprise breaking through his cold mask. It’s in that moment that I understand: he’s trying to break me, find my limits, make me angry, make me run.
Well, two can play that game.
I turn to the counter and with one sweeping motion, I push everything off. Dish towels, the fruit bowl, the salt and pepper shakers: they all crash to the floor in a cacophony of shattering ceramic.
Vin freezes, jaw dropping.
Good. Let him be confused.
I’m only wearing the thin tank top and shorts, so it takes seconds to strip. I peel the tank over my head, letting it fall. Hook my thumbs in my waistband and shimmy the shorts down my hips. His eyes track every movement, dragging over my bare skin.
I climb onto my kitchen counter and crawl toward him on my hands and knees, scattering anything in my way as I move from the far end of the counter to where he’s standing, staring. A metal spatula clatters to the floor. The sugar canister tips, spilling white crystals. I don’t look away from him.
When I reach the edge of the counter, I stop on all fours, eye level with his chest.
“Do you want to use my mouth?” My voice comes out strong, confident.
His gaze scrapes up and down my body, lingering on my breasts, my spread thighs, the curve of my spine. He gives one sharp nod.
I reach for his belt but he’s too far away and he doesn’t move closer. He wants to be in charge, wants me submissive and begging.
I let my voice soften, in a way I know makes him crazy. I lower my gaze demurely, then peek up at him through my lashes. “May I touch you, signore?”
The effect is instantaneous. His hand snaps out, fisting in my hair, yanking me forward so hard my palms leave the counter. The top half of my body is suspended, held up only by his grip. My back arches deeply, ass high in the air, breasts thrust forward.
It hurts. God, it hurts, but the pain instantly makes me wet.
With my teeth, I catch his belt and pull it free from the loop. His eyes are locked on my ass, his tongue darting out to wet his lips as I work his buckle open, pop the button, lower the zipper.
His cock springs free, already hard, already dripping with pre-cum.
I take him in my mouth gently, swirling my tongue around the head, but when he starts to thrust deeper, to take control, I pull back.
He lets me, curious now instead of angry.
I roll onto my back on the counter, the cold surface against my heated skin, my head hanging off the edge in front of his hard cock, my mouth open wide. Bending my knees, I let them fall open. Reaching down between my legs, I circle my clit with slow, deliberate strokes. I’m already so wet.
“Per favore,” I whisper, holding his gaze upside-down. “Scopa il mio volto, padrone.”
Please fuck my face, master.
He shudders, his whole body going stiff. For a heartbeat, he just stares at me. Then he grabs my hand, the one I’m touching myself with, and I think he’s going to stop me, to punish me for pleasuring myself without permission.
But instead, he brings my hand to his mouth and licks. The flat of his tongue drags from my palm to my fingertips, slow and deliberate, tasting me, tasting my arousal on my skin, getting my fingers even wetter.
Then he places my hand back between my legs, partly giving permission and partly commanding me to touch myself.
I smile and open my mouth wide.
He pushes in, and oh, my gosh, this angle, this position. He slides so deep, past my tongue, into my throat. I gag immediately, but he doesn’t stop. He grips my breasts, using them as handles, and fucks my face with brutal efficiency.
Spit spills from the corners of my mouth, running up my face into my eyes. I blink rapidly, tears mixing with saliva. I can’t breathe. He’s too deep, holding himself there, his balls pressed against my face.
I touch myself frantically, chasing the climax building in my core. So close, so very close.
But then he pulls back just long enough for me to gasp in air before plunging deep again. The rhythm is punishing. Breathe, choke, breathe, choke. My world tunnels to the stretch in my jaw, the burn in my lungs, the pulse of my clit under my fingers.
He squeezes my breasts hard, pinching my nipples, and I moan around his cock. The vibration makes him groan, a raw, guttural sound that shoots straight to my core.
I’m going to come. I’m going to come with his cock buried in my throat, with spit and tears covering my face, with my lungs screaming for air.
“FUCK.” He pulls out suddenly, and I gasp and cry out, protesting.
His hand moves in rough, jerking strokes on his cock, and then he’s coming, hot spurts landing on my face, my neck, my breasts. Marking me. Claiming me.
I keep my mouth open, gasping for breath, tongue out to catch his release. Spit continues to flow, pooling in my eyes, dripping into my hairline. I’m half-drowning, half-suffocating.
And I love it. I love every single second of it.
My fingers don’t stop moving. I’m so close to coming, teetering on the edge, every fiber in my body tense.
But he steps back, tucking himself away, and the loss of his attention makes the orgasm slip through my fingers like water. I lie there on the counter, covered in his cum and my own spit, thighs still spread, hand still between my legs.
Looking up at him upside-down, his expression is calculating and predatory.
I smile, sweet and utterly content, and bring my fingers to my mouth, licking them clean while he watches, then wipe his cum off my face and lick my fingers clean again.
“Grazie, padrone,” I whisper. “May I have more?”
His jaw clenches. His hands curl into fists.
This game is far from over.