Chapter 28 Sophie
Sophie
He’s had enough. Three nights of sleeping in the bed next to each other, eating dinner together with minimal polite conversation. I can feel his frustration radiating off him as he paces the perimeter of the kitchen, back and forth, back and forth, but I’m not ready to forgive him. Not yet.
Tonight, I’m making a simple risotto, something that requires my full attention, constant stirring, patience.
The Arborio rice releases its starch slowly, each grain swelling as it absorbs the warm broth I ladle in, one scoop at a time.
Steam curls around my face, fragrant with white wine and saffron.
I keep my eyes on the risotto, stirring in slow calm circles.
“Sophie.”
He growls my name. I don’t look up, just add another ladle of broth and watch it disappear into the rice.
“Sophia.” His voice rises, sharp with warning.
I test a grain of rice between my teeth: still too firm. Needs another few minutes.
The air shifts as he moves closer. I feel the heat of him at my back, smell the cigarette smoke clinging to his clothes even though he’s been careful to smoke outside.
“You can’t ignore me forever, princess.”
“I’m not ignoring you.” My voice is calm, neutral. “I’m cooking.”
“Bullshit.” His breath stirs the hair at my nape. “You’ve been freezing me out for over a week.”
“You disrespected my food, Vincenzo.” I keep stirring, the motion smooth and constant. “What did you expect?”
He’s quiet a moment, then speaks so softly I almost miss it: “I went too far.”
My hand stills for just a beat. I add more broth and stir. “Yes,” I say simply. “You did.”
He shifts behind me, and I can feels his frustration like it’s a physical thing. Violence, sex, domination, control—those he understands. But this is unfamiliar territory.
I reach for the parmesan, grating it fresh over the risotto as it reaches that perfect creamy consistency, all’onda, wavey, like the risotto is flowing across the plate.
His hand shoots out, gripping my wrist, not hard enough to hurt, but firm enough to stop me.
“Say something.” His voice is low, rough.
I look down at his hand on my wrist, then slowly raise my eyes to his face. His jaw is tight, a muscle jumping in his cheek, but his eyes hold something vulnerable.
I can’t help but soften. Reaching into the pan with my free hand, I pinch a tiny amount of risotto between my fingers and hold it up to his mouth.
“Taste.”
His eyes narrow, suspicious, but he leans forward and takes it from my fingers with his teeth, his tongue darting out to lick my fingers clean. I watch his face as he chews, as his eyes close briefly in that expression I’ve come to crave.
When he opens his eyes, they’re darker, hungrier. I pull the risotto out of his reach, turning back to the stove.
“Hey—”
“It needs to rest,” I say mildly, covering the pan.
“Sophie.” There’s a warning in his tone, but also something playful at the edges.
“Vincenzo.” I match his tone exactly.
“You’re being a brat.”
The word makes happiness blossom through me like saffron dissolving in broth. I bite back a smile.
“A brat?” I glance at him over my shoulder, knowing my face is giving me away. “Brats get punished, don’t they?”
He goes very still. I feel his gaze scraping over me. Then he breathes out, long and hard.
“Yeah,” he says slowly, his voice dropping into that gravelly register that makes my pussy throb. “They do.”
I portion the risotto onto two plates, my movements deliberately unhurried. The silence between us is charged with electricity.
“You won’t feed me.” His voice comes from directly behind me now, close enough that I feel each word against my ear. “And you’re wearing clothes in the kitchen. You’re definitely asking for punishment.”
I don’t respond, just garnish each plate with fresh basil and a drizzle of truffle oil.
“And now you’re not listening?” His hand slides to my hip. “Big trouble, princess.”
“Maybe,” I say quietly, setting down the oil, “you should listen.”
The words hit him hard, I can feel it. His grip on my hip tightens.
“What did you just say?”
I turn to face him, tipping my chin up to meet his gaze. My heart is racing, but I work hard to keep my voice steady. “I said maybe you should listen. For once.”
His eyes flash. “Careful, Sophia.”
“I’m done being careful.” The words spill out before I can stop them, all these days of frustration finding their voice. “You fuck my—” I catch myself, soften my tone. “You take me however you want even when I’ve told you that I don’t like it, that I prefer—”
He cuts me off, his mouth crashing into mine with bruising force. His kiss wipes away everything: my breath, my thoughts, everything. I melt into him, opening for him as his hands fist in my hair.
When he finally pulls back, we’re both breathing hard.
“What do you want?” The question sounds like it’s been dragged out of him. “Tell me what you want, Sophie.”
My whole body feels like liquid. “For starters, you could—”
But I don’t get to finish because he’s already moving, spinning me around and bending me over the counter with one hand between my shoulder blades. My cheek presses against the cool surface as he yanks my leggings and panties down over my ass in one savage motion.
“I know you better than you think, Sophia,” he growls in my ear. “You want your pussy filled, don’t you?”
Then he does something I never would have expected in 1000 years: he rips my panties off me and, before I can process what’s happening, he’s pushing the balled-up lace into my pussy, stuffing me full. I gasp and arch my back, gripping the counter.
His voice is pure sin. “That’s what you wanted right, princess? You got your wish.”
Oh. My. Gosh.
My whole body is rigid with shock, but underneath the shock is something utterly shameless. The sensation is bizarre, overwhelming, the cotton-lace blend of my panties stretching me, the knowledge of what he’s done making me feel exposed and owned and—
“Vin—”
“That’s right.” I hear him working his belt, the zipper of his jeans. “Say my name while I use this fat perfect ass.”
He enters me roughly, no prep beyond the oil he douses my ass with first, and I cry out at the burning stretch. But he doesn’t stop, doesn’t give me time to adjust. He just drives into me again and again, one hand gripping my hip hard while the other keeps me pinned.
The panties shift inside me with each brutal thrust, creating a maddening friction that has me gasping, my hands slipping out from under me.
“You like that?” he grunts, punctuating each word with a thrust. “You like feeling stuffed full while I ruin this ass?”
“Yes,” I sob, because it’s true, because my body is already climbing toward something impossible, something I’ve never reached before. “Yes, signore, yes—”
He comes fast, with a roar, his fingers digging into my flesh as he buries himself deep. I feel him pulsing inside me, feel the heat of him, and I collapse on the counter, heaving in breaths. So close.
He pulls out and I hear him moving away, hear the refrigerator open and close, the hiss of a beer bottle opening. My legs are shaking too badly to stand, so I stay bent over the counter, feeling his cum leak out of my ass, feeling the strange fullness of my panties still stuffed inside me.
“Come here.”
The command is casual, almost lazy. I push myself upright, my arms trembling, and see him sprawled on the couch, beer in hand, legs spread wide, his jeans unzipped and cock out.
He takes a long pull from his beer and clicks on the TV, his eyes on me. “Clean me up, princess.”
My pulse jumps, and I move to the sink, wetting a cloth with warm water. When I start walking toward him, though, something stops me. Maintaining eye contact, I drop to all fours, the cloth between my teeth. I crawl to him.
The distance from the kitchen to the couch isn’t more than 15 feet, but I can feel the weight of his stare. My bare knees press into the worn hardwood then the threadbare rug. I keep my eyes lowered, submissive, until I reach him then risk a glance up.
His beer bottle is halfway to his mouth. He’s staring at me like he’s never seen me before, and he swallows hard.
“Fuck, Sophie,” he breathes.
I release the cloth from my teeth onto his softening cock then wipe him clean with gentle, reverent strokes. He’s still sensitive and he hisses when I work over the head, but he doesn’t stop me. When he’s clean, I sit back on my heels between his spread knees, waiting.
He sets the beer on the side table with a clink then pats the couch next to him. “Come here.”
I do as he says, kneeling beside him, facing him, on the couch. He threads his fingers through the back of my hair and guides me forward with gentle pressure.
“Put it in your mouth,” he says softly, and I do. He groans softly then taps my lower back. “Ass up, princess.”
I arch my back and lift my ass for him. Gently, he works my soaked panties free from my pussy and I groan, everything still so sensitive and swollen. He tosses them to the side, then reaches for the blanket draped over the back of the couch and pulls it over me, tucking it around my shoulders.
Then his hand returns to my hair, stroking rhythmically, his fingers working with surprising gentleness, massaging my scalp in small circles.
Heaven. This is heaven.
This simple aftercare is better than sex, sweet but wrapped in Vin’s signature gruff demeanor. The weight of his hand in my hair, the taste of him on my tongue—there’s nothing better than this.
As soon as the thought is complete, he proves me wrong. Taking the warm cloth I used on him, he moves the blanket aside, and cleans me with the same care I showed him.
I moan softly around his cock in my mouth, my eyes stinging with unexpected tears.
“Shh,” he murmurs, his hand never stopping its movement through my hair. “I’ve got you, princess. Just relax.”
When I’m clean, he pulls the blanket back over me and settles deeper into the couch, his hand continuing to stroke my hair hypnotically.