Chapter 18 Isabella
He stands.
For a second, all I can do is lie there, boneless, still trembling from what he just did to me. My thighs are still open, still shaking, my pulse is a frantic flutter under my skin. I didn’t know a body could feel like this, like I’ve been taken apart and put back together in the best possible way.
My breath is uneven. My vision is hazy. My heart hasn’t slowed since the moment he pulled me to the edge of the bed and put his mouth on me.
I could hardly take my eyes off him as he kissed, licked, sucked and French kissed the fuck out of my pussy.
I saw stars before he even put his fingers inside, and then all I saw was heaven.
God.
I press the back of my hand to my mouth, trying to steady myself, but it doesn’t help.
Nothing could. Not when he’s looking at me like that.
Pupils blown, hungry. He looks like he wants to devour me, and I want him to so badly.
The things he said to me were so fucking hot.
I never thought I was into dirty talk, but then maybe it’s because the men I’ve been with before were nothing like Nico Mancini.
He takes his shirt off in one smooth motion, and for a second, my brain simply… stalls. Like every thought I’ve ever had gets shoved out of my head to make room for the sight of him.
Nico Mancini isn’t just fit. He looks forged.
Broad, carved shoulders taper into arms that look like they were built to hold a woman in place.
Thick, corded muscle shifting under tanned skin as he moves.
His chest is a solid wall of power, pectorals defined in a way I’ve only ever seen on athletes or statues you’re not supposed to touch, the kind guarding ancient temples.
And God, the tattoos.
Ink crawls over him like art drawn on heat, sweeping across one shoulder, scaling down his arm in black and gray, wrapping around muscle and veins.
Some designs look old, others newer, layered like a map of every choice he’s ever made.
There’s a piece on his pec that looks like smoke and bone intertwining; another on his ribs that moves when he breathes, the lines sharp against the ridges of his abdomen.
And his abs… Six? Eight? I can’t count them fast enough. They’re deep, cut, the kind of definition that only comes from a lifetime of discipline. A faint V disappears beneath the waistband of his pants, it’s obscene how it steals the air from my lungs.
His thighs look capable of lifting a car, or me, without effort. Powerful, thick, built from strength and sheer unwillingness to bend for anyone.
He stands there, barefoot, half-naked, radiating heat and male confidence like it’s an aura.
And all I can think is, This is what danger looks like when it’s beautiful. This is what control looks like when it has a body.
His tattoos make him look untouchable. His body makes me want to touch anyway.
And when his eyes meet mine, hungry, knowing, every inch of him feels like a challenge I’m suddenly desperate to accept.
He peels his boxers down his thighs and my mouth goes dry.
Nico Manicini is huge, and I mean everywhere.
His cock is thick and curved slightly, lying against his abs and, God help me, I want to get down on my knees and crawl to him when he looks at me like he is right now.
I’m not even sure I can take a cock that size.
My empty pussy clenches with the need to feel every inch of him.
“Belle.” His voice is low, rough, still thick with the satisfaction of what he just coaxed out of me. “Look at me.”
I am. God, I’m trying not to stare too hard, but I am.
He likes it. I can see it in the slow, knowing curve of his mouth. I like that he affects me so much. “You’re shaking,” he murmurs, moving closer. “Did I hurt you?”
I shake my head.
“Good, because that was just the beginning.” A breath ghosts across my throat as he leans in. “I like you like this. Open. Warm. Still flushed from coming on my tongue.”
Dear God, his dirty talk game is peak. Heat floods my face, my entire body.
“Do you want to come again, Belle?” he asks softly.
The question is a challenge. A tease. A promise. I nod without thinking.
He chuckles, low and satisfied. “Good,” he says again. “Because that was nothing. That was me letting you breathe.”
He steps closer to the bed, and every inch of him radiates control, slow, prowling, utterly sure of himself.
My pulse skitters.
He drags his gaze from my bare legs up my body, stopping at the place between my thighs where he’d had his mouth minutes ago.
His eyes darken, and hunger ripples across his face.
His hand snakes down and he grips his cock in his large hand and strokes, all the while holding my gaze.
“You see what you do to me, Belle? You see how fucking hard you make me? Since the second I saw you, my cock has been aching to feel your pussy.”
I’m panting now, a desperate, tangled web of need. “Nico…” I whisper.
“Spread your legs for me again.”
The way he says it, calm, certain, as if obedience is assumed, makes heat curl deep in my stomach. I do it before I even register moving, and his breath thickens.
“Good girl.”
The praise hits me like a hand closing around my spine. My entire body arches, craving more.
He reaches out, trailing two fingers along the inside of my knee. Barely a touch, just enough to make my breath catch.
“You’re beautiful like this,” he murmurs. “Still flushed from me. Still shaking because of me.” His gaze lifts. “I’m going to ruin you tonight. In the best way.”
My breath stutters.
He smiles, dark, slow, hungry.
“But I’m not rushing,” he continues, voice dropping. “I want to feel every second. I want to watch your face when I push you past every limit you think you have.” His hand glides up my thigh, stopping just shy of where I’m desperate for it. “I want you begging in my bed.”
My thighs tremble.
He leans in and kisses me, hot, deep, slow enough to tease but firm enough to steal the air out of my lungs. His tongue strokes mine with deliberate dominance, and it makes my toes curl.
I feel drugged by him.
He pulls back just a fraction, his breath brushing my lips. “Lie back,” he orders softly. “I’m not done with you.”
I sink into the pillows, heart hammering.
He steps back only long enough to grab a condom and rolls it down his length, each movement unhurried, confident, like he knows I can’t look away. And he’s right. I can’t. Every line of him steals my breath. Every shadow, every flex of muscle.
He prowls toward the bed, gaze locked on mine, heat rolling off him in waves.
And when he climbs onto the mattress, bracing himself over me, his voice is a dark promise.
“Now,” he murmurs, lips brushing my throat, “I’m going to make you feel everything.”
The world narrows to his hands, his mouth, the sound of his breath against my skin.
And then I feel the head of his cock at my entrance. He doesn’t wait or hesitate; he just thrusts inside me to the hilt. Air leaves my lungs at the delicious intrusion; a loud moan is dragged from somewhere deep inside me.
Nico is big, I feel so full, stretched, the bite of pain only adding to this incredible feeling.
“Nico. Oh, fuck.” His name barely leaves me before everything inside me tightens around him, my breath tearing out in a shaky gasp.
He groans, a low, rough sound against my throat as his forehead drops to my shoulder, his mouth dragging heat across my skin, before his lips close around my nipple.
His tongue laves at me before he kisses across my chest and does the same on the other side.
My hips roll as he slowly starts to pulse his hips into me, fucking me slowly, torturously.
“Fuck, sweetheart… you’re so damn tight.” His voice is wrecked, breathless. Each word vibrates against the sensitive place beneath my ear, and a shiver ripples straight through me.
He kisses his way down, slow and hungry, until his lips close around my nipple again. The suction pulls a desperate sound from my chest. My fingers curl in his hair, hips lifting instinctively as he moves inside me, deep, steady, like he’s trying to memorize the feel of every inch.
His hand cups my breast, thumb toying with my sensitive nipple and I groan, shifting beneath him. Wanting more, needing him to fuck me until I can’t think.
“Am I hurting you?”
His fingers skate over my bruise-mottled ribs and I feel nothing but pleasure when he touches me. “No.”
“You sure?”
This dangerous, powerful man, who makes people quake at the sound of his name, is so gentle with me that it makes tears prick my eyes.
“I’m sure,” I breathe, cupping his jaw. “Don’t stop.”
Something in him breaks loose. His hand comes up to cradle my face, thumb brushing my cheek, and he leans in, chest pressed to mine, moving his hips just enough to make my lungs collapse.
“You look…” His voice is a rough whisper. “You look so goddamn beautiful taking my cock.”
He shifts, pushing deeper, and I feel it, every thick, slow inch, until my fingernails dig crescents into his shoulders.
“You feel that?” he murmurs, eyes dark, locked on mine. “How hard I am for you, only you, Belle?”
A helpless whimper escapes me.
His mouth curves, sinful and knowing. “Yeah, you feel this, too. Your pussy was made for me.”
Before I can gather a thought, he slides out just enough to make me clench on nothing, then thrusts back in with a low, filthy sound that shoots heat straight through me.
“Fuck, my cock is glistening with your come. Look at us, Belle. Look how well we fit.”
I lift my head and see him slide out of me, before punching back in, driving the air from my lungs and making me toss my head back on a scream.
My hands scramble to hold on, finding purchase on his solid biceps; my legs wrap around his waist, pulling him deeper, needing all of him, needing more, needing everything.
“Fuck, that’s it,” he groans. “Take it. Take all of me.”