Chapter 15 #2
He moved us without ever breaking the kiss, one hand gripping my waist, the other tangled in my hair, tugging just hard enough to make me gasp. That gasp let him in deeper. His hips pressed against mine as he blindly opened the door to the resort, guiding me backwards over the threshold.
The world outside drowned in the storm. But in here, we were the hurricane. And I had no idea if I wanted to survive it.
His mouth was on mine the second we stumbled into the resort, breath crashing against breath, teeth clashing like they couldn’t decide whether to kiss or tear. My back slammed into a wall, and a vase to our right toppled, shattering into porcelain shards that scattered across the polished floor.
I didn’t flinch. Neither did he.
His hand found my jaw, tilting it, angling me how he wanted like I was his to shape—his to destroy. And maybe I was. I didn’t know where he ended and I began anymore.
“You’re such a—” I gasped when he dragged my lower lip between his teeth, cutting the words from my mouth like he owned them.
“No more talking,” he growled against my skin. He pushed me toward another wall, his mouth never leaving mine, the rhythm of our feet chaotic, desperate. We were bruising each other in the most intimate way possible.
I shoved him. He caught my wrist. I cursed him. He cursed right back.
And then he slammed me against the final wall—his door. My skull tapped the wood, his body caging me in again, and I barely felt the impact because all I could feel was him .
His hand dipped behind him, and I heard the soft click of the lock disengaging.
Then my feet left the ground. He hoisted me up, his hands gripping the back of my thighs as my legs wrapped around his waist like they had always meant to be there.
He kicked the door open and carried me inside, slamming it shut with a foot and leaning his weight into it—into me —as he locked it again.
I tugged at his shirt, frustrated with the heat radiating off his skin and the fabric keeping me from it.
He peeled it over his head, tossing it somewhere into the room, his eyes never leaving mine.
I yanked my jacket off, my fingers trembling as I reached for the hem of my top.
The cotton whispered over my skin as I pulled it over my head and dropped it to the floor.
The air hit my skin, sharp and cool in contrast to his heat.
Our mouths crashed again. He walked us back blindly, gripping me tighter, kissing me harder, and then—He threw me.
The air left my lungs in a gasp as I landed on his bed, my hair fanned out across the dark sheets, my chest heaving, my skin flushed.
He stood at the edge of the mattress, chest rising and falling with that look in his eyes again—danger and desire coiled together in a man who had never been told no .
And for once, I didn’t want to tell him no either. Not tonight.
The air was too hot. Or maybe it was just him.
He stood at the edge of the bed, chest rising and falling, skin flushed and damp from the rain and the heat we’d both ignited between us like it was nothing.
Like we weren’t enemies. Like we hadn’t just torn each other apart with words and glances and lies.
I watched, breath caught somewhere in my throat as Rafael unbuttoned his pants and slid them off, letting them drop to the floor. His boxers stayed on. Thank God, because I wasn’t sure what would happen if they didn’t.
He didn’t say a word as he crawled up the bed, stalking over me like a predator would a kill, and I couldn’t move even if I wanted to.
His hands pressed into the sheets on either side of me, caging me in. I could feel his heat, his energy—heavy and electric.
And then he kissed me again. No warning. No gentleness. Just fire and teeth and tongue and the taste of blood and rain still clinging to his mouth.
My legs wrapped around his waist before I even realized they’d moved. I felt his smirk against my mouth, and I hated how it made something low in my stomach tighten.
He pulled one of my hands above my head. I tensed—only for a second—until I felt the soft leather looped around my wrist.
“Rafael,” I warned, my voice low and threatening. He didn’t respond. Just held my gaze as he tied the belt to the carved iron of the bedpost. Then he took my other wrist and did the same.
I tested the restraints. Firm. Still—I could barely breathe.
“Is this the part where you ask for forgiveness?” I rasped, my voice dry like ash.
His mouth lowered to my throat. “No,” he murmured. “This is the part where you forget what it felt like to hate me.”
I swallowed hard, pulse pounding. My legs tightened around him, yanking him closer, a silent challenge—or maybe a surrender. I couldn’t tell the difference anymore.
The rain still whispered against the windows. Somewhere in the resort, the world kept turning. But in here, there was just him and me. Fire and fury.
My breath caught when he hovered above me, shirtless, and all carved muscle and danger.
There was something feral in his gaze—like he wasn’t entirely human anymore.
Like some part of him had slipped through a crack in the earth, and now he was here, crawling over me like a storm that would never stop burning.
“Keep looking at me like that,” he muttered, voice low and ragged as his hand slid down my thigh. “And I’m not letting you leave this bed for a week.”
I opened my mouth to curse him, but it never made it past my throat.
In one brutal move, he hooked his fingers around the waistband of my pants—and ripped.
The sound of fabric tearing open split the air, sharp and wicked, as he dragged them down and tossed them somewhere behind him.
My thong followed, destroyed in his hands, and for a second I just lay there—bare, exposed, heat rushing across my skin as he knelt back, shoving his boxers down and off like they offended him.
I didn’t look away. I should’ve. But I didn’t.
“You want to hate me,” he said, crawling back over me, one hand braced beside my head, the other running over my thigh like he owned it. “But right now, you want to feel something even more.”
“I want to kill you,” I breathed.
He smirked, cruel and beautiful. “Then take your shot, Isa. After I finish breaking you.”
I felt the tip of him press against me, and my breath hitched. Every muscle in my body tensed, wrists pulling against the restraints, heart crashing into my ribs.
“Say stop,” he growled, lips ghosting my jaw. “Now. Because once I’m inside you, I’m not stopping until every fucking part of you remembers me.”
I didn’t say it. He slammed into me with a single, brutal thrust.
My body jerked, arching off the bed as a cry tore from my throat. The stretch was instant—too much, too deep, too fast—and I bit down hard on my bottom lip, fighting the burn. My wrists pulled against the restraints, tied to the damn bed like I was some kind of offering.
And maybe I was.
“Hurts, doesn’t it?” he rasped, his mouth brushing my neck as he stilled inside me. “That’s how you know it’s real.”
“Fuck you,” I spat, but the words came out cracked—shattered around the fire pooling in my core.
He didn’t move. Not yet.
His hand reached up and curled around my throat—tight, like a warning. “You can hate me all you want,” he whispered. “But your body knows exactly who I am.”
And then he started moving. Brutal. Unrelenting. Deep. Every thrust felt like punishment. Every graze of his teeth down my throat was a reminder—of who he was, of what we were doing, of how far I’d fallen.
And I couldn’t stop him.
Because some sick, twisted, godforsaken part of me didn’t want him to stop.
My wrists were burning. From the pull. From the way I couldn’t move. From the way he had me—tied, spread, open. And still, it wasn’t what had me shaking. It was him.
His hips crashed into mine, again and again, every thrust a threat and a promise. I could feel it in my spine, in the back of my teeth, in the air catching in my lungs every time he slammed so deep I swore he hit bone.
I wanted to scream. I wanted more.
“You feel that?” he growled, voice raw, breath hot against my ear. “That’s what it’s like when you stop pretending.”
“I’m not?—”
His hand came up, curling around my throat again. “Shut up, Isabella. Your mouth lies. But your body?” He rolled his hips, once, hard. “It fucking worships me.”
My moan cracked against the air, sharp and helpless, and his smirk pressed into my skin like a brand.
“You don’t get to come until I say so.”
I shook my head. “You can’t?—”
“But I will,” he said darkly. “And you will. Just like this. Tied up. Begging.”
I didn’t beg. But I broke.
My thighs shook, trying to hold him closer. My wrists flexed, trying to pull him in. My breath shattered in my throat as he fucked me deeper, harder, like he needed to bury himself in me just to survive the night.
“I hate you,” I gasped.
“You’ll hate me more after this,” he promised.
His hand slid between us. Just a touch. A stroke. A flick of his thumb. And the pressure snapped.
My back arched, stars exploded behind my eyes, and my body convulsed as a moan I didn’t even recognize as mine tore free from my throat.
“That’s it,” he muttered, voice like gravel. “Let them all fucking hear you.”
I rode it out, wrists straining, body burning, chest heaving under the weight of the high he forced out of me.
And he didn’t stop.
His breathing was rough against my throat, sharp and unrelenting, and he didn’t slow—not even after my body had broken under his touch, after my cry had filled the room like something sacred and forbidden. No, Rafael Romanov wasn’t the kind of man who followed anyone else’s rhythm. He set it.
I was still gasping, wrists aching from the restraints, my head tipped back into the pillows as he buried himself deeper, faster, harder. My body jolted with every motion, my thighs trembling from the aftermath, and yet… I didn’t look away.