Chapter 19 #3
I felt the air shift behind me. He stepped close—so close his breath touched the back of my neck before his lips did.
The first kiss was soft. A brush. Then another. And another. Then teeth. He bit, not hard, but enough to make me feel it. Enough to leave a mark. And again. Lower this time—along the curve where my neck met my shoulder.
My hands twitched at my sides, but I didn’t move. I couldn’t. Because my body wasn’t mine in that moment. It was his.
“Do you feel that?” he said, his voice hot against my skin. “You belong to me now. Not in theory. Not in whispers.”
He kissed the spot he’d bitten, as if to soothe it.
“You came here thinking you were looking for answers. But it was always me. It’s only ever been me.”
And then I felt it— The brush of silk against my wrists. The sash.
He took his time, looping it around once. Then again. Slow, smooth movements, the fabric cool at first, then warming with my skin.
His fingers tightened the knot—not painfully, but enough.
Enough to hold me.
And he didn’t let go of the trailing end.
I swallowed, throat dry. My pulse felt like thunder. And then—he reached up and curled his fingers beneath my chin again, tilting my head just enough, just far enough. So he could claim my mouth. And he did.
The kiss wasn’t soft. It wasn’t hesitant. It was a devouring.
His lips moved over mine with possession, with need, with something between reverence and punishment. Like he wanted to consume every breath I had left and leave me marked in a way no holy place could cleanse.
His free hand slid to my hip, grounding me. Holding me. And all I could think— Was that nothing had ever felt this much like belonging.
His mouth moved over mine like he owned it. Not gently. Not sweetly. But like he was devouring something that had been his from the beginning—long before I knew it.
I kissed him back. Fierce. Needy. Without shame. Because this wasn’t a game. Not anymore. It was something deeper. Older. A collision dressed up like fate.
His hand at my jaw tightened just slightly as he angled my head, deepening the kiss until I was gasping into it—until my thoughts weren’t thoughts anymore, just fire.
And then— He bit my bottom lip.
Hard, with enough pressure to steal the breath from my lungs. He didn’t pull away immediately. He held it there—his teeth and his heat and the tension coiling in the center of my chest.
When he finally let go, his lips ghosted over mine as he whispered— “I’m not your salvation, Isabella. I’m your favorite sin.”
My knees almost buckled. He said it not like a confession, but a vow. Like he wanted to be the thing that dragged me down. That he welcomed it. And so did I.
His mouth found mine again, hungrier this time. His body pressed flush against mine, and I felt the firm heat of his chest against my back, the press of his hips, the grip of his hand still holding the length of the holy sash binding my wrists.
And then—there was a shift. His other hand slipped to the inside of his jacket. I felt the movement before I saw it. The click of a blade being released from a pocket.
My breath hitched.
He brought it forward, not hidden—deliberate—holding it at my side as he continued to kiss me, as if the sharpness of metal between us didn’t break the intimacy, but deepened it.
My heart pounded, but I wasn’t afraid. I was thrumming .
He dragged the blade gently down my sternum—so light, it was barely a kiss of steel. I felt it slide beneath the hem of my shirt. Pause.
And then— Rip.
The fabric split cleanly down the middle, the blade slicing through cotton like silk. I gasped softly, lips parting against his. But still, he didn’t hurt me. His control was absolute.
He pulled the shirt apart just enough to expose the curve of my bra, the black lace catching the flicker of candlelight like it had been waiting to be seen. I wasn’t bare. But I was offered.
I felt the cool air hit my skin. Felt the blade retreat just as smoothly as it had come.
He leaned into me, mouth brushing the shell of my ear. “Tell me who this body belongs to.”
My breath caught in my throat. “You,” I whispered. It came out broken. It came out true.
His fingers brushed down the exposed line of my spine, slow, reverent. “Say it again.”
“You.”
His hand flattened over my ribs, spreading across my bare stomach as he guided me forward— down . His grip on the sash at my wrists tightened just slightly.
He bent me forward—slowly, deliberately—until my chest was against the cold cathedral wall, my arms still bound behind me, my head turned just enough to see him over my shoulder.
My breath shook. But I didn’t resist. I couldn’t .
Because there was nothing left of me to fight. Only the girl who had walked into a cathedral… And found her god in a man with a knife and a holy sash.
I heard the sound before I felt the shift—the low, deliberate slide of leather pulled free from its loops. It sliced through the heavy silence like a ritual. A warning. My breath caught, my skin buzzing with anticipation.
Then came the soft clink of his buckle hitting the floor.
I tried to turn my head, to see him. I needed to see him.
But his hand—steady and firm—pressed between my shoulder blades, anchoring me against the cold stone.
There was no chaos in his touch. Only control.
A quiet, terrifying command of everything I was.
His voice was low, almost reverent. “You’re shaking.”
“I know.”
“And yet…” He bent close, his lips grazing my ear, his breath hot enough to steal mine. “You’re still not running.”
I swallowed. “There’s nowhere to run.”
“Good girl.”
The words slithered through me like smoke—dangerous and addictive. And when I felt his fingers at the waistband of my pants, I didn’t flinch.
He tugged them down in one rough pull, dragging the fabric over my hips, baring me to the candlelight and the judgmental silence of saints. I felt the chill hit my skin, the sharp contrast of his warmth behind me.
I was bare. Offered. And completely, devastatingly his.
He didn’t say anything right away. Just stood there, letting me feel the weight of him behind me. His silence pressed into me almost as much as his body did—heavy with intent.
Then— He gripped my hip, the bite of his fingers leaving no room for doubt. And with the other hand, he pushed his pants low enough for skin to meet skin. I felt him—hard, hot, terrifying. And mine.
The first push of him was slow. Deliberate. Not gentle—but purposeful. A claiming.
I gasped, my body stretching to take him, to keep him, my fingers curling into fists behind my back. The sash bit into my wrists, grounding me in the pain, in the pleasure, in the rawness of what this was.
He didn’t stop.
He pressed in deeper, until there was no space left between us, no air I could breathe that didn’t belong to him.
“Rafael—” It came out broken. A plea. A prayer.
He pulled back—only to slam back in with a force that stole sound from my throat.
“Say it again,” he growled, his hand wrapping around my throat from behind, pulling me up just slightly, just enough to make me arch into him. “Say my name like it’s the only one you’ve ever known.”
“Rafael.”
He thrust again, harder. “Louder.”
“Rafael.”
His name echoed off the cathedral walls like a blasphemy. His fingers tightened in my hair, yanking my head back so he could look down at me, see my mouth parted, my eyes half-lidded with something between surrender and need. I could feel him watching me—every reaction, every shiver.
“You like being taken like this?” His voice was velvet-wrapped steel.
I didn’t answer fast enough.
The sharp smack of his hand across my ass made me cry out, the sound swallowed by the stained-glass saints above.
“Answer me.”
“Yes,” I gasped. “God, yes.”
He chuckled, low and dark. “God isn’t here, Isabella.”
He drove into me again, and again, each thrust rougher than the last, dragging me closer to the edge of something I wasn’t sure I could survive. My legs shook. But I didn’t care. I didn’t want soft. I didn’t want mercy.
I wanted him . Every brutal, sacred inch.
His grip tightened, and I knew— he knew—what he was doing to me. How he was breaking me open and rewriting me in his name. And I let him.
Because I wasn’t afraid of being ruined anymore. Not by him. Only of not being ruined enough .
His rhythm was brutal. Every thrust slammed into me with unrelenting precision—like he knew the exact point between pain and pleasure and wanted to keep me teetering on it, breathless and shaking.
My fingers curled uselessly behind my back, wrists bound with the holy sash, my cheek pressed to the cold stone as the cathedral walls bore silent witness.
I wasn’t thinking anymore. I couldn’t. I was breaking. And I wanted it.
The sound of his hips against mine echoed in the vast, vaulted chamber, a wicked counterpoint to the silence that surrounded us. Each smack of skin was a slap against heaven. Every breath I took felt stolen.
The way he moaned—dark and possessive—told me he’d needed this just as much as I did. His hand wrapped tighter around my waist, pulling me back onto him, deeper, harder, until I felt like I’d shatter under the weight of what we were doing. What we were becoming.
Then—like fate had been waiting for its cue—the church bells began to ring. The first chime rolled through the cathedral like thunder, deep and slow. I felt it in my bones, in the center of my chest where my heart used to be.
Another bell. And another. Each one struck in perfect time with his thrusts—heavy, deliberate, echoing across the stone like a countdown to my undoing.
By the fourth chime, I was whimpering. By the fifth, I was begging. And then— His hand slid around my front, fingers parting me without hesitation, without mercy. He found my clit with terrifying accuracy, stroking in circles that were almost too much. Almost cruel.