17. Sicily #2
“Aren’t I hurting you?” I gaped, the blood sticking underneath my nails probably a good indicator that I obviously was.
He frowned at me, continuing to slick my fingers with his blood. “Yes. I am bleeding, Sicily.” He tipped his head back, his free hand removing his thick leather belt. “It makes me hard.”
Any sane person would’ve screamed, ran for the hills, or both, but I wasn’t sane, not anymore.
Milan had to have control over everything, that was part of who he was, and he would never give that up. I’d always lacked control in this world, but now, willingly handing it to Milan felt like a choice, like that was my control, and I surrendered completely.
My heart was beating faster than I could control as he unzipped his pants and threw them away with his boxer shorts in one swift movement.
His long, impossibly hard cock sprang free, and before I could ask him how the hell he intended on fitting that anywhere, he flipped me onto my stomach and unfastened each tiny clasp of my dress, ripping the final ones clean from the fabric.
He left me bare in all but my heels.
“I have seen your paintings,” he said with a slight smirk as his eyes roamed me, bringing me back to the sight of him, like I was the painting. “Yet you are staring at my cock like you have never seen a man before.”
My cheeks flushed until they burned. I tried to look away, but his fingers nudged underneath my jaw. Now was probably the time to tell him I hadn’t seen a man before, at least not one that wanted to put himself anywhere near me, but instead I blurted, “I’ve seen Matteo’s before.”
God, he was like fire and ice in one body, and I apparently wanted to be burned.
Blazing rage ripped through his expression, and he shuddered, his muscles rippling as he tensed and untensed in a rhythm that told me he was trying to calm down but was failing. “What did you just say?”
“I said—”
His fingers wrapped around my throat as he pounced on me, shoving me further into the chaise. My eyes could’ve popped from their sockets, and I wouldn’t have been surprised, but what I didn’t expect was my core to ache in response.
I needed him, needed him to take away all the decisions and choices, just for once.
Milan’s teeth grazed my shoulder before he sank his bite into my skin and thrust his fingers deep inside me in one sharp movement.
The pain was visceral, sharp and dull all at once.
I tried to yelp breathlessly, bucking my hips into him as he caged me against the sofa and refused to let my lungs gasp for air.
“You are so wet and tight,” he growled into my ear, plunging his digits in and out of me until I could hear the evidence of my arousal slicking his hands. “Is this for Matteo, hm?”
His hold on my throat released, only enough for me to gasp in an ocean of air and shake my head, and then the pressure was building again, close to bursting in my temples and between my thighs.
I couldn’t gasp his name, couldn’t beg, couldn’t breathe, but I could reach between us.
I took his cock into my grip, tugging hard even though I had never touched a man and didn’t know what I was doing.
It was easy enough to work out that he wanted it rough, at least right now, and his groan of approval told me that I was doing something right.
He throbbed in my hand, the thick tip leaking pearls of precum, the veins pulsing thicker the harder I rubbed him.
A snarl left my own lips as he worked me harder against the speed of what I was doing to him like it was a competition.
I wanted to win. Needed it even.
Black stars burned in my vision as the lack of air began to suffocate me, but I had to win, had to show him that this dark side didn’t scare me because I had one of my own, that I was not weak and could handle him.
I nudged my nails into the open wound on his rib cage, curling my fingers into the gaping slice.
My skin sung as his hot blood dribbled in crimson droplets onto my stomach and he released my throat to groan in pain, moving his palm to smudge the blood into my breasts instead, still pounding his fingers in and out of me as he watched me cough and splutter as if my lungs had forgotten how to breathe.
“Exquisite,” he mumbled under his breath.
“You are,” I croaked, tracing his blood over the river of silver scars that spread over his shoulders and chest.
He frowned, the man peeking through the mask of the monster.
He didn’t know how to understand a compliment like that, how to take it and accept it, but as my thighs shuddered and I came with a cry that made the walls shake, he knew how to take that as a satisfactory outcome that he had manipulated and controlled.
I sagged in slight relief, but mostly at the loss of him when he yanked his fingers out of me.
“I am not done with you yet,” he purred, fisting his rock-hard cock as he eyed my weeping pussy like it was a prize to be won. “You made me hard.” I sucked in a breath when he lined his tip with my entrance. “You will fix it like a good wife.”
He slammed into me in one hard thrust.
Hot, piercing pain flooded my core, my thighs, everywhere. He broke me open, my back arching at my cry to try and contain the throbbing stretch and the heatwaves of pure pain.
Milan stilled, his eyes bearing into my own like the truth was swimming in them. His brows furrowed as he shifted slightly, still deep inside of me but pulling back for a moment.
Even my breathing quieted as we stared at each other.
He knew.
He brought his fingers to the flickering light of the candle and exhaled slowly, as if he could see the difference between his blood and mine.
“Informing me of your virginity should have been the first thing out of your mouth, Sicily.”
“You shouldn’t have assumed.” I scoffed. “Who would I have had sex with?”
“Matteo Bonafede.”
I deserved that one.
A hum left my lips when he rolled his hips slowly, but what dulled the pain was how he sucked on the fingers coated with my blood and arousal, moaning like it was his favorite taste to consume.
“I told you; he’s just a friend.” I sighed, watching his cock drag slowly in and out of me despite his tense grip on my hip telling me he was holding back.
His cock curved when he thrust a little deeper, and I gasped, pleasure pairing with the stinging burn.
Milan dropped onto his forearms and pressed kiss after kiss to my cheek, my ears, my temples, driving a little deeper each time I relaxed into the warm hold he enveloped me in.
“I am capable of many terrible things when I feel, Sicily,” he whispered, nipping at my earlobe.
“But I am not capable of giving you pain without pleasure, no matter how much pain would amend the emotions you have instilled within me.” He pulled his lips flush with mine, giving me some of his weight to ground me to him, to the couch, to us.
“You are always safe with me even when I feel as violent as I did today. You say stop and I will, no matter how lost I am.”
“I know.” I wrapped my arms around his neck and tugged him closer.
He buried his head in my neck, nuzzling into the warm space there, as he began to pick up a steady rhythm, one that rolled the tip of him into the most sensitive spot inside of me.
It was like sugar and spice, like fire and ice, like the sting of pain and the warm slick of pleasure together in one pulse between my legs.
“Good girl,” he praised, and his words sent an unexpected jolt of heat to my core. “My girl. My wife. Mine.”
I moaned loudly in his ear as he picked up the pace.
The sound of his body colliding with mine was enough to dangle me from the edge almost instantly, but when he bowed his head to kiss me, I breathed in his scent. He smelled of a deep, dark, addictively harsh cologne, but he also smelled of me, and that almost forced me to come on its own.
“You smell like my shampoo,” I teased, barely making out the words as he continued his assault. “It’s expensive.”
“Money is not the problem,” he grunted. “You are.”
My breath caught. “W-what?”