CHAPTER 8
ROXANNE
He barged in—towel low, eyes dark with barely contained hunger. Like a man who’d waited long enough. He crossed the room in seconds, just as I turned to face the door. He was already there, closing the distance like a predator, and my chest skipped a beat.
Before I knew it, he grabbed me and kissed me—with a hunger I felt in my bones, leaving no space for hesitation. I was taken aback, but I gave in. This is what I wanted. This is what I needed.
His hands trailed down my neck, then drifted down to my buttons. In one swift move, he opened my shirt. My chest was exposed. I felt naked—but I didn’t shy away. He pulled me closer, tracing my lower back with his fingertips. I moaned against his lips.
My hands mapped his shoulders, then dug into them. His lips followed my neck down to my chest. I swallowed hard, heart hammering, when his teeth gently tugged on a nipple.
When he peeled off my shirt and let it drop, the cool air hit my skin like a shock. He stepped back and looked at me. His body—like a Greek god, and mine plump, curvy.
He muttered, “Magnifico”.
And the word sent a shiver down my spine, and I wanted him more for seeing me this way. I was about to cover my breasts—when he said firmly:
“No. I want to see you. All of you.”
He didn’t say it like a man asking for permission; he said it like a man offering reverence. And for once, I let myself believe him. I slowly let my hands fall to my sides and slipped off my shorts. He wanted it as much as I did, and I didn’t want to hold back any longer.
I had been wanting him since our dinner in Milan, since he held me. Luckily, only the moonlight filtered into the room—soft enough to blur my scars, my flaws, everything I’d tried to hide.
He growled and dropped his towel to the floor and pushed me on the bed. I could see that he was fully erect with his tip glistening in the moonlight. I could feel my clit pulse with excitement and heat. I felt myself respond instantly, every nerve screaming for him.
He parted my thighs, and in one swift move, he was inside me. I felt him fill me, deep and insistent, every inch demanding surrender.
“Fuck,” he grunted.
I yelped as I felt the stretch. It had been months.
I could feel my muscles tighten against his pulsing hardness.
He slowly started thrusting into me—circling, reaching every wall.
Our lips met in a passionate kiss as he pushed deeper.
I arched instantly and wrapped my legs around his waist. My body moved in sync with his. Not by choice, but by instinct.
I didn’t lead. I didn’t resist. I just followed his rhythm—raw, unspoken. As if something primal had taken over us both. Every motion sent sparks down my spine, igniting something I’d buried.
It had been so long that the pressure built fast—my body didn’t wait. I pulsed, clenched, then gave way. The release surged through me, breath caught, as he kept moving, the wet rhythm between us impossible to ignore.
I wasn’t just coming. I was unravelling. Years of silence, of restraint, of pretending—spilling out of me in waves. I could feel the cool slickness of my own desire pooling beneath me on the sheets. He seemed stunned by how quickly my body responded—how completely I let go.
Without a word, he turned me over, guiding me onto all fours. I gripped the headboard, lowering myself, hips tilted upward.
“Chi bedda… accussì china, accussì tunda,”
(How beautiful… so full, so round), he murmured, his voice thick, as his hand traced the soft arc of my body, unable to resist.
I shivered at his words, heat pooling faster, every nerve alive.
He entered me again, deeper this time—his movements deliberate, unrelenting.
He bent forward, grazing my ear with his teeth as he grunted softly, his hands exploring the softness of my breast. I leaned into him, turning my head to meet the kiss he placed on my neck.
When he pinched my nipple, my body responded by shattering against his cock again, trembling as another wave of orgasm took over me.
Then he flipped me over, facing me this time, his pace intensifying. He took my nipple into his mouth, tugging gently with his teeth, circling his tongue around it—building pressure with every motion. I gasped, arching into him, craving more than just sensation—I wanted everything he offered.
As he neared his release, he pressed his forehead to mine, breath ragged, and let go—his body shuddering against mine as we both came undone.
I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been fucked like this—
unravelled, filled, coming again and again until my body stopped keeping score.
The bedsheet was soiled. Damp with sweat, with release, with everything that had just happened, and we didn’t care. We held each other like the world had no claim on us. No performance. No hesitation. Just two bodies colliding, then collapsing into something quieter.
I could feel his heartbeat against mine, steadying me. I held him—chest to chest, skin to skin—and our breathing slowly synced.
The room was thick with the sweet scent of sex, of surrender, of something that felt like truth.
He rolled over gently, pulling me into him, his arm heavy and warm around my waist. Then, he pulled up the blanket over us—rough linen, cool against our flushed skin, sealing us in.
He nestled into the crook of my neck, his breath soft and steady.
And just like that, we drifted. No words. No questions. Just sleep.
But something had shifted in me. All the restraint I’d carried all of these years had flown out the door. The woman who planned everything, who held herself together for her daughter, her business, her marriage… she had finally let go. Not recklessly. Not foolishly. But fully.
And Marcello—this man who barely spoke, who moved like stone and watched from shadow—had let me in. Not with declarations. But with the way he held me. The way he didn’t let go.
I didn’t know what this meant. I didn’t know what tomorrow would bring. But in that moment, wrapped in his arms, I felt something I hadn’t felt in years.
Safe. Seen. Wanted.