CHAPTER 11 #2
His fingers dug deeper into my skin, spreading me further apart as though he needed to anchor me to the moment.
To him. He licked once slow, and I nearly saw stars.
His tongue devoured me—messy, hungry like he’d been starving for days, and I was the only thing that could keep him alive.
He flicked his tongue across my clit—first bottom to top, then side to side, then circling—switching rhythms.
An electric current surged through my body, down to my legs.
I instinctively closed my thighs, but he held me tighter, increasing the pace.
I propped myself up on my elbows and found him looking at me—reading me, savouring every writhing moan.
His eyes creased at the corners as he gave me a devilish grin—dark, filthy, knowing exactly how he was undoing me.
He knew my pleasure was his to command. I shouldn’t have watched him. It made everything worse. Filthier. Hornier. More intimate.
His mouth between my legs, his eyes on mine—it felt like worship and ruin at once. It wasn’t just a claim; it felt like a silent vow. He kept eye contact as he circled my entrance, then pushed his tongue inside, lapping up my desire.
I moaned, hips rising to meet him, fingers tangled in the sheets and his hair. This feeling—this aching, pulsing need—I had missed it.
His tongue was warm against my wetness—relentless and tender all at once. A small, desperate grunt escaped my lips as he pulled back to admire me. His breath was ragged, and eyes dark with hunger. He blew a cool breath across my skin, whispering,
“Si ‘mbriacanti.” (You’re intoxicating.)
The words rolled over my skin like a hot breath—I felt them between my legs, not in my ears.
I’d never felt that way before. I’d felt useful. Decorative. Convenient. But never like this, like I was the drug he couldn’t quit.
“Marcello,” I cried out, voice breaking as my body trembled and gave way.
I clawed at the sheets, at him, at anything I could reach. My body bucked helplessly, and I couldn’t stop. Didn’t want to. I shattered on his mouth, again, and again, and again. My thighs shook uncontrollably around his face, like my body forgot how to obey me and remembered only him.
With a last desperate surge, I dragged him up—crashing my lips onto his, kissing him with every scrap of fire left in me. I tasted myself on his tongue, sweet and salt and sin, and the taste sent a violent shiver ripping through me.
“I’m not done yet,” his fingers already sliding inside me. Circling the entrance and then pushing in and out of me slowly, claiming.
I jerked beneath him, collapsing into the aftermath of pleasure—shaking and utterly undone.
But he didn’t stop. He worked me with a dark, unrelenting need, coaxing more from my already trembling body like he had something to prove.
Like he needed to erase every trace of distance I’d ever put between us.
Before I could breathe a response, he pulled his fingers out and dragged the slickness across my inner thigh.
He hovered at my entrance for a fraction of a heartbeat—long enough to make my breath catch—then he slammed into me so suddenly my cry tore the air.
My legs flew open instinctively, my body choosing him before my mind could make sense of it.
His hand came up instantly, wrapping around my throat—holding me in place, so I could only look at him. My vision flickered at the edges from the shock of wanting him even rougher.
He leaned over me, breath harsh against my cheek, jaw clenched so tight I thought it might crack.
His thrusts were pure frustrated and terrified anger pouring out of him with every snap of his hips.
The headboard slammed into the wall with every thrust, keeping time with the frantic beat of my pulse.
“You think you can walk away from this?” he growled, voice low, ragged, pounding into me with each word.
His thumb pressed lightly at the side of my throat, tilting my chin so I couldn’t look anywhere but at him.
“From me?”
A shiver lunged through me so violently it almost hurt. His voice wasn’t just anger; it was fear wrapped in steel. Fear pretending it wasn’t there. The way he said it made something inside me break open.
“Not tonight.”
He pulled almost all the way out, then slammed back in, harder. Rougher. Like he needed to fuck the defiance out of me. I let out a broken moan, nails digging desperately into his shoulders. He gave a strangled laugh.
“Look at you,” he hissed. “Running from me, then falling apart the second I touch you.”
He thrust again, deeper, stealing the breath from my lungs. I tried to speak—anything—but his pace, his anger, his body against mine made thought impossible.
“Deeper,” I gasped. “Please.”
His eyes flashed with a warning.
“Shh… you don’t get to tell me how to fuck you.”
His grip tightened on my throat just enough to make my pulse jump beneath his fingers.
“You walked away.”
He lifted one of my legs and put it on his shoulder, holding it tight in place.
He slammed into me, merciless. The sound of our bodies echoed through the room, sharp and obscene.
My thighs shook, slick and trembling, and still he didn’t slow.
He fucked me like he was punishing himself for caring too much.
My walls clenched around him, milking him, desperate and greedy. I was soaked—dripping down my thighs, the sheets wet beneath us. He groaned, feral, like he wanted to drown in it.
He caught my jaw in his hand, forcing my eyes to open and look at him. That restraint he always had—his control—gave way, finally, beautifully.
He slammed into me, so hard my breath snapped—his hand sliding from my jaw to the back of my neck, holding me right where he wanted me. His mouth brushed my ear, voice low, a furious whisper against my skin:
“Next time… Roxanne Talati… don’t even think about walking away.”
A whimper tore out of me before I could swallow it. Another thrust—deeper, punishing, like he needed to drive the warning into my bones. His pelvis pinned mine, grinding deep—like he wanted to brand the lesson inside me.
His mouth crashed onto my neck, teeth scraping my skin before he bit hard enough to make my back arch off the mattress, sharp enough to claim. I gasped, half-pain, half-pleasure, all his.
I shattered around him, body convulsing, vision white. My nails tore down his back, and he hissed in response that felt like a claim of my own. My scream tore out of me as his hand tightened just enough on my throat to keep me in the moment—held, owned, undone.
He groaned—a deep, guttural sound—thrusting into me one last time before he shattered too. Inside me. Against me. With me.
We held each other—half-naked, half-dressed.
We didn’t speak. Couldn’t. Our bodies were wreckage—sweat-slick, trembling, tangled limbs and shaking breaths. His forehead pressed to mine, our chests rising and falling in the same broken rhythm.
I didn’t know where I ended and he began. He was still inside me, softening slowly, but neither of us moved. Like pulling apart would break whatever fragile truth had just been born between us.
I didn’t know what came next. But for the first time in years, I didn’t feel alone. I felt claimed. And that terrified me.
Because being claimed meant being kept. And I didn’t know if I could survive that. Because wanting to be kept was far more dangerous than being claimed.