19 | Paradiso 🔥🔥🔥
SANTO
It’s easy to get a man to kneel.
Point a gun, make a threat, give the right look—a grown man will fold.
But this—her—she wields a different kind of power. A kind that could level an empire.
One soft gasp from her and I’m on my knees without ever bending. And she doesn’t even know it.
Jacopo’s gurgles still echo in my skull, but it’s nothing compared to the way she’s looking at me right now—like I’m something worth touching. Worth wanting.
And for the first time in my life, I’m afraid of taking too much. Of breaking something I’d actually want to keep.
Something shifts in Ella’s eyes, and she pushes against my shoulders as if she’s trying to roll me over. I don’t get on my back for anyone, but I suppose I could humor my wife.
She climbs onto me like she’s claiming a throne.
Those tiny scraps of lace I bought for her—my little indulgence, my little fantasy—suddenly feel like a weapon she’s turning on me. She shifts her weight, straddling my hips, and the first slow grind drags a broken curse out of me. My head falls back against the mattress.
She knows she’s playing with fire— but she doesn’t realize she’s sitting on the man with gasoline for blood.
Her hands glide down my chest, lingering over every muscle like she’s mapping me for weakness. I grab her hips to set a rhythm—my rhythm—but she pushes my hands away, slow and sweet.
“No,” she whispers, kissing the word into my jaw like it’s a commandment.
Cristo. That “no” hits harder than any yes.
She rocks down again, this time with intention, dragging the ridge of my cock—still trapped inside my slacks—right against her clit. The lace catches, rubs, pulls where she’s already swollen for me. Her breath stutters. Mine dies entirely.
She grinds, long and slow, savoring every inch of friction like she can wring worship out of me one stroke at a time.
And she can—she does.
My fingers curl into the sheets. I should flip her. Pin her. Remind her what kind of man her husband is.
But then she leans forward, her breasts barely contained by the lace, brushing my chest as she murmurs, “Look at you.”
Her hips circle down—slow, measured torture.Cruel in the sweetest way.
“Ella.” My voice cracks into gravel. “Take your damn thong off and sit on me properly.”
She smiles, wicked and innocent all at once. “No.”
No.
This girl—this holy, infuriating girl—has no idea what she does to me.
She adjusts her angle and grinds again, harder this time. I bite out a groan loud enough to echo. My cock jerks against the fabric, the pressure almost unbearable now. She feels it, and her hips stutter with a whimper she tries to swallow.
She’s trying to stay in control, trying to teach me a lesson, but her body is betraying her.
Still lying with her mouth, but her truth reads clear.
I feel the moment she starts to drown in it—the way her breath shivers, the way her movements turn hungry instead of teasing. Her hands slide up my shoulders for leverage, nails digging in as she drags herself along me again and again, chasing the friction like she needs it to stay alive.
The lace of her thong is soaked. My slacks are ruined.
I don’t give a damn.
I lift my hips, meeting her grind. She gasps, eyes fluttering open. That’s when I see it—desire overtaking defiance. The moment she realizes this isn’t just her controlling me.
It’s us devouring each other.
“Santo…” she breathes, the first crack in her armor.
I sit up, bracing my forearms behind me, letting her ride me while I watch her unravel inch by inch.
Two more rolls of her hips and I sit up fully, my lips finding her throat, her collarbone, and the edge of her balconette.
I don’t touch what she won’t let me—not yet.
But I make sure she feels exactly what’s waiting for her if she surrenders.
She pulls back suddenly—breath uneven, eyes sharp with something reckless. Before I can reach for her, she sits up fully on my lap and reaches behind herself.
There’s a soft click, and then her bra loosens.
She slides the straps down her arms with a calmness she absolutely doesn’t feel. It’s a performance—her taking back control, making me sit still and watch while she decides what I get.
And I do—I watch every goddamn second.
The lace falls into her hand. She drops it somewhere beside us without looking away from me, her bare breasts rising with each shaken breath.
She’s perfect—better than I could’ve conjured in my wildest dreams. Full breasts, soft golden skin, nipples pink and tight from the cool air and the tension between us.
My hands flex on the sheets behind me, knuckles whitening with restraint. She knows exactly what she’s doing—showing me what I’m not allowed to touch.
Not yet.
Then she reaches for the thong.
She hooks her thumbs into the thin lace at her hips and lifts—rising on her knees just enough to realize it won’t come off unless she stands.
But I can help with that.
I slide my hands up her thighs until they meet hers. Then I hook my fingers beneath the lace, cocking a brow while I wait for her permission.
She swallows, then gives me one small nod.
Alleluia.
My battered hands curl into fists, and I tear the scrap of lace straight down the middle. The remnants slide off her thighs, pooling around her knees.
And then she’s there—all of her.
Smooth skin stretched taut over bone and lean muscle, slick and flushed and spread open for me.
When she settles onto me again—bare, wet, and burning for more—my jaw locks so hard it aches.
For a full breath, I just look at her, straddling my hips, thighs parted, her slick glistening against my ruined slacks. She’s flushed, breathing hard, pupils blown wide. And she’s looking at me like she’s waiting for my judgment… or my mercy.
She should know by now—I don’t deal in mercy.
I grip her waist with both hands and lift her, dragging her up my body until her slick heat settles against the hard ridges of my abs.
I reach around her, undoing my belt with one hand, the buckle snapping open. She watches over her shoulder like it’s some kind of religious act—the moment I free myself, thick and heavy and aching for her. Her breath catches.
“Changed your mind, bella?” I grit the words out through clenched teeth as I shove my slacks down just enough to give myself some room to move.
She turns back to face me and shakes her head, eyes wide.
“You wanted control,” I murmur, pushing her back and sliding the tip of my cock along her slit—somewhere between reverence and punishment. “Now you want me.”
Her hips twitch helplessly. “Yes.”
Così brava.
I sit up fully, chest pressed to hers, and guide her down until the blunt head of my cock nudges her entrance.
She shivers, and I feel it in the gaping absence where my soul is supposed to be.
“Look at me,” I say, my voice low enough to vibrate through both our chests. “You want me?”
She nods—and that’s the moment I lose the last piece of control I thought I had.
I slowly thrust up.
Not all the way—just enough to push inside her tight, perfect pussy, to make her gasp and clutch and fall forward with a broken sound that slices right through me.
She is heaven.
She is the only absolution I will ever touch.
She is the quiet after violence, the light after ruin.
I hold her there, halfway down on me, savoring the way her body strains to take more.
“Breathe, angel.” My thumb strokes her hip; my mouth brushes her neck. “Let me in.”
She exhales shakily, and I guide her further down—slow and steady, filling her inch by inch. Her whimper turns into a moan that punches through every wall I’ve ever built.
When she finally sinks fully onto me, her body clenches hard, and my vision fucking blurs.
“Cristo.” My jaw locks. “You’re so tight around me. I can feel every one of your heartbeats.”
She breathes shakily, then rocks once—just once—and my restraint buckles.
I grab the back of her neck, pulling her forehead to mine. “Do that again.”
She does, and I swear something unholy cracks open inside me.
Her lips fall open in a sound that’s not even a word, just raw need. I lift her with both hands and bring her back down, harder this time. She cries out—beautiful and breathless—and her body grips me like she was made to hold me there.
My thrusts find a rhythm, slow but deep, dragging a gasp from her every time I bottom out. She clings to me, nails clawing at my shoulder blades, her mouth brushing my jaw, my throat, everywhere she can reach.
I whisper it against her ear, truth spilling out: “Tu sei il mio paradiso.” You’re my heaven.
She shudders so violently I feel it in my spine.
“And I’m going to worship you,” I growl, fucking her harder now, “until I’m yours, too.”
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Do we want to keep the spice going a little longer? ????