Chapter 33 Mara
MARA
The door clicks shut behind me like a final breath, and the silence it leaves in its wake is deafening.
He doesn’t move. Not at first.
Nicolo stands at the dresser, one hand braced against it like it’s the only thing keeping him upright. Shoulders tense. Head bowed. Like he’s trying to hold himself back with sheer will.
But I see the tremble in his fingers. The way his chest heaves—once, twice—before he finally turns around. When his eyes land on me, the world goes dark. They’re not forest green anymore. They’re obsidian. Void. Starless.
“You don’t know what you’ve done,” he says, low and quiet.
But it’s not a warning. It’s more of a plea.
I walk toward him anyway. The rain pelts against the windows, the storm raging with a vengeance, but in here, all I feel is him. His heat. His hunger. His breaking point.
“I do,” I whisper. “I’m not a child.”
“No,” he snaps, closing the space between us in two long strides.
His hand shoots out—not to push me away, but to pull me in. His fingers wrap around my wrist, firm but not cruel, and yank me deeper into the room.
“But you don’t understand what happens once I start.”
He’s breathing hard. His thumb strokes my pulse like he’s counting seconds, watching me for any flinch of doubt.
He won’t find any.
“I want you,” I whisper. “All of it. All of you.”
That’s when he lets go…only to shove me backward. I stumble until the backs of my knees hit the bed. I fall onto it, the mattress dipping beneath me, and he follows. Slow, towering, furious in his restraint. His hand grips my chin, angling my face up to him.
“I need to hear you say it again,” he growls. “Do you know what you’re asking for?”
“Yes.”
“Say it.”
“I want you,” I whisper, heat rushing to my throat. “I want you to ruin me.”
He snarls, something primal breaking loose behind his teeth, and then he’s on me.
His mouth crashes onto mine, all teeth and hunger and heat.
His hands are already under the nightgown, rough palms skating over my thighs.
I moan into his kiss when he tears the fabric up and over my hips, exposing me fully beneath him.
“No underwear?” he murmurs darkly against my throat. “You planned this.”
“You want this just as much as I do,” I breathe, fingers fisting his shirt. “I just came knocking at the right time.”
His laugh is low and dangerous. “Little brat.”
Then he drops to his knees in front of the bed and drags me to the edge, my legs falling open for him.
“I told you I’d ruin you,” he mutters, kissing the inside of my knee. “And you said yes.”
His breath ghosts over my cunt—hot, deliberate—and I jerk in response. Then his mouth is on me. No teasing. No hesitation. Just his tongue and the filthy, wet, hungry sounds that echo obscenely in the room. He devours me like a man starving, like he’s trying to erase every trace of anyone else.
My back arches. “Nicolo…”
“Louder,” he growls against me. “I want to hear you scream my name.”
He sucks my clit into his mouth, and I do.
I cry out, hips bucking, legs trembling against his shoulders.
He holds me down with one arm across my stomach while the other hand grips my thigh, keeping me spread open for him.
His tongue circles and flicks and drives, and I’m already so close, I feel tears sting my eyes.
“Nicolo…please…I’m…”
“Come for me,” he murmurs, voice low and lethal against my pussy. “Let me taste it.”
I break. The orgasm rips through me like a lightning strike: sudden and savage. My thighs clamp around his head and I let out a scream, one hand clutching the sheets, the other buried in his hair.
But he doesn’t stop. Even as I cry out, even as I writhe, he doesn’t stop.
His tongue presses in again Slower now, more deliberate.
He licks me through the aftershocks, coaxing me higher and higher again.
My whole body shakes, and then his fingers slide inside me—two at once, thick and ruthless and deep.
“Oh, my—” I can’t even finish the sentence.
His mouth latches back onto my clit, tongue stroking in time with his fingers. Curling. Stretching. Fucking me open. My body spasms as the second orgasm slams into me, rougher than the first, tearing a sob from my throat.
“Please—”
But I don’t even know what I’m begging for anymore. Mercy? More?
He gives me both. He kisses me as I come down, lips soaked and dark with need. Then he sits back, chest heaving, eyes burning through me.
“Strip,” he orders. “Now.”
I don’t hesitate. What’s left of the nightgown hits the floor and I’m bare before him. His gaze drags over me like he’s memorizing every inch, like he owns it now.
“Come here.”
I crawl to the edge of the bed, trembling.
He stands and gestures to his waist. “Unbuckle my belt.”
My fingers fumble as I reach for it, the metal buckle clinking under my touch. My hands shake—not from fear, but from the unbearable weight of his attention.
He doesn’t help. He just watches me with that sharp, unblinking stare.
When I finally slide his belt free, he pulls his pants down just enough to free himself. And God. He’s, big, hard, thick. Veins pulsing along his thick shaft, precum glistening at the tip.
My mouth falls open. I didn’t get the chance to see it when he fucked me in his office, and he doesn’t let me stare at it for long before he guides me back.
He catches my chin. “Lie back.”
I obey. He climbs over me, and in one long, brutal thrust, he’s inside me. I scream.
He groans like it physically hurts. “So. Fucking. Tight… Fuck.”
His thrusts are deep, fast, punishing. The bed slams against the wall. I claw at his back.
He doesn’t slow down. Doesn’t let me catch my breath. He grabs my thighs and pushes them up, bending me in half so he can fuck me deeper. His cock slams into me—relentless, vicious—his balls slapping against me with every punishing thrust.
“This is what you wanted?” he pants, voice rough. “To be used? Fucked like a dirty little slut?”
“Yes,” I sob. “Yes, Nicolo… Please, more…”
He snarls and pulls out just long enough to flip me over. “Hands and knees.”
I scramble into position. He grabs my hips and slams back into me, harder this time. His hand wraps around my throat, hauling me up so my back arches against his chest.
“You’re mine,” he growls into my ear. “Say it.”
“I’m yours,” I cry.
“Again.”
“I’m yours, Nicolo. Yours!”
He fucks me harder, one hand gripping my hip so tightly I know it’ll bruise. The other is tight on my throat, controlling my breath, my body, my everything. His pace goes feral, brutal, and animalistic.
I’m crying again. From overstimulation. From being so fucking full. Then his hand leaves my throat and slides between my thighs—finding my clit and rubbing tight circles until I’m screaming again, a fourth orgasm detonating inside me.
He lets out a moan. Slams into me once, twice…then spills inside me, hips jerking, breath breaking, the sound of my name ripped from his mouth like a prayer and a curse all at once.
We collapse. Still joined. Still breathless. Still burning. He doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t speak. Just lowers us to the mattress like the storm hasn’t already destroyed everything in its path.
I’m wrecked. Bruised. Claimed. And I’ve never felt more whole.
This morning feels wrong. Too quiet. The storm’s gone, but the air still smells like rain and something heavier I can’t name.
I’m at the long dining table in a gray tank top and gray pants, hair pulled into a low knot that’s barely holding together. Duchess is asleep on one of the chairs, a small ball of fur against the velvet. My coffee has gone cold, and I’ve been stirring it for ten minutes anyway.
The sound of footsteps makes me glance up.
Nicolo appears in the doorway, crisp shirt, sleeves rolled up to his forearms, tie loose around his neck.
He looks like nothing happened. Like he didn’t touch me.
Like he didn’t break me open and put me back together all in the same night.
As if he didn’t watch me leave his room right before the crack of dawn.
He doesn’t speak right away. He just crosses the room, every movement deliberate. I swear the room gets smaller when he’s in it.
“Morning,” I say, trying to be casual. My voice ends somewhere between hoarse and guilty.
He nods once and takes his seat at the head of the table, pouring himself coffee—black, no sugar. The clink of the spoon is too loud. The seconds stretch thin.
“You didn’t sleep,” he finally says, eyes still on his cup.
“Neither did you,” I answer before I can stop myself.
His gaze lifts to mine. Slow. Unreadable.
“No,” he says after a beat. “I didn’t.”
Something unspoken presses between us. It’s not shame exactly, but the awareness of what’s changed. Of what can’t be undone.
Duchess jumps off the chair and disappears under the table. Lucky she can hide.
I take a sip of my coffee just to have something to do. It’s cold, bitter, useless. I don’t even like coffee.
He sets his cup down. “Wear the pink dress tonight.”
I blink. “What?”
“Seven p.m.,” he says like it’s an order, not a question. “Be ready.”
“For what?”
“Dinner.”
“With you?”
Don’t get your hopes up, Mara.
He gives me a look that says don’t start.
“No, with the king.” He shakes his head before muttering, “Just wait. You’ll see.”
I want to ask why. Why he’s pretending last night didn’t happen. Why he’s suddenly dragging me to dinner. But his tone leaves no room for questions, so I just nod, the smallest movement.
“Fine.”
He stands. The chair scrapes softly against the floor.
“Seven,” he repeats.
And then he’s gone, leaving only the scent of his cologne and the faint echo of my hope for something more.