"Gonna fill you up soon. Pump you full of my cum, deep inside where it belongs."
He reaches between us, fingers finding my clit, rubbing furious circles that send me spiraling, and I whimper desperately, walls fluttering, and know I'm about to snap.
"Come now," he orders, voice ragged. "Milk my cock."
Orgasm crashes through me, harder than the first, my moans turning to sobs as I clench around him, juices soaking us both.
He growls again, so loud it rumbles through me, and his thrusts turn erratic, spilling hot and thick pulses of his seed inside.
I feel every pulse of it, remember how he made me feel so fucking good years ago, and I let him suck my neck and fondle my breasts before he pulls out.
Holy fuck, I've just slept with the devil again, and God only knows if I'll end up having his baby all over again.
This isn't good.
10
DANTE
Iwake to sunlight filtering through the blinds.
The room carries a chill, but that's not why I'm cold this morning. Angelica's scent clings to the sheets—warm vanilla laced with the raw musk of sweat from our bodies locked together through the night.
We took each other three times after dinner until exhaustion pulled us under.
Now the space beside me lies empty, the pillow dented where her head rested, and I run my palm over the cool fabric, cock twitching at the memory of her thighs wrapped around me, her nails digging into my back.
But the villa stirs with morning life, pulling me from the bed, and work awaits me.
I rise naked, muscles aching from the night's exertions, and cross to the wardrobe.
Black trousers slide on smoothly, followed by a crisp white shirt that I leave unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled to expose the black ink curling over my forearms.
Barefoot but with socks in hand, I step into the hallway.
It's even colder here as I dance between steps, ramming my feet into my socks.
Distant sounds guide me—the low gurgle of the espresso machine in the kitchen, the clink of utensils on stainless steel.
Then Sofia's laughter rings out, cutting through the villa's muted tones and bringing a smile to my face.
It draws me forward as I descend the stairs and find my way to the kitchen door.
I lean against the frame, arms crossed over my chest, watching the sight.
Flour dusts the countertops in a fine white veil, bowls of dough scattered across the island.
Angelica stands at the center, her slender frame clad only in my bathrobe.
The hem grazes her olive thighs, collar undone enough to reveal the curve of her breasts and the fresh bruises I sucked into her neck hours ago.
Her long, dark brown hair falls in a loose knot with strands escaping to frame her soft features, high cheekbones flushed from the oven's heat.
I love the sight of her full lips curved in a patient smile and her green eyes reflecting warmth as she kneads dough beside Sofia.
The little girl perches on a stool, her thin legs swinging, and her hands are coated in sticky dough as she presses a star-shaped cutter down with all her strength.
Marta moves behind them, wearing her simple apron.
