My pussy throbs with an ache that makes me gasp, proof that last night wasn’t a fever dream. Alessandro’s finger traces a bruise on my hip, pressing just hard enough to make me arch against him, and I realize with shocking clarity that I want him to press harder.
"Perseus," he murmurs against my shoulder, his breath making me shiver as his fingertips follow invisible lines across my bare skin, connecting paths from my shoulder blade to the curve of my hip like he's mapping constellations only he can see. "Right here, where your freckles form the hero's constellation."
His touch is featherlight but possessive, reminding me that even in tenderness, I'm still his captive, though after last night, I'm beginning to wonder who's really trapped.
Morning light streams through floor-to-ceiling windows, painting us both golden. Including the marks he left on me: purple bruises blooming on my hips where he gripped too hard, the imprint of his teeth on my inner thigh, my nipples still swollen from his mouth. I should be mortified by the evidence of what we did, what I begged him to do. Instead, pride swells in my chest. These marks prove that last night happened, that the servant girl who scrubbed floors made Alessandro Rosetti lose complete control.
The silk sheets feel different against my oversensitive skin, every shift sending aftershocks through nerve endings I didn't know existed. Our combined scents—sex, sweat, his cologne—create an intoxicating perfume that makes my body respond despite the soreness.
"You're awake," Alessandro observes, his hand stilling on my hip, thumb pressing into the bruise again, deliberate this time, watching my reaction.
I keep my eyes closed for a moment longer, not ready for reality. But my body betrays me, arching into his touch without permission, seeking more pressure, more pain, more of whatever he wants to give me. The tiny movement makes him inhale sharply.
"Still so responsive," he growls, his cock already hard against my hip. "Even after I made you come you twice last night. How do you feel?" His voice carries genuine concern mixed with dark satisfaction.
"Different," I admit, finally opening my eyes to find him propped on one elbow, studying me with predatory intensity. His hair falls across his forehead, making him look younger, but those green eyes still burn with the same hunger that consumed me last night.
"Good different or bad different?"
I consider lying, keeping some power for myself. But what's the point? My nipples are already hard, my pussy already getting wet just from his proximity.
"Good," I whisper, then growing bolder: "Very, very good."
His smile turns dangerous. "Show me."
He takes my hand, guiding it between my legs. My fingers find wetness there, so much wetness, evidence that even sore and aching, my body craves him. The realization makes heat flood my face, but also makes me brave enough to explore deeper.
"That's it," he encourages, watching intently. "Feel how swollen you are from my cock. How wet you're getting just from my voice."
I press two fingers inside myself, shocked by my own boldness, gasping at how tender yet needy I am. My pussy clenches around my fingers, and I can feel where he stretched me, changed me, claimed me.
"Fuck, Stella," he breathes as I work my fingers deeper. "You're dripping. Listen to how wet your pussy is."
The obscene sounds should embarrass me. Instead, they make me bolder. I circle my clit the way he did, maintaining eye contact even as pleasure sparks through oversensitive flesh.
"Is this what you want?" I ask, adding another finger, fucking myself slowly. "To watch me touch what you claimed?"
"Christ." His cock twitches, a bead of pre-cum appearing at the tip. "You're going to kill me. After everything we've done, the charity luncheon, the rooftop, last night, and you're still surprising me."
His praise makes me wetter. I spread my legs wider, giving him a better view, watching his jaw clench as he fights for control. He moves toward me, but I stop him with a word.
“No. Just watch.”
He shivers, gaze glued to the place where my legs meet. This powerful man who commands armies is shaking because I won't let him touch me yet.
"Stellina," he groans when I pinch my nipple with my free hand. "My perfect little star. Look what my corruption has done to you."
Italian endearments pour from his lips—cara mia, bellissima, la mia vita—each foreign phrase making my pussy clench. But watching him struggle, seeing his cock leak pre-cum just from watching me, gives me an idea that would have terrified yesterday's version of me.
"Please," he begs, and hearing Alessandro Rosetti beg makes my pussy gush. "Let me taste you. Let me worship that perfect pussy properly."
"No." The word surprises us both. "Not yet. I want to explore you first."
His hands grip the sheets so hard the fabric starts to tear. This man who takes whatever he wants is trembling because I'm denying him.
"You're fucking killing me," he grits out. "Do you know what you look like? Spread out in my bed, three fingers deep in your pussy, covered in my marks? You look like every wet dream I've ever had."
The desperation in his voice gives me courage. I pull my fingers out, moaning at the loss, then shock myself by bringing them to my mouth, tasting myself the way he did that day at the charity luncheon. His cock jerks violently.
