His hand finds the back of my head, not shoving, just cradling. I could stop if I wanted, but I don’t. God, I don’t.
Raffael wakes with a ragged inhale. His eyes open slowly, a flash of blue darkened by sleep. He watches me for a long second, as if he can’t quite believe what’s happening.
"Sophia," he rasps, his voice is thick with sleep and want, "what are you… fuck, bella mia."
I smile with my mouth full, hollowing my cheeks and pulling up slowly, tongue working on the way. He groans again, his hand tightening in my hair. The sound makes my insides clench, makes me want more, so I dip again, this time taking him even deeper, until it stings at the back of my throat. My eyes sting, too, but I don’t stop. Not now. Not ever if he keeps looking at me like that.
He tries to pull away, gently, like he’s afraid to hurt me. "Sophia, you don’t?—"
But I do. I want to. I want to give this, take this, be the one who makes him lose control. I hardly recognize my voice when I interrupt him, “If you want me to stop, say it. Otherwise, you’re mine to play with.” The disbelief in his eyes makes me smirk, and I continue mywork. With every bob, every swirl of my tongue, he comes undone. The string of rough Italian that tumbles from his lips only makes me hotter and wetter, hungrier to see him break apart. His hips barely thrust, holding back, but the need in him builds, coils tight. I can feel it, taste it in how he leaks against my tongue. The thought that he's holding himself back for me makes it all the hotter. He shows how much he loves me in every way, even at the cost of his own pleasure.
He gasps, and then he’sclose, so close, his voice unsteady. "If you keep going—Christ?—"
That’s exactly what I want.
And when he finally can’t hold back, when he shudders and curses and empties himself into my mouth, I swallow every drop, licking him clean, and only then let him slip free.
He stares at me in disbelief, then pride, then something older and more wounded. "You said you didn’t?—"
I wipe my lips, crawl back up his body, and nestle into the crook of his arm. "I wanted to. With you, I wanted to."
There’s something in his laugh, something almost like hope. He kisses my hair and then my forehead, his hands gentle on my back. For the first time after this act, I don’t feel dirty. I don’t feel used. I feel strong, all the way through, like I’ve wiped the taste of the last three years off my tongue and replaced it with something clean, something mine. It's another step toward reclaiming my old self.
His heart’s still pounding, echoing against my cheek. I think I could lie here forever and not want for anything more. But then his fingers begin to play with my nipples. He plucks and gently twists, and the juices that were already building inside me go molten, slickness spilling as the ache builds, sharp and sweet. He pinches a little harder, rolling the pebble between his thumb and forefinger, and I gasp before I can help it. The sound is sharp and undignified, the kind that in another life, I’d havestrangled back down into nothing. He feels it, the way my entire body shudders, and he freezes for half a breath, one hand hovers over my chest like he’s scared to break me.
"Too much?" His voice is a destroyed thing, soft and jagged in the early light.
"Not enough," I hear myself say, and it’s true. God, it’s true.
He makes a sound low in his throat. A threat, a promise, a plea. He drags me until I’m face-up, flat on my back, and shifts above me, still naked, still hard, all the blood and adrenaline raw and new in his veins.
"Is this okay?" He asks because up until now, it's always been me on top; I've felt too trapped under him to enjoy myself.
This morning, I don't feel the slightest bit panicked or discomforted; it's the opposite—I feel cradled. "This is perfect."
He smiles down at me, warm and heady. "Tell me if it makes you feel uncomfortable."
"Yes, sir," I smirk.
"Smartass," he traces the edge of my jaw with his nose and nuzzles at the spot just below my ear, his breath so hot it makes my skin tingle. His palms slide up my camisole, pushing it higher. I can’t help but arch to help him, and suddenly, I’m exposed. Two tight peaks, already aching, straining for him.
He looks at me like I’m art. He bends, slow and deliberate, and puts his mouth to my nipple. At first, it’s just the heat and the wet, but then he draws it fully in, and when his tongue flicks and sucks, I’m reduced to nothing but helpless thrashing. He hums, pleased and greedy, like he could live off the noise alone.
I don’t realize I’m clutching his hair until he tilts his head back, mouth still latched, and the dark fall of it slides through my fingers. His hand splays across my ribs, his thumb strokes the soft underside of my breast, never rough, never careless, but leaving me wanting more, so much more. The other slides between my legs, and I gasp. I’m soaked already, the fabric covering me is translucent and clingy, and his smile is the kind that could burn everything to the ground if it wanted.
He tugs the panties aside, just enough. His fingers find me and slide between my lips, teasing the slick entrance once, twice, a circling patience that isn’t at all what I expect. Then he eases a finger in, not aggressive, just deep and certain. I whimper, legs quivering, as he buries his face in my tits again, groaning like he can taste the way I’m coming apart for him. He adds another finger, curling them just right, and my body opens, hungry and desperate for the pressure.
He talks to me while he works—quiet, brutal Italian, words I only half recognize. "Sei così bella," he murmurs, "sei perfetta," words like spells while his hand fucks me slow, relentless, knuckles grinding against the spot thatmakes me see stars. "Così brava, amore. Let me hear you."
I do. God, I do. I can’t hold it in, not with the way he’s devouring my chest, not with the way his fingers make ruin of my insides, good ruin, necessary ruin. I buck and writhe, clutching at his shoulders, dragging nails down his back hard enough to leave marks. He only goes harder, tongue and teeth and spit, the messy, frantic worship of a man who wants you more than air.
"Raffael—" I’m crying it out, desperate, "please—please?—"
He grins against my skin, savage and proud. "You want to come for me, princess?"
I nod, but it’s not enough, I need more, so I grab his wrist and grind myself down onto his hand, fucking myself on his fingers like I’ve never needed anything so bad. The friction is perfect, obscene, and I feel something rising in me, a scream gathering at the base of my lungs.
His mouth finds my nipple again and bites, and that’s it, I shatter, with my hips bucking and my vision whiting out at the edges. I scream, truly scream, too loud for this hour, but I don’t even care. He works me through it, not stopping, not slowing, holding me together while I come apart.
