"Baby," his voice is rough.
I lick my fingers and move my hand between my legs,reaching the hot little nub down there that pulses with need. His eyes burn on me as he watches, but stroking myself is not the same as him doing it. I look up, "I want you. I need your cock, Raffael!"
"Oh fuck," he keeps stroking, and his neck muscles stand out in his effort to restrain himself. "Fuck, I can't stop watching," he pants.
A devious smile spreads across my lips. I can't help it. Seeing him come undone, feeling so… achingly horny, it does things to me that border on a climax in their own right.
I keep the show going, fingers circling my clit, loving the way Raffael’s entire body locks up as he watches. I’m wet, so wet I hear the sound of it as I keep playing, all the while never breaking eye contact with him. Even the fire seems to pause. The stars prick extra-bright, and the woodland night holds its breath.
I want him to break. I want to see him crack open and take me, no holding back, no pretense of restraint or control. I want his beast, all of it. So I push two fingers inside, moaning as I arch up into my hand. "Do you want to fuck me, Raffael?" I ask, voice honey-thick and mean because I know the answer and want it anyway.
His chest is moving so fast it’s like he’s forgotten how to breathe. "Jesus Christ, Sophia."
"Tell me," I say, crooking my fingers just right, "how badly do you want me? Tell me what you’re going to do."
He’s on me before I can blink, his hand clamps around my wrist to pin it above my head, and the other grips my thigh to spread me open even wider. His cock presses against my slick entrance, needy and hot, but he waits, just for a second. His lips are on my ear, his voice tornfrom somewhere low and volcanic. "I’m going to fuck you until you can’t walk tomorrow. I’m going to ruin you for any other man, but mostly for myself."
I shiver, arching harder, desperate for him inside me. "Then stop talking," I whisper, "and do it. Fuck me."
He slams inside in one smooth thrust, and the shock of it makes me cry out, my nails dig into one of the random pillows beneath my head. It’s everything: too much, not enough, everything. He’s so deep, I swear he’s in my soul. There’s no relief, only escalation; his movements are brutal and perfect as he pistons in and out, each thrust leaving me emptier, hungrier, until I think I might scream.
He’s snarling filthy things at me, most of them in Italian, and I don’t need a translation to know what they mean. "Senti come mi stringi? Sei fatta per il mio cazzo—hear how you grip me? You’re made for my cock," and he’s right. I’m tighter than I’ve ever been, soaking him, milking him like my body knows what it wants. He reaches between us to thumb circles on my clit while he fucks me, and the sensation detonates like lightning—sharp, electric, everywhere at once. I arch, I writhe, I sob his name.
He watches me fall apart—doesn’t look away, doesn’t blink—as the orgasm rips through me and I lose my goddamn mind. I’m barely coherent, whimpering as my cunt clamps down on him, squeezing so hard he swears and goes still for a second, cock twitching, like he’s barely holding it together.
There’s blood on his lip from where he bit it, and sweat drips down his forehead, onto mine, as he bends so we’re kissing again, no, not kissing: Devouring. He pounds into me again, rougher, harder, his hands lock on my hips as if he’s afraid I might fly away. "Mio fottuto angelo perfetto," he pants—my perfect fucking angel—and I almost come again from the sound of it.
I dig my nails into his ass, pull him deeper, make him hiss with pain and pleasure. "More," I croak, "don’t you dare fucking stop."
He laughs, the sound wild and mean, and his hand slides around my throat, not tight, just claiming. "You want to be used? Taken? Absolutely destroyed?"
His words run through me. Not long ago, from another man, they would have been a threat, and panic would have woken in me. But not with Raffael.
He doesn’t say it to dominate me; he says it like a vow. Like he’s naming the places I want to go and promising to carry the weight if I stumble. His hand on my throat isn’t a shackle—it’s a question in the shape of a touch. Two fingers’ worth of pressure, thumb resting at my pulse, eyes on mine. I could lift his wrist, and he’d let go. I could whisper Catskills, and the world would stop.
Roberto useddestroyto mean erase me, make me smaller, quieter, less. With Raffael,destroymeans something else entirely: tear down the walls I built to survive and leave the girl standing there breathing. He doesn’t take; hereceives. He doesn’t own; he holds. The difference is everything.
I feel the old fear look up—and then back down—because power sits inmymouth now. I’m the one who asked for this. I’m the one who tips my chin into his palm. I like it because it’s mine to like. Because he’d rather disappoint his body than break my trust. Because I can stop this at a breath, and he’d thank me for using my voice.
Used. Taken. Destroyed. The words are new animals in my hands. With him, they translate:Chosen. Opened. Remade.
I nod—small, deliberate—and his grip stays light, no tighter than a necklace I chose to wear. His eyes darken, yes, but they’re clear, checking, worshipful in the roughest way.
Break me open,I think,not apart.And when I finally speak, my voice doesn’t shake.
“Only because it’s you,” I breathe. “And only on my terms.” It’s the truest thing I’ve ever said. I want him to fuck me into oblivion. To do dirty, naughty, wicked things to me and my body, that will forever erase anything Roberto ever did. I want to come and writhe under Raffael and scream his name and know it's him who owns me, always.
He flips me like I weigh nothing, ass up, face pressed to the blanket, and he’s inside me again, harder, the new angle rubbing something desperate and sharp inside me. I brace myself on my forearms and push back onto him,meeting his thrusts. I want more, always more, and I know he loves me being wicked, greedy, and insatiable.
We fuck with abandon, teeth and nails, biting and scratching, until I hear his breath hitch. He’s close.
"Where do you want it?" he growls in a hoarse voice.
"Inside me," I moan, "I want you dripping out of me all night, I want you in me even when you’re not here. Mark me, Raffael. Make it so no one can ever forget who I belong to."
He groans—one of those primal, soul-deep sounds—and his thrusts lose rhythm, then he’s coming, hot and thick and endless, and I swear I can feel every pulse, every spasm, all the way through me. He stays buried, panting, caging me with his body until the world settles back into the shape of something real.
When he finally collapses, rolling me onto my back and cradling me against his chest, I can’t stop shivering. I feel raw, claimed, worshipped, and wrecked all at once. The stars overhead blink lazily, and the fire crackles, indifferent to the chaos we made.
