He eases out of me with deliberateness, the drag of his cock against my swollen folds pulling a sharp hiss from my lungs.
Soreness flares deep and immediate, a raw ache that radiates through every muscle he claimed only minutes ago.
“You’re tender?”
“What do you think?”
He stands, looking down at me, his cock still half-hard.
Then without a word, he slides one arm beneath my shoulders, the other under my knees, and lifts me from the ruined sheets.
My body protests the move.I want to stay where I am, dive between the sheets, cover my head, and pretend this is all a nightmare.
But it’s all too real.
My thighs are sticky, and my pussy pulses with the memory of his size.
As he carries me toward the ensuite bathroom, I feel the power coiled in him.He’s not my lover; he’s a mafia underboss.
As he sets me down on the tile floor, he sweeps his gaze over me—assessing, cataloguing the flush across my breasts, the faint red marks his teeth left at the upper swell, the tremor in my limbs.
He notes every detail without softening, without apology.
With a nod, Moretti takes in my belly.
Then as he continues lower, he becomes very still.
With a frown, I glance down.
A small smear of crimson blood traces the soft skin of my inner thigh.
Possession glints in his eyes, dark and absolute.This is not regret.This is ownership.
“Let’s get you in the shower.”It’s not a suggestion.It’s a command, like the millions of others that he’s issued.
He turns on the water, and steam billows thick and slow in the room.Then he guides me into the enclosure.
As if afraid I’m unsteady on my legs, he keeps his hands on my waist.
Hot water crashes down around us, and he turns me so the spray hits my shoulders first, shielding me from the initial sting with the solid wall of his body.
Because it feels so wonderful, I momentarily close my eyes.
“You earned it.”
His hands never leave me.He slides up my arms, cupping my shoulders, thumbs pressing slow circles into the tight muscles there while the water beats a steady rhythm against my skin.
Then he reaches for the handheld showerhead, adjusts the pressure until it softens to a warm, pulsing stream, and directs it between my thighs.The water cascades over my swollen folds, rinsing away the sticky evidence of his claiming, soothing the raw ache he left behind.
I bite the inside of my cheek at the conflicting rush—relief tangled with fresh awareness of how deeply he stretched me, filled me, marked me inside and out.
“You are perfect for me, princess.”
His free hand cups my mound, not to arouse but to hold me steady, palm warm and possessive while the spray does its work.
“So damn perfect.”He brushes his thumb over the faint crimson trace still clinging to my inner thigh, wiping it clean with deliberate care.
Inspecting me?Ensuring his wife is tended to?
