That look should embarrass me. Maybe it does, a little. But it does something else too. Something hotter. My nipples tighten under his stare. My thighs press together on instinct.
Then his mouth is on me and I stop thinking entirely. No warning, no slow approach. His lips close around my nipple and he sucks hard enough to make me gasp, then bites down just shy of pain.
“Luca—”
He doesn’t answer.
This is not how I expected tonight to go.
His hand fists in my hair and pulls my head to the side. Teeth scrape the curve of my neck, then sink in. Not gentle. Not playful. A claim. The sharp pain sends a jolt straight between my legs that surprises me so much I make a sound I’ve never heard myself make.
“You’re mine.” His voice is dark, rough, almost unrecognizable. “Say it.”
“I’m yours.”
The words leave my mouth before my brain signs off on them, and the raw truth of it, the way I mean it completely, should scare me more than it does.
He turns off the lamp. Darkness swallows the room whole, and suddenly all I have is sensation. His hands on my hips, spinning me to face away from him. The rasp of his pants against the backs of my thighs. His breath against my ear, ragged and too fast.
He hooks his fingers into my underwear and drags them down. I step out of them because there’s nothing else to do, nowhere else to go, and I don’t want to go anywhere else anyway. His foot kicks between mine, spreading my stance, and I grab the edge of the mattress for balance as he bends me forward.
I’m shaking. Not from cold, not from fear. From the disconnect between the man who held me so carefully this afternoon and the one whose grip is bruising my hip right now. Both of them are Luca. Both of them are real. And this version, the desperate, rough, taking version, is doing something to me I didn’t know I wanted.
His fingers find me and I hear his sharp intake of breath.
“Soaked.” The word is almost reverent, almost angry. “Fucking soaked.”
I bury my face in the mattress. I should want to slow this down. I was a virgin this morning. My body is still tender, still learning the shape of this. But his fingers are circling my clit with apressure that’s just this side of too much, and the sound I’m making into the sheets isn’t a protest.
He pushes two fingers inside me and I arch backward, chasing it. There’s no buildup. No teasing. He curls them hard against that spot he found earlier, and my vision goes white even in the dark.
“Luca, oh god?—”
“That’s right.” His other hand presses flat between my shoulder blades, holding me down. “Say my name.”
I do. I say it when his fingers find a rhythm that makes my thighs shake. I say it when the orgasm hits so fast it almost hurts, crashing through me before I’m ready. I say it while I’m still pulsing around his hand and hear the metallic hiss of his zipper.
Then his cock pushes into me in one long, relentless stroke, and the sound I make isn’t his name or any word at all.
The stretch burns. I’m still sensitive from earlier, still swollen, and he’s not being careful. He’s not being anything except desperate. His hips pin me against the mattress edge and he pulls back and drives in again, hard enough that I have to brace my hands against the bed.
“Fuck—” The word tears out of me. My body can’t decide if this is too much or not enough.
Too much. Definitely too much.
Don’t stop.
He doesn’t. His pace builds fast, punishing, and somewhere in the dark I lose the thread of what I should want and surrender to what I actually want, which is this. Exactly this. His handsbruising my hips, his breath ragged behind me, the filthy sound of skin on skin in a pitch-black room.
“Say it again.” His voice is wrecked.
“Yours,” I gasp. “I’m yours.”
He groans and his rhythm turns erratic, unraveling.
“Nat.” It sounds like a prayer, a plea, a curse.
I stop thinking. My fingers twist in the sheets, my cheek flat against the bed, and the only thing that exists is the heat of him behind me and the sound of my own voice chanting his name over and over.
