Rodrigo leaned over her, one hand wrapped around the base of her neck, the other sliding around her hip, his fingers finding her clit again. He was already moving, his thrusts deep and punishing, the angle hitting spots that made her cry out. His fingers, slick with her arousal, began to circle her clit.
The hard, deep penetration, the relentless friction against her swollen clit… Giana buried her face in the pillow, muffling her cries as the pressure built again, impossibly fast. "Oh fuck. Oh god…"
Rodrigo was murmuring against her ear, filthy, possessive promises in Italian, his breath hot, his voice thick with his own need. She could feel the tension coiling in his body, the controlled ferocity of his thrusts becoming slightly more erratic.
He switched the vibrator back on and pressed the tip to her while still touching her with his fingertips. It was too much. It was everything.
"Come for me,anima mia, so I can feel you gripping my cock," he begged, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin of her shoulder.
Giana was teetering on the edge, the vibrations, his fingers, his cock pounding into her with relentless force, the heat of his body covering hers. The climax hovered, a trembling, terrifying peak, but she had to see the man, the monster, the lover who was driving her to this precipice.
"Stop," she gasped, the word muffled by the pillow. She pushed back against him. "Rodrigo, stop."
He froze instantly, his body rigid above her, buried deep. The vibrator went silent.
"Giana? Did I hurt you? " His voice was rough with concern, breathless with restraint.
"No, of course not. I just… I want to see you," she panted, meeting his dark, slightly wild eyes. "I want to see your face when I come."
Understanding flared in Rodrigo's gaze, and he pulled out slowly, the loss making her whimper. Before she could protest further, his hands were on her waist, hauling her up, turning her roughly.
In one fluid motion, Rodrigo flipped onto his back, pulling her with him, so she straddled his hips. He was still hard, thick, glistening with her arousal. He gripped her hips, guiding her down onto him, impaling her slowly, inch by agonizing inch, until she was seated fully, taking all of him. The angle was different, deeper still, and she gasped at the intensity, her pussy fluttering around his cock.
"Better?" he asked, stroking her breasts with his fingertips before one hand rested around her neck, and the other dropped to her sensitive clit. "Like this?"
"Oh god," Giana gasped. She braced her hands on his chest, feeling the hard plane of muscle, the pounding of his heart beneath her palms. She began to move, rocking her hips, finding a rhythm, riding him, seeking the friction, the pressure.
Rodrigo lay beneath her, a dark god of pleasure and control. His eyes were fixed on her face, intense, unwavering, drinking in every flicker of sensation, every gasp, every clench of her features as pleasure built again. His calloused thumb moved against her clit, a constant, maddening counterpoint to the deep, rhythmic glide of his cock inside her.
"Fuck me the way you need to," he commanded, his voice a low rasp. "Don't look away from me. From us."
Giana stared down at him and saw the raw hunger, the fierce pride, the terrifying depth of love in his eyes. It shattered the last vestiges of her control. The coil inside her snapped, and she came again with a cry that was half-sob, half-triumphant scream. Her body convulsed, clamping down hard on him, wave after wave of blinding, all-consuming pleasure crashing over her, tearing her apart and remaking her. His eyes flared, dark and feral, as her inner muscles milked him.
"I love you," she whispered.
Rodrigo groaned, a raw, guttural sound, his hips bucking up off the mattress, driving into her as his own release tore through him. She felt the hot, pulsing surge deep inside her, the final, devastating claim.
Giana collapsed forward onto his chest, her body still trembling with aftershocks, her breath coming in ragged gasps. Rodrigo wrapped his arms around her, holding her tightly against him, his own chest heaving. His heart hammered against her ear, a frantic, powerful drumbeat. "I love you too, my Giana."
It was a long time before her trembling subsided, and the frantic pounding of their hearts eased into a slower, synchronized rhythm. She lay sprawled on top of him, her cheek pressed against the warm, damp skin of his chest.
She was soaked in sweat, sex, the clean scent of his soap, and underneath it all, the faint, coppery tang of his blood. Her monster. Her king.
Rodrigo's hand moved slowly up and down her bare back in soothing strokes. He pressed a kiss to the top of her head.
"Finally mine," he murmured, the words thick with exhaustion.
Giana closed her eyes. The memory of Florence felt distant, blurred at the edges. It had been remade with blood and pleasure and a love forged in defiance and darkness. Every messy and fucked-up part of it was theirs alone.
Outside the thick stone walls of the villa, the world remained locked down, braced for a storm, but tangled in sweat-slicked sheets, wrapped in the arms of the man she loved—the monster, the protector, the lover—Giana felt a fragile, hard-won sense of peace.
Rodrigo's breathing evened out beneath her, deepening into the rhythm of sleep. Giana listened to it, the steady, reassuring sound.Alive. He was alive, and he belonged to her.
Giana nestled closer, inhaling his scent, committing this moment, this feeling, to memory. The calm before the storm never lasted, but she would fight like hell to protect what they had found in its quiet center.
36
The following morning, Giana headed down the villa's stone steps toward the rifle range with all the grace of a newborn giraffe learning to walk. Every muscle below her waist had staged a coordinated rebellion, sending up strongly worded complaints with each careful step. God, she hoped there was some ibuprofen in the arrangement of drugs that she had downed that morning.
