"You're a stubborn bastard," I whisper, my hands finding the buttons of his pajama bottoms.
"Yes, and you're a liar if you say you don't want this as much as I do."
He kisses me then, and it’s like the world catches fire. It isn't the desperate, panicked kiss of the basement or the clinical trade of the bedroom. It’s a revelation. He tastes like a promise I’m not sure I can keep, and I’m greedy for every second of it.
I climb over him, careful of his left side, my knees straddling his hips. My robe is a thin barrier, and I can feel how hard he is beneath me, pulsing with a need that matches the ache in my own core.
"Look at me," he commands, his hand coming up to grip my throat—not to hurt, but to possess.
I look. His eyes are blown wide, the pupils swallowing the green. He looks wrecked. He looks like a man who has finally found the thing he’s been hunting for.
"You’re alive, Gia," he rasps, his fingers sliding under my robe, finding the sensitive skin of my inner thigh. "You’re mine."
He pulls the robe off my shoulders, letting it pool around my waist. The cool air hits my skin, but I’m burning up. He leans forward, his mouth finding my breast, his tongue swirling over the nipple until I’m arching my back, a low, broken moan escaping me.
"Rafael… please…”
The word is a ragged plea, torn from my throat. The rain drums a frantic rhythm against the windowpanes of our room, a gray world blurring outside.
“Say my name again,” he mutters against my skin, his voice a low rasp that vibrates through my bones. His lips are hot on my collarbone. “Tell me you’re mine.”
“Rafael. I’m yours. Only yours.”Always you.
He moves me down, onto the mattress, his body solid over mine. The hand that is not wrapped in white gauze slides between my legs. My own thighs are slick, my skin feverish. He finds the wet, needy heat of me. I’m so ready for him I’m practically weeping with it, my swollen vulva lips parted and drenched.
He slides two fingers inside, a slow, deep stretch that makes my vision flicker. The feeling is a blunt, wonderful invasion. My inner walls clutch around him, a slick, pulsing grip. “You’re so tight,” he whispers.
His thumb finds my clit, a swollen, aching bead of flesh. He circles it with a rhythmic, punishing pressure. “So wet. Did you think about this a lot?”
“Yes,” I gasp, my head falling back, my hair spilling over the pillows. “Every fucking second since we got married.” My breasts, bare and heavy, rise with my arching spine. They bounce slightly with the tremor that runs through me.
He pulls back just enough to discard his remaining clothes. His movements are stiff, the bandages on his torso a stark white against his tan, scar-crossed skin. He kicks his pants away. The sight of him—hard everywhere, his hard length thick and curving up toward his belly, the head a dark, flushed purple—is the most beautiful, terrifying thing I’ve ever seen. Veins rope the shaft. His balls are a heavy, hairy sac beneath. He’s a man who has been through hell and came out the other side wanting to claim his fucking prize.
He doesn’t ask. He doesn’t wait. He mounts me, his weight pressing me into the mattress. He guides his himself to myentrance, the broad head nudging against my plump, parted lips. Then he enters me with one slow, powerful thrust.
I cry out, a raw, unfiltered sound. My hands clutch his shoulders, my nails digging into the hard muscle there. He’s deep, filling me completely, a solid anchor. The stretch is immense. I open up for him, swallowing his length until I feel the firm press of his pubic bone against mine. There’s no pain now, just a deep, throbbing ache that demands more,more.
“Stay with me, Gia,” he mutters, his teeth grazing my earlobe. A possessive nip. “Stay right fucking here.”
He starts to move. His pace is steady and relentless from the first pump. Every thrust is a declaration.
You are alive. You are here. You are mine.
I wrap my legs around his waist, my thighs squeezing his hips, pulling him deeper. My body moves in perfect, desperate sync with his. My breasts bounce in a wild, circular rhythm, the nipples hardening into points.
The pleasure is a rising tide, a heat that starts in my cunt and floods my belly, my chest, my brain. It drowns out the sound of the rain, drowns out the memory of the church and the blood. There is only the heat of him inside me, the sound of his ragged breathing, and the way his dark, demanding,owningeyes never leave mine.
“Look at me,” he growls, his voice thick. “Look at me while I fuck you.”
I do. I stare into those black depths. My own cunt is making a wet, sucking sound every time he pulls back and drives home.The feeling is exquisite. The stretch of my inner walls around his girth, the rub of him against my cervix, the friction of his shaft against my soaked, sensitive flesh.
“You feel that?” he asks, his thrusts becoming sharper, the angle more punishing. “You feel how deep I am? I’m in your fucking guts, Gia. This is where I belong.”
A warm, electric tension coils in my lower belly, a spring winding tighter and tighter. My breath comes in short, desperate gulps. I’m sobbing now, tears mingling with the sweat on my face. “Rafael! I… I’m going to?—”
“Yes, you are. Do it, Gia. Come around me. Let me feel you milk it.”
The command breaks me.
