The raw vulnerability on his face—the furrow between his brows, the tightness around his eyes, the slight parting of his lips—makes something twist in my chest.
He’s always so controlled, so careful to maintain his power. But right now, he’s letting go for me. Because of me.
“Alina.” He says my name like it’s being ripped from deep inside him. It’s a warning, a plea, a prayer.
I tighten my grip further, twisting my wrist at the top of each stroke the way he showed me. My other hand gently rolls his balls between my fingers, and I’m rewarded with a string of Italian curses that make his voice vibrate with intensity.
“You’re perfect,” he groans, his eyes fixed on my face despite the pleasure contorting his features. “So fucking perfect.”
The desperation in his voice, the naked need in his eyes—it’s intoxicating. For the first time in my life, I feel truly desired. Not tolerated. Not accommodated. Desired.
And more than that—needed.
I continue stroking him, memorizing every detail of this moment. The tension in his powerful thighs, the way his abdominal muscles contract with each thrust, the slight trembling of his hands as they hover near my arms as if afraid to touch me and risk breaking the spell.
“Don’t stop,” he growls, his voice so deep it’s almost unrecognizable.
I have no intention of stopping. Not when I can feel him throbbing in my grip, not when I can see the way his chest heaves with each labored breath, not when I finally understand what it means to hold power over someone else.
The power isn’t in force or cruelty—it’s in this. In watching Raffaele Russo, a man who collects debts and breaks bones for a living, coming undone at my inexperienced touch.
And I want more.
The thought surprises me even as it settles firmly in my mind. The sheer intimacy of touching him like this has awakened something inside me—a curiosity that won’t be satisfied by just my hands.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I lower myself down, bringing my face level with his erection.
It’s intimidating up close—thick and straining, the head flushed dark with need. I glance up at Raffaele, finding his green eyes watching me with an intensity that makes my skin prickle with heat.
“You don’t have to,” he says, voice strained despite his words.
But I want to. I want to know everything—how he tastes, how it feels to take him into my mouth, how much pleasure I can give him. Especially after what he’s given me.
Taking a deep breath, I lean forward and hesitantly run my tongue across the smooth head. The taste surprises me—salty yet somehow sweet, with an underlying muskiness that’s uniquely male. Uniquely Raffaele.
When I swirl my tongue around the tip, collecting the bead of fluid there, his entire body jerks. “Oh! Fuck!” he growls, his hand coming down to cup my cheek. “That feels incredible.”
Emboldened by his reaction, I do it again, this time tracing the ridge where the head meets the shaft. His sharp intake of breath tells me I’ve found a sensitive spot.
“Do you like this?” I ask between experimental licks, genuinely wanting to know what brings him pleasure.
“Yes,” he groans, his thumb caressing my cheekbone. “Just like that.”
I explore him with my tongue—the prominent vein running along the underside, the smooth skin stretched taut over rigid hardness. Each new area I discover draws different sounds from him, creating a map of pleasure I’m determined to memorize.
“How about this?” I wrap my lips around the head, taking him into my mouth.
His hand moves to my hair, fingers tangling in the strands. “Perfect,” he growls. “Take more if you can.”
I try to obey, opening wider, taking him deeper until I feel the stretch at the corners of my mouth. The weight of him on my tongue, the fullness—it’s foreign but not unpleasant. When I hollow my cheeks and suck gently, his grip on my hair tightens.
“Such a good girl,” he praises, the words sending a thrill through me.
His guidance is gentle but firm. When I accidentally touch the head with my teeth, he guides me to cover them with my lips. When I struggle with the depth, he shows me how to use my hand on the base where my mouth can’t reach.
The control he maintains even in pleasure impresses me—he’s teaching me his body while letting me explore at my pace.
I return to my task with renewed determination, establishing a rhythm that has his breathing growing increasingly ragged. His hips begin to move in subtle thrusts, pushing himself deeper.
