We knock the lamp off the nightstand, topple a glass of water, and both of us are laughing and gasping as the tangled sheets try to smother us. He lifts me like I’m made of paper, then slams me down again, shallow and deep, over and over. I feel every vein, every twitch inside me. I want it all. I rake my nails up his biceps, bite down on his ear, grab his hair, and pull his head back to bare his vulnerable throat.
His pulse kicks under my tongue, and I want to bite it, mark him, leave some furious signature behind so that tomorrow, no matter how much he wants to pretend, everyone will know what happened to him tonight.
“God, you feel so fucking good,” he says, the last word half-strangled.
He drags his thumb between my legs, thumb rough and sure, and I come apart like a sandcastle. It isn’t even a pretty orgasm—I sob, hips jerking, nails scrabbling for purchase on his chest. My whole body convulses, wracking into aftershocks that border on painful.
He kisses my open mouth, stealing the sound from my throat, never breaking rhythm. I barely remember how to breathe, let alone think. The pleasure keeps spooling out, nearly punishing in its intensity. He fucks me hard through it, still holding me fast, my pussy so oversensitized I tremble and wheeze while he digs his nails into my hips. I want to give him everything, and nothing.
In the very end, he comes with a guttural sound, a silent howl, fingers digging so deep I know they’ll leave marks. He lurches up to meet my mouth, open and desperate, and I lick his sweat as he pulses inside me.
“I’m not done with you yet,” he murmurs. “Just know I’m not done.”
I’m still clenching around the afterglow of him when he flips me over one-handed, face down so my breasts flatten to the sheets and my cheek stings where it hits the mattress. I brace for a new kind of violence, but instead he cages my hips gently and drags his tongue up the back of my thigh, right through the mess he’s left leaking out of me.
The shame in it, how instantly I’m undignified and wanton, makes me want to bite the pillow in two. Instead, I arch my hips higher, and when he moans low and ugly into my pussy, it vibrates something deep and dangerous in me.
He eats me like he’s starved, like he has to make up for every year he spent starving himself of joy. He tongues the slick, sensitive skin, sweet at first, then savage, his teeth grazing the bruised folds, his nose buried against me. The stubble burn and the slick heat, his hands flattening me to the bed so I can only squirm against the sheets.
Fuck, yes, I want this. I want him to devour me. To make me lose the last grip I have on myself. He doesn’t stop, even when I whine and try to wriggle away. If anything, he doubles down, arms like steel bands pinning my hips, tongue working me open until my thighs shake so hard, my knees briefly come off the mattress.
I feel something building that’s almost shameful, like another orgasm but meaner, sharper, more like a scream than a song. I never make that sound, not for anyone.
But for him? I don’t even care.
He makes me come again, so hard I nearly black out, and the guttural sound I make echoes off the coffered ceiling.
Afterwards, I’m a ruin. Trembling, drooling into the sheets, forehead sweat glued to the pillowcase, body turned from string and wire into loose, quivering jelly. Alessandro rolls off the bed and pads to the bathroom, feet silent. When I look at him again, his cock is rock-hard once more in his hand. He’s leaning on themarble sink, skin glazed in sweat, hair a black snarl, eyes glassy and red as if he’s been underwater for hours.
When he catches me watching, he doesn’t flinch or try to hide; he just crooks two fingers, beckoning. The air between us is syrup-thick. I’m already half off the bed, knees buckled, brain usurped by endorphins and maybe actual love, if there’s any difference.
He strokes himself lazily, putting on a little show, letting me see how much he wants me. There’s no shame left in either of us, not after that. I crawl, literally crawl, to the bathroom, every muscle in my thighs singing a fresh, sharp ache. The tile is so cold, I almost yelp. He backs up onto the closed toilet lid and spreads his knees, cock bobbing at the apex of his thigh like an invitation for a dare.
My knees splay, and I crawl across the marble, grasping him at the base and licking a stripe, slow at first, up to the head, dragging my tongue so he can feel every molecule of my spit. He shivers, just a fragment, but it’s there. I’ve got him again. Powerless, powerful: the same thing, in this room.
I want him to finish in my mouth. I want my jaw to ache tomorrow. So I set to work, finding the pace that depraves him, both of us reduced to pure appetite. I taste the salt of my own pussy still on him, bittersweet, an echo of the room and us, and it only urges me harder, deeper, until I gag and force myself not to choke. I’m greedy. I want the whole of him.
“Fucking hell, Evie,” he grunts. “You have no idea what you do to me.”
The words split me in half, half terrified, half so fucking wet I could drown us both. For a nanosecond, I flash on the last time, the only other time, and the betrayal that followed after. But Alessandro’s face is so raw, so completely without irony, it short-circuits the entire system of shame and memory.
He groans, devours me with his eyes, and presses my head down, slow and gentle, until my lips are flush with the tip of him. I hollow my cheeks, sucking so hard I make my sinuses ache, and his hips buck in response, an electric charge running through his whole body.
When I sense he’s about to lose control, I pull off, let a sloppy string of spit connect us, and then run my tongue down, down, lower, teasing the sensitive seam behind his balls.
He doesn’t expect it. Or maybe he does, but he’s unprepared for the want in my mouth, how I lick and prod and then, experimentally, take one swollen ball between my lips and suck, sweet and careful as a stolen fruit. The shock makes his thighs snap closed, but I just smile, tongue already flattening, patient and relentless.
I hear him murmur “okay, okay,” but it trembles on the edge, and I know in that instant control is an illusion neither of us wants to keep. I inch my mouth lower, let my breath feather against the damp crease where his thigh meets his body, and he shudders again. The flavor is raw and personal and inalienably him, sweat and skin and salt. I tongue the seam, the dark split, a teasing swipe just to see if he’ll flinch.
But then he pulls me back. “I mean it, Evie. I need you now.”
I nod, kneeling between his legs. “Yes. I want it.”
I want it so much, I can feel myself starting to sweat again, nerve endings already stinging at the anticipation. Last time, it was someone else prying me open, bending me by force and shame. This will not be that. I want to see the exact moment Alessandro loses it, see what he’ll do to me when I give up the last inch of resistance.
He stands and yanks me up with both hands, spins me around so my hip cracks the marble counter, and grinds against the cleft of my ass. His cock is wet and hot at the small of my back.
“You have to tell me if you need to stop,” he murmurs, though it’s more like a command than a kindness.
