“Fucking hell, Evie,” he gasps. “Your lips taste good.”
His teeth scrape my lower lip, tongue forcing inside as if to claim territory. The hand on my skull tightens. The thigh pressed against me moves, grinding up, dragging me toward the center of a gravity I can only orbit.
I whimper; I don’t mean to.
He eats the sound out of my throat.
I claw at his shirt because I can’t reach skin fast enough. He smells like cologne and sap and something chemical that hits me as dangerous. The first button gives, then another. I push the fabric aside, and he lets me.
There’s a new kind of power in that. I flatten my palm along his chest, surprised by the heat. The hair there is sparse, almost disciplined, just like everything else about him.
He pulls back and stares at me with an expression I can’t read. A calculus of want and warning. His pupils are blown wide, the blue almost eclipsed by black. I feel hyper-visible under that gaze, stripped twice: by what he does to me and how he registers exactly what it costs me.
“Your hands are shaking,” he murmurs.
They are shaking as I undo a button and scrape my fingernails down his chest. He registers every tremor, every involuntary shiver. His own hands are stone-steady, and I hate him for it. I want him to need as badly as I do.
I push the shirt off his shoulders. The skin there is paler than the back of his hands, crosshatched with faint lines Ifeel compelled to map with my tongue. He watches me do it, unmoving, as if I’m the first person to ever puzzle out the coordinates of his body.
But then he moves fast, spinning me and bending me over the desk as if he doesn’t trust himself not to shatter me if we stay face-to-face. The wood is cold on my cheek, but the shock of it drops straight to my core. One hand anchors my wrists behind my back.
His palm covers both, a single human shackle. The other hand hikes my nightdress up over my hips, and I realize two things with violent clarity: I am completely at his mercy, and my body is so ready, it aches.
There’s a rhythm to how he does this. Methodical, not angry. He shifts my legs with a nudge of his knee until I’m braced and exposed. Maybe I gasp too loud, because he leans forward, mouth close to my ear.
“You want it rough?” he asks, voice all gravel and velvet. “Or just real?”
I can barely breathe. “Both.”
A split-second reward: his teeth graze my earlobe before he drops to his knees behind me. He doesn’t waste a second. The tongue that owned my mouth now owns the part of me that’s wet and wanting. He pries me apart and licks deep, filthy, slow.
He’s not careful. Not neat. He spits on me first, in a gesture that should embarrass me but makes me moan. It’s a promise, a claim, and then his mouth is everywhere, painting me with heat and slick. His rough stubble burns the inside of my thighs.
He eats me like he’s been fasting. He hums into me, vibrations rolling up my spine. I arch, but the hand holding my wrists gives me no slack, no reprieve. The other one slides under my ribs and holds me down as he goes harder, precise tongue flicks over my clit, then back to tongue fucking, as if he can’t decide which of his wants to feed first.
I feel myself coming apart, the sound that’s coming out of me so raw, I half-fear the whole house will hear.
I’d care if I wasn’t already drowning. Let them listen.
He pushes me through it, delirious, relentless, refusing to let me off the hook until my sobs go ragged and my knees buckle so hard, I can’t distinguish pleasure from collapse.
Only then does he stand, hands mapping up my body. Slow, as if testing the tensile strength of every vertebra, every rib. He bends over me, mouth against the back of my neck, and his weight pins me down while his hands drag my wrists to either side of my head, gripping the desk on both sides.
I’m a cruciform thing at his mercy.
I hear the jangle of his belt, the rasp of a zipper. My breathing is hitched, chest flexing hard against the edge of the wood.
His voice is right behind my ear, soft but rasped as raw as a match dragged through fine grit: “Tell me you want this.”
I can’t get the words out. Can’t form the syllables. Not with the way his cock presses hot against the bare skin of my ass. Not when I can feel the anticipation of him like a weight before it even happens.
I make a sound instead, a pleading, animal thing.
He rubs the head of his cock along the slick line of me, catches at the entrance, and waits. A heartbeat, a knife edge, the line between consent and force. He won’t take it without the word. I know that, even now.
I turn my head and find him with my eyes. “Please. Alessandro… please.”
Hearing his name cracks him open. He slides inside in a single, decisive thrust. No mercy. No masking the claim for ceremony. The stretch is shocking and astonishing, and I’d scream if the air wasn’t torn out of me. He’s thick, the length of him overwhelming. My body splits open to swallow him, and thesound that leaves me is guttural, some wild thing I had no idea I was allowed to be.
