When I withdraw my touch completely, she nearly sobs. Her wrists strain against the belt.
"Alessandro," she pleads, eyes wild and desperate.
I shake my head slowly. "Not enough."
Lowering myself, I brush my lips against her inner thigh, so close to her sweet, wet pussy, pulsing with need. "Tell me what you need, Isabella. Tell me, and it's yours."
The dam finally breaks.
"Please!" she cries out, her body writhing. "I need—I need to come. Let me come. Please!"
A wicked smile curves my lips as triumph surges through me. "That wasn’t so hard, was it?”
Without warning, I plunge two fingers inside her, curling them toward her sweet spot as my mouth closes over her clit.
Her back arches off the bed as a keening cry tears from her. I work her relentlessly, finger fucking her, sucking her clit, driving her higher and higher until she's sobbing with need. Her orgasm detonates like an atomic bomb, shockwave after shockwave rippling through her.
“Tell me you want me to fuck you. Say it, Isabella. I want to hear the words."
I watch her work to catch her breath, her lips parted, her skin flushed. In this moment, she's never been more beautiful. Never more mine.
"Yes.”
"Yes, what?" I press, needing her complete surrender.
Her eyes meet mine, no longer cold or distant but burning with the same fire that's consuming me. "Yes, Alessandro. I want you to fuck me."
I surge forward, claiming her mouth in a bruising kiss as I drive my cock into her in one powerful thrust. She cries out against my lips, her body yielding to mine completely.
She feels so fucking good. So tight. Her pussy pulses around my dick, and I’m teetering on the edge of a powerful release.
I’ve finally won.
But as she wraps her legs around my waist, pulling me deeper, taking my need to deeper depths, I realize my victory isn’t as complete as I thought.
She surrendered, but in her surrender, she has taken power from me and now wields it over me.
19
ISABELLA
I hate the way my body betrays me under his touch. I hate how he knows exactly what to do to make me crumble. Most of all, I hate that I begged. I actually begged Alessandro Dante to fuck me.
Yet as he drives into me, while my wrists strain against his belt, the pleasure building again inside me isn’t something I can deny. Each thrust sends sparks shooting through my body, and I can't stop the moans escaping my lips.
"That's it," he growls against my neck. "Let go for me. I want to feel you come around my cock."
I wish I could resist him. I want to lie still and cold beneath him just to spite him. But my hips rise to meet his of their own accord, my body chasing the pleasure his body promises.
Is this what my mother felt before my father broke her? This overwhelming, consuming need that makes you forget your own principles, makes you forget yourself?
"I still hate you," I say, wanting to maintain some power, not wanting him to think he’s completely broken me down to his will.
"Hate me all you want," he says, changing his angle slightly to hit a spot that makes me see stars. "Your body doesn't."
The truth is I don’t hate him, which is what makes no sense. Is it because I still hope to be married to the man who prepared a beautiful romantic rooftop evening? Who made me feel seen? Who said he’d respect me?
I haven’t seen that man since the gala. Even today, while he’s been generous and definitely amorous, it feels performative. Like he’s trying to woo me to be able to manipulate me.
