Page 114 of The Ruin I Chose

The sheets felt cool against my back, but his gaze burned. He didn’t rush. He just looked. Like he was burning the shape of me into memory. Like he needed this image to survive whatever came next.

He traced his hands along my waist down to my thighs and pulled my knees apart. I felt bare, exposed. Not just skin—soul, memory, ache. I closed my legs instinctively, from the weight of being seen.

“Let my eyes feast on you,” he growled. “Before my mouth does.”

He didn’t force them open. Just waited, letting me choose.

And when I did—when I let him see me—his eyes softened, then darkened again.

“You’re mine,” he murmured, voice low and certain. “Every inch you offer. Every inch you doubt.”

He bent down and licked me slowly, his warm tongue sending jolts through my spine—sharp, electric—racing down to my legs like a storm gathering.

“You taste like sin and salvation,” he whispered against my core.

His mouth was fervent. His tongue, worshipful. He looked up at me, primal, like he wanted me to watch how he was undoing me. I clung to the sheets as his tongue traced slow, deliberate circles around the aching centre of me. Then he stopped.

I blinked, breathless. “Why’d you stop?”

My body was still reaching for him. “I was so close.”

“Not so soon, amore,” he said, smirking.

I pouted. He crawled up, peppering kisses on my stomach, then my breast, then my neck. Then he moved lower again—slow, deliberate. His mouth found me again. I let out a sound somewhere between a moan and a scream.

He slid his tongue into my pussy, release already building under my skin. He devoured me like I was his last meal. Like he’d been dreaming of this moment and now refused to come up for air.

I forgot how to breathe. Forgot how to pretend I didn’t want this. Forgot how to hold back.

His hands gripped my thighs, grounding me. And when I looked down, he was watching me—eyes wild, lips glistening, like he’d never tasted anything better.

I felt seen. Worshipped. Like I was reclaiming every part of myself he’d once broken. Like I was taking it back on my terms.

It was intense, more than I expected. More than I could handle. He reached up, pinched my clit, and I shattered—shaking, gasping, spilling everything I’d been holding back. He lapped it up like he’d been waiting for this.

When he finally rose, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, I pulled him into a kiss, tasting myself on him. I could never get used to the taste of me on him.

He hovered above me, eyes dark, breath ragged. He didn’t say a word. Just looked at me like I was the only thing that had ever made sense. He pressed the tip of his cock against me. Slid in just an inch. Then pulled out. Again. And slid an inch in and withdrew again. I writhed beneath him, hips chasing his.

“Marcello,” I gasped. “Please.”

He smirked. “You’re so impatient, bella.”

He did it again—just the tip. My body clenched, desperate. I was soaked, aching, desperate to be filled.

I looked up at him, furious and feral.

“I hate you,” I breathed.

“Then hate me from the inside,” he growled.

And with that, he thrust in deep. I cried out—sharp, ragged. My body opened for him, welcomed him, claimed him. He groaned low and feral, as though he’d been holding back for a long time. I wrapped my arms around his neck, pulling him closer, deeper.

“Don’t stop,” I whispered. “Not tonight.”

My body remembered him. The stretch. The fullness. The way he fit like he’d never left. He looked down, watching his cock slide out of me, gleaming with my wetness—then thrusted back harder. My back arched and he bit my nipple through my bra.

I wanted him to forget every woman who wasn’t me. Wanted him to remember—this was home. I was home. Wanted him to crawl inside me and claim my soul.