Page 24 of The Ruin I Chose

“You’re not just a moment,” he said, voice rough. “I don’t know what you are… but it’s more than that.”

Then he grabbed me and kissed me desperately, full of everything he couldn’t say.

I didn’t resist. I couldn’t. I didn’t know what I was to him, but in that moment, I didn’t care. I wanted to be wanted. And I wanted to be ruined by him.

My hands flew to his shirt, tearing it open. The sound of fabric ripping and buttons ricocheting, scattering like fallen coins. It was anger and desire together that made me bold—rage blooming into hunger, defiance melting into need. This was its own kind of foreplay.

Marcello froze for a moment, stunned. His chest rose sharply, and then he lifted me effortlessly, his fingers digging into the back of my thighs. He carried me to the edge of the bed like I weighed nothing. His grip bruised. And God, something in me wanted the shape of his fingers on my skin come morning.

I let out a surprised squeal—breathless, laced with laughter and heat. I lay back instantly, breath shallow, eyes locked on his.

But instead of kissing me on the lips, he knelt. He slowly pulled my panties down, peppering kisses along the way. His eyes locked on mine, like he needed to taste what he’d already claimed.

The warmth of his breath hitting my skin made me roll my hips towards him without meaning to. He trailed soft kisses along my leg on his way back up—inch by inch, until he reached the tender heat between my thighs. I gasped, trying to push him away, suddenly feeling shy, exposed. But he held me there firm.

I wasn’t used to being worshipped. Not like this. Not by someone who looked at me like I was the answer to a question he’d been asking for years.

His fingers dug deeper into my skin, spreading me further apart as though he needed to anchor me to the moment. To him. He licked once slow, and I nearly saw stars. His tongue devoured me—messy, hungry like he’d been starving for days, and I was the only thing that could keep him alive. He flicked his tongue across my clit—first bottom to top, then side to side, then circling—switching rhythms.

An electric current surged through my body, down to my legs. I instinctively closed my thighs, but he held me tighter, increasing the pace. I propped myself up on my elbows and found him looking at me—reading me, savouring every writhing moan. His eyes creased at the corners as he gave me a devilish grin—dark, filthy, knowing exactly how he was undoing me.

He knew my pleasure was his to command. I shouldn’t have watched him. It made everything worse. Filthier. Hornier. More intimate.

His mouth between my legs, his eyes on mine—it felt like worship and ruin at once. It wasn’t just a claim; it felt like a silent vow. He kept eye contact as he circled my entrance, then pushed his tongue inside, lapping up my desire.

I moaned, hips rising to meet him, fingers tangled in the sheets and his hair. This feeling—this aching, pulsing need—I had missed it.

His tongue was warm against my wetness—relentless and tender all at once. A small, desperate grunt escaped my lips as he pulled back to admire me. His breath was ragged, and eyes dark with hunger. He blew a cool breath across my skin, whispering,

“Si ‘mbriacanti.” (You’re intoxicating.)

The words rolled over my skin like a hot breath—I felt them between my legs, not in my ears.

I’d never felt that way before. I’d felt useful. Decorative. Convenient. But never like this, like I was the drug he couldn’t quit.

“Marcello,” I cried out, voice breaking as my body trembled and gave way.

I clawed at the sheets, at him, at anything I could reach. My body bucked helplessly, and I couldn’t stop. Didn’t want to. I shattered on his mouth, again, and again, and again. My thighs shook uncontrollably around his face, like my body forgot how to obey me and remembered only him.

With a last desperate surge, I dragged him up—crashing my lips onto his, kissing him with every scrap of fire left in me. I tasted myself on his tongue, sweet and salt and sin, and the taste sent a violent shiver ripping through me.

“I’m not done yet,” his fingers already sliding inside me. Circling the entrance and then pushing in and out of me slowly, claiming.

I jerked beneath him, collapsing into the aftermath of pleasure—shaking and utterly undone. But he didn’t stop. He worked me with a dark, unrelenting need, coaxing more from my already trembling body like he had something to prove. Like he needed to erase every trace of distance I’d ever put between us.

Before I could breathe a response, he pulled his fingers out and dragged the slickness across my inner thigh. He hovered at my entrance for a fraction of a heartbeat—long enough to make my breath catch—then he slammed into me so suddenly my cry tore the air. My legs flew open instinctively, my body choosing him before my mind could make sense of it.

His hand came up instantly, wrapping around my throat—holding me in place, so I could only look at him. My vision flickered at the edges from the shock of wanting him even rougher.

He leaned over me, breath harsh against my cheek, jaw clenched so tight I thought it might crack. His thrusts were pure frustrated and terrified anger pouring out of him with every snap of his hips. The headboard slammed into the wall with every thrust, keeping time with the frantic beat of my pulse.

“You think you can walk away from this?” he growled, voice low, ragged, pounding into me with each word.

His thumb pressed lightly at the side of my throat, tilting my chin so I couldn’t look anywhere but at him.

“From me?”

A shiver lunged through me so violently it almost hurt. His voice wasn’t just anger; it was fear wrapped in steel. Fear pretending it wasn’t there. The way he said it made something inside me break open.