Chapter 49

Chapter 49
Sophia's POV
"Explain to me what I just witnessed." He pulled his fingers out of my pussy.
"David is my friend. He was comforting me."
"Comforting you." Vito's eyes never left my face. "With his hands all over you. In his car. Looking very intimate."
"It wasn't like that—"
"Look at me."
I lifted my eyes to meet his gaze.
"You belong to me," he said quietly. "Not to Dr. Rosenberg. Not to anyone else. Do you understand?"
"Vito—"
His hand moved to cup my chin, his thumb brushing across my lower lip with deceptive gentleness. "Do you understand?"
The possessiveness in his voice sent an unwelcome thrill through me. "Yes."
"Good." His hand slid down to grip my throat, not hard enough to hurt but firm enough to remind me who was in control. "Now tell me why you were crying in another man's arms."
The words stuck in my throat. How could I explain the confusion, the loneliness, the way this marriage felt like living in a beautiful prison?
"I was upset," I managed.
"About what?"
"About us. About this." I gestured helplessly between us. "About feeling like I don't even exist anymore."
His grip on my throat loosened slightly, his thumb now stroking my skin in small circles.
"You exist," he murmured. "Right here. Right now. With me."
Before I could respond, he used his hold on my throat to guide me up, pulling me onto his lap. I gasped as I found myself straddling him, my dress riding up my thighs.
"Vito, what are you doing?"
"Reminding you who you belong to."
His hands found the hem of my dress and began pushing it higher.
The movements were gentler than before.
His fingers slipped under the edge of my panties, and I couldn't suppress the gasp that escaped. "Your mouth lies, but your body tells the truth."
He was right. I was already wet, already aching for his touch despite everything that had happened today.
"Say it," he commanded, his fingers teasing but not giving me what I desperately needed. "Tell me you're mine."
"I can't—"
His hand stilled completely. "Then you don't get what you want."
The denial was torture. My hips moved against his hand instinctively, seeking friction, seeking relief from the building pressure.
"Please," I whispered.
"Please what?"
"Please touch me."
"And who do you belong to?"
The question hung in the air between us. I could see the satisfaction in his eyes as he waited for my answer, knowing I was trapped by my own desire.
"You," I breathed. "I belong to you."
"That's right."
His fingers slipped inside me with devastating precision, and I cried out at the sudden invasion. He watched my face with predatory satisfaction as he began to move his hand, building a rhythm that had me gasping and clinging to his shoulders.
"Look how perfectly you respond to me," he murmured against my ear. "Look how your body knows exactly who owns it."
His thumb found my clit, circling it with maddening pressure while his fingers worked inside me. The combination was driving me toward the edge embarrassingly fast.
"Come for me," he commanded. "Show me how good I make you feel."
The orgasm hit me like a lightning strike, stealing my breath and making my vision blur. I buried my face against his shoulder as the pleasure crashed over me in waves, my body shaking with the force of it.
When I finally came back to myself, I was mortified by how completely I'd surrendered to him. I tried to scramble off his lap, but his hands held me firmly in place.
"Where do you think you're going?"
"This was a mistake," I said, not meeting his eyes.
"Was it?" His voice was dangerously soft. "Because your body seemed to disagree."
I finally managed to pull away from him, tugging my dress back into place with shaking hands. The satisfied look on his face made my stomach twist with shame and lingering arousal.
"This doesn't change anything," I said, backing away from him.
"Doesn't it?"
"No. This is still just business to you."
The warmth in his expression disappeared, replaced by something cold and distant. "Of course. How could I forget?"

The rest of the evening passed in uncomfortable silence. We went through the motions of preparing for bed like strangers sharing a hotel room.
When I finally slipped under the covers, I made sure to stay on the very edge of the bed, my back turned to him. The message was clear: don't touch me, don't speak to me, don't pretend what happened meant anything.
The lights went out, plunging us into darkness.
I could feel him behind me, could sense his presence like a physical weight. But he maintained his distance, and the space between us felt like a chasm.
This is for the best, I told myself.
But as I lay there in the darkness, fighting sleep and trying to ignore the memory of his hands on my skin, I couldn't shake the feeling that something fundamental had shifted between us.
Something that couldn't be undone by morning light or careful distance.
Behind me, Vito shifted slightly, and for a moment I thought he might reach for me. Instead, he settled deeper into his side of the bed.
The silence stretched between us like a punishment we were both serving.
Good, I thought. This is how it should be.
But the ache in my chest suggested otherwise.