Chapter 10 10

Chapter 10 10
Bridget

A spear of white-hot pain jolts me awake.

For one disoriented heartbeat I think the yacht is still rocking beneath me, Adriano’s iron grip pinning my hips to the polished teak while he drove into my virgin ass with that ruthless, deliberate rhythm.

Then the hush of the presidential suite settles around me, Las Vegas traffic far below, the scent of bergamot and him—and I realize the hurt is real, not a memory.

“Ouch,” I whimper into the pillow, the sound thin, mortifyingly helpless.

My hips feel bruised from the inside out; every pulse of my heart echoes in my tender rim. I try to roll onto my side and the flare of pain claws a sob from my throat.

I freeze, breathing through my teeth, thighs trembling.

Footsteps, bare and unhurried, cross the adjoining sitting room.

Adriano appears in the doorway, sweatpants slung low on his carved hips, chest inked and gleaming under the grey dawn that sneaks through half-drawn curtains.

His beard is tousled, eyes darker than the lake at midnight.

He takes in my fetal curl, the way my fingernails dig into the mattress, and his brows draw together.

“Are you okay, sugarplums?”

The nickname slips out rough, almost tender, and something inside me clenches harder than the ache in my ass.

I shake my head, cheeks burning. “I’m in pain. I can’t… I can’t walk.”

The admission tastes like defeat; I wait for a smirk, a command to stop whining. Instead his gaze softens—fractionally—before he crosses the room.

The mattress dips as he sits, heat rolling off his skin.

One tattooed hand slides beneath my knees, the other behind my shoulders, and he lifts me as if anguish itself has no weight.

I bite back a whimper when the shift presses my sore cheeks together.

“Easy,” he murmurs against my temple, beard brushing delicate skin. “I’ve got you.”

He carries me through the suite—past crystal tumblers we left littered with spilled Scotch, past the velvet couch where he first bent me over and told me to count the stripes his palm painted across my ass—into the marble sanctuary of the bathroom.

Steam ghosts the mirrors from his earlier shower; gold faucets glint like jewelry.

He sets me gently on the wide rim of the soaking tub, cool porcelain kissing my thighs through pink silk pajama shorts.

My legs dangle, useless, trembling.

“Stay,” he orders, already turning.

I watch the muscles in his back coil and release while he rummages through the minibar fridge. He returns with a silver ice bucket, condensation beading like sweat on his knuckles.

Setting it beside me, he kneels—Adriano De Costa, Las Vegas’s shadow Don, on his knees for the maid’s ass he deflowered last night beneath star-drunk skies.

The absurdity would be funny if lust and pain weren’t flooding every vein.

Without ceremony he hooks his thumbs under my pajama shorts and peels them down. Cool air kisses my bare pussy first, then my punished ass.

I instinctively try to press my legs together; he stops me with a look more binding than rope.

“Let me see,” he says, voice velvet-wrapped steel.

Heat floods my face, but I obey, lifting each foot so he can slide the shorts off completely. The tank top follows; my breasts spill free, nipples tight from the refrigerated air.

He doesn’t ogle them—his attention is riveted lower.

“Turn around. Kneel on the tub.”

Hands on my waist, he helps me up onto the marble, knees padding on a folded towel he laid without my noticing.

My torso bows forward, breasts swaying, cheek resting on my stacked fists. The position spreads me open, shamefully, beautifully.

I feel his exhale gust over my exposed hole and fight the instinctive clench that burns like nettles.

A clink of ice.

Then—cold.

So cold my lungs forget how to draw air.

He presses a single cube directly to my swollen rim, circling with infuriating patience. I yelp, hips jerking, but his free hand splays on the small of my back, pinning me. “Hold still, sugarplums. This will take the fire out.”

His voice roughens on the pet name, almost a confession.

The shock subsides into numbing relief; my exhale trembles.

I hear the slight grind of the cube as he traces every pleat of sensitive skin, melting rivulets racing down my cunt lips, dripping off my clit into the tub with soft plinks.

“Today is your day off,” he informs me, tone clinical despite the erotic tableau.

“You’ll rest. No chores, no summons, no parade around the penthouse in that fucking maid apron I like.”

Under different circumstances I might smile.

Instead I whimper again as he swaps the sliver of ice for a fuller, rounder cube.

“It was your first time,” he mutters, more to himself than to me. “I didn’t know it would hurt this much.”

The admission startles us both; in the mirror’s foggy edge I catch the twitch of his jaw.

I want to tell him I begged for it, that the burn was part of the surrender I craved like oxygen.

But words scatter when he eases the ice against my entrance, not just circling now but lightly pressing, letting

my muscle suck inward by reflex then retreat.

Each pass lulls the ache, yet stokes a deeper throb low in my belly.

Without warning he slides one long finger in alongside the cube.

Cold meets hotter flesh, intrusion battling ache, and I gasp so sharply the sound ricochets off marble. He goes slowly—insanely slowly—twisting, gliding the ice around his digit to chill every nerve. “Breathe, Bridget.”

I obey on a shuddering inhale, feeling myself stretch around the combined intrusion, pain ebbing under the anesthetic kiss of frost.

His knuckle brushes sensitive inner walls; my clit pulses, traitorous, hungry.

“I’m sorry, sugarplums,” he whispers, voice sandpaper-soft.

Warm lips descend on my shoulder, beard abrading as he kisses once, twice, tasting the salt of dried sweat and seawater.

My heart stutters at the tenderness, how it contrasts with the beast who bent me over a yacht railing and growled “Take every inch” while the waves applauded.

I crave more of this gentler demon.

He withdraws the finger—slow, slick, cold—and discards the half-melted cube into the bucket.

A fresh one clicks between his teeth; he leans down and I feel the crisp slide as he traces it lower, over my perineum, up my slit, circling my clit until the nub stands achingly erect.

I moan, thighs trembling, unsure if I want to escape or beg for penetration.

But he keeps the promise of aftercare: no teasing to culmination, just soothing strokes until my rim feels puckered and numb, until the tremors inside me are pleasure-tinged rather than agony-laced.

Finally he sets the ice aside, palms my ass cheeks with both hands—warm now, reassuring—and breathes out. I feel him rest his forehead between my shoulder blades, a moment of abject penance from a man who rarely bows to anyone.

“You were perfect,” he mutters. “So tight, so brave. I got carried away.”

I twist enough to bury a hand in his thick hair, tugging until he meets my eyes.

“I wanted it rough,” I confess, voice hoarse. “But I like this too—belonging to you even when it hurts.”

Something unfurls behind his gaze, possession softened by protectiveness.

He lifts me off the tub’s edge, sets me on a heated towel, and pats me dry with careful pats between my legs, dabbing cool aloe he produces from a vanity drawer.

The cream melts into me, replacing lingering sting with lavender calm.

When he’s done he wraps the towel around my body, scoops me up again, and carries me back to bed.

He lays me on my stomach, arranges pillows under my hips to keep pressure off my sensitized flesh.

I expect him to leave, to vanish into his empire of shadows.

Instead he stretches beside me, propped on an elbow, large hand slipping beneath the towel to rest possessively over the curve of my ass—no longer groping, just claiming.

His thumb traces idle patterns while the room lightens, city sounds swelling beyond bullet-proof glass.

The silence between us vibrates with everything unspoken: contracts, yachts, gun-metal power plays—and yet

right now, I am simply a sore girl in the care of her repentant dark king.

I drift, knowing the bruises will bloom violet by dusk, knowing he’ll kiss each one as worshipfully as he kissed my mouth when I cried his name above the black water.

Before sleep reclaims me I feel him lean close, breath hot at my ear.

“Rest, sugarplums. Later we go slower. I want to watch you ride me, take me in your ass inch by inch until you decide how much you can bear.”

Desire ripples through me, equal parts thrill and trepidation.

I nod into the pillow, surrendering to the ache, to him, to the exquisite collision of pain and protection only Adriano knows how to orchestrate.