Chapter 15 15
Bridget
My mouth still tastes of him, salt and latex and the faint iron tang that lingers after I’ve swallowed so hard my throat feels bruised from the inside. I can’t tell if the ache is from how deep he shoved or from how long I held my breath, eyes watering, while he fucked my face like he owned it. Which, tonight, he does.
The rest of me is worse. My asshole throbs with a hot, swollen pulse, the skin around it puffed and tender. Every time I shift on the marble bathroom floor, the chill bites the bruises he left when he bent me over the ottoman, yanked my hips up, and slammed home. No warm-up, no please just his cock, thick and ruthless, stretching me until I screamed into the cushion.
I grip the edge of the tub and force myself upright. Steam fogs the mirror, erasing my reflection the way I wish I could erase the memory of begging for more while tears dripped off my chin. Water sluices down my legs when I climb into the shower, pink with diluted streaks. I watch it swirl away, proof he was inside every part of me. The spray stings; I turn my back to it, let the heat sink into muscles that feel shredded.
When I step out, the suite is quiet, dusk bleeding violet through triple-glazed windows. Adriano stands at the bedroom door, shirtless, tattoos inked like shadows across his knuckles and pec. He studies me the way a wolf studies a limping deer—curious, hungry, already calculating the next lunge.
“You’ll sleep in here,” he says, voice gravel wrapped in silk. He tosses me a white dress shirt. “Put this on. Your uniform’s trash now.”
The cotton is warm from his body. I slide arms into sleeves that swallow me, buttons grazing my tender nipples. The hem barely covers the curve of my ass; every move reminds me I’m naked underneath, that the shirt is his, that I’m his. He doesn’t offer pajama bottoms. He doesn’t offer the bed. He points to the leather couch.
I curl there, knees to chest, nostrils full of his cologne clinging to the collar. Sleep hovers but never lands; my body buzzes with adrenaline and ache. I drift in half-dreams where he’s still behind me, hips slapping, fingers digging bruises into my waist.
The elevator ding snaps me awake. Digital clock on the marble sideboard glows 9:00 p.m. Adriano wheels in a silver trolley, lids clinking. He is wearing black suit, his hair is slicked back and he looks dangerously handsome.
“Dinner, sugarplums.” He parks the trolley, flicks on a single sconce. Low light paints his beard glossy black. “Sit up.”
I try. Fire races from tailbone to shoulder blades; a whimper leaks out before I can lock it down. His eyes sharpen. Two strides and he’s towering over me, heat radiating.
“Pain bad?” he asks.
I nod, ashamed of how small it makes me feel.
“Was it too hard?” A note of something—approval? pride?—curls beneath the question.
“Yes, sir.” The words scrape like sandpaper.
He exhales through his nose, then lowers himself beside me. “On your stomach.”
I obey, shirt riding up. Cool air kisses swollen flesh. He palms my cheeks, gentle at first, testing, then spreads. A low sound rumbles in his chest.
“Colour?”
“Pink turning purple,” I mumble into the cushion.
“Good girl for telling.” Two fingers glide down the crack, pause at the rim. My breath hitches. He circles, feather-light, spreading whatever leftover lube still slicks me. “Breathe out.”
I do; the tip of one finger slips in. It burns, but the burn is different now, slower, owned, exploratory. He works deeper, massaging the ring of muscle he brutalized earlier. The invasion should humiliate; instead my thighs sag open, pussy pulsing emptily.
“Better?”
“Yes… thank you, sir.”
He withdraws, licks his fingers, then scoops me like I weigh nothing and settles me sideways on his lap. My raw ass cheek presses against the soft cotton over his erection; it twitches, thickening.
“Eat,” he orders, lifting a silver lid. Filet mignon, blood-red center, vegetables trimmed like jewels. He spears a cube with his fork, pinches it between tattooed fingers, brings it to my lips. “Open.”
The meat is buttery, smoky, perfect. I chew, swallow, and he’s already offering another piece, brushing my bottom lip with his thumb before feeding me again. Between bites he wipes corners of my mouth with the pad of his thumb, then licks it clean. The ritual is tender, obscene, like I’m a pet he’s starving to fatten. He alternates steak with asparagus, then mushrooms, each morsel delivered by hand.
“Wine.” He passes a glass of garnet liquid. I down it in one, alcohol flushing heat through my chest, loosening the knots he tied inside me. He refills, but sets it aside after one sip, threading fingers through my damp hair.
He kisses me—hard, claiming, tongue sweeping every corner like he’s tasting the wine in my mouth and stealing it. I melt into it, whimpering when he bites my lower lip hard enough I taste iron. His hands drop to the shirt, yanking it up over my hips so cool air shocks my bare pussy.
“You’re wet already,” he growls against my mouth.
A finger slide through my folds, slick sounds filling the quiet suite. He circles my clit with merciless accuracy, pressure perfect. My hips jerk, but he cages me with an arm around my waist, finger-fucking me slow and deep, then pulling out to rub my clit again, teasing until I’m panting.
“Please—” “Please what?”
“I need—” Words crumble under another flick.
He chuckles darkly, lifts me off his lap, and lays me on the rug. Knees spread wide, shirt bunched under my tits. He kneels, shoulders forcing my thighs wider, breath hot against my cunt.
“Eyes on me.” I look down the line of my body. His beard scrapes inner thigh, eyes black fire. He licks one long stripe, nose bumping my clit, then seals his mouth over it and sucks.
A garbled cry tears out of me. He alternates—soft flicks, hard suction, a finger plunging into my pussy, curling, dragging wetness up to swirl around my asshole. My back bows; the rug burns my shoulder blades. He eats me like I’m the meal, slurping, groaning, owning every tremor.
“Adriano—sir—please, I want your dick inside my pussy.” The plea falls raw, desperate. He lifts his face, chin glossed with my juices. “You’re a virgin.” Flat certainty.
Heat floods my cheeks. I nod.
“I can’t take that from you tonight,” he says, voice rough but final. “Not while you’re bruised and half-drunk.”
I bite my lip, frustration molten. My hand snakes between legs, fingers sliding through wetness. I start rubbing myself hard, chasing the orgasm he’s keeping just out of reach, showing him what he refuses to finish.
His control cracks—nostrils flare, cock visibly tenting. “Fuck it.” He flips me onto all fours, shoves the shirt up my back. “You want me? You’ll take me where I’ve already been.”
Fear and lust spike. “Yes—yes, sir, please—”
He spits, rubs the head of his cock over my sore rim, then pushes. The burn is immediate, stretching swollen tissue. I bury a scream in the cushion. He sinks inch by inch, groaning at the tight clasp.
“Breathe, little one. Push back.”
I do; he bottoms out, pelvis flush to my ass. For a heartbeat he’s still, letting my body adjust around the thick invasion. Then he moves—slow, deliberate strokes that graduate into pounding thrusts, hips slapping bruised flesh. Every plunge drags a moan or sob from my throat; tears slide off my chin, salt on my tongue.
“So fucking tight,” he grits. “Swear you were made for my cock.”
He leans over, hand cupping my jaw, turning my head so he can watch my face crumple with each thrust. The angle shifts; sparks detonate behind my eyes. His balls slap my pussy lips, wet from my arousal, adding another layer of messy sensation.
Pressure coils deep. “Please—may I come?”
“No.” He speeds up, brutal, claiming. “You’ll come when I fill this greedy ass.”
Whimpers rip free; I thrash but he cages me, forearm across my chest, pinning me arched. He growls my name, slams once, twice, then buries deep and stills. Hot pulses flood me, jet after jet, his cock jerking inside my stretched hole. The knowledge he’s marking me, owning me, shoves me to the edge, but I hold the orgasm, shaking.
He exhales, long and satisfied, and slowly pulls out. Cool air rushes the gaping rim; a trickle of cum follows, sliding over my clit to drip on the rug. I collapse, lungs heaving, tears cooling on my cheeks.
Footsteps retreat, water runs. He returns with ice wrapped in a linen napkin, kneels, presses it to my burning ass. I flinch, yelp.
“Shhh. Stop crying,” he soothes, voice gentler than the steel that just split me open. “Breathe. It’s over.”
I drag oxygen in, out, letting the chill numb the throb. He traces fingertips up my spine, murmuring Italian I don’t understand but feel—praise, maybe, or apology masked in velvet.
Eventually the ice melts; he tosses the cloth aside, gathers me against his chest, and rocks. Shirt soaked with sweat and tears, I cling to his neck, small, shattered, safe.
His lips brush my temple.