Chapter 17 17

Chapter 17 17
Bridget

After hearing about the bloodbound marriage ceremony, I need more drinks. I am already on my third glass of gin. My head feels light, but my thoughts are sharp and cruel.

How could Adriano do this to me?

Does this mean I am his wife by ritual? In his tradition, what we did counts as a wedding, and it is sacred. Just like Rafaelle said, once that ceremony is done, there is no going back.

My hands are sweaty. My lips tremble. I want to call Adriano and demand answers, but that would be too easy. If he played this game without telling me the rules, then I will have to play smart too.

We are at the hotel bar. Rafaelle sits in front of me, relaxed, while Adriano is nearby, talking to his men. I walk over to Rafaelle and sit next to him.

“Why are you always busy on your phone?” I ask, leaning closer.

He turns off his phone and looks at me with surprised eyes. I run my fingers lightly through his long, slicked back hair.

“Because I’m always working, sweetheart,” he says in a playful tone.

I smile and lean closer to his face. Our lips are inches apart. From the corner of my eye, I watch Adriano. His posture stiffens. His jaw tightens. The jealousy on his face is impossible to miss.

“Can I kiss you?” I murmur to Rafaelle.

He chuckles softly. “Are you trying to start a war between two brothers?” He tucks my hair behind my ear, still smiling.

I giggle. “Just a platonic one,” I say, and place a light kiss on his lips. He does not respond or deepen it. I pull away.

“You invited me to your suite for a drink,” I say casually. “So are you free, Mr. Rafaelle De Costa?”

Adriano is staring at me now, full of rage, unblinking. The look in his eyes feels deadly.

“Fuck, Bridget,” Rafaelle mutters under his breath. “Fine. But just a drink. Nothing more.”

“Sure,” I reply with a smile.

Seraphina laughs softly. “Have fun. Maybe Bridget will become my sister-in-law instead of my best friend.” She swirls the wine in her glass, clearly teasing.

Rafaelle shakes his head with an amused smile. “That’s not going to happen.”

He places a respectful hand on my waist, and we walk toward the private elevator. Adriano’s eyes never leave me. His expression looks like a promise of violence.

Inside the elevator, Rafaelle presses D12. When we arrive, he walks to the minibar.

“I’ll get you gin,” he says.

His suite is similar to Adriano’s, just different colors. There is even a private pool.

I sit on the velvet couch and slip off my shoes.

“What was that kiss about?” Rafaelle asks while preparing the drinks.

“Nothing,” I say, waving my hand.

“Was it to make Adriano jealous?” he asks with a knowing smirk.

I shake my head. “No.”

“So what was it?”

I sigh. “I saw you. I felt like kissing you.”

He hands me my gin and sits beside me, but before anything else can be said, the elevator dings again.

Adriano walks in.

His eyes immediately lock on me.

“Hey, bro,” he says to Rafaelle, his tone flat.

Rafaelle leans toward me. “Sorry, Bridget. I had to text him.”

I roll my eyes.

“We’re leaving,” Adriano says, hands in his pockets.

“It’s my day off,” I reply calmly. “I can stay with Rafaelle.”

“No, you can’t,” he snaps.

“Why not?”

“Because you’re mine,” he says harshly. “You’re my maid. You come with me.”

The elevator dings again. A woman in a short dress steps inside.

“To the bedroom,” Rafaelle tells her. She nods and walks away.

“See you later,” Rafaelle says, leaving me alone with Adriano.

Adriano kneels in front of me, grips my neck, and pulls me into a hard kiss. His anger bleeds into desperation.

“Don’t you ever seek attention from another man,” he says against my lips. “Did you hear me?”

I nod.

He pulls me to my feet and drags me toward the elevator, pressing D19.

When we reach his suite, he locks the access for the elevator to his suite.

And I know this night is far from over.

The suite is marble and shadow, all cold gold fixtures and the scent of his cologne—leather, bergamot, gun oil. Adriano’s hand clamps around my wrist, past his bedroom, past the bar where the silver ice bucket and the unfinished whiskey sits quietly.

My pulse stutters like a cheap lighter.

One twist of his grip and I’m through the bathroom door; the click of the lock behind us is a judge’s gavel.

The mirror stretches wide, lights flaring cruel and white. I see myself for a split second—black shirt clinging to my slim frame, eyes too large, pupils already blown—before his palm knots in my hair and shoves me down.

Tile slams into my knees. The sting ricochets up my thighs and settles hot in my cunt, because I know what’s coming and because I’m dripping already.

He towers, shoulders blocking the chandelier glare, beard cut sharp along his clenched jaw.

“Suck this big dick,” he growls, voice gravel and smoke.

The belt unbuckles with a viper hiss. Zipper teeth part. He yanks trousers and black boxer-briefs down just enough to free the thick shaft that’s been shoving against the fabric all night—ruddy, veined, the crown slick with the first pearlescent bead of pre-cum.

My mouth opens without permission from my brain. I want it, fear it, hate that I crave the taste.

He drags me by the scalp until my lips touch heat. The musk of him invades my lungs.

I lap that first salty drop, swirling under the flange, and he grunts, the sound pitched low between approval and warning.

Then he pistons forward, feeding me every inch until my throat folds around him. My gag reflex punches, eyes watering, mascara already liquefying.

He doesn’t stop. His hold keeps my head still while he pulls back and spears in again, fucking my face with steady, merciless strokes.

Saliva floods, spills down my chin, splashes my black shirt. He watches me in the mirror—eyes glittering, tattoos on his knuckles flexing each time he jabs deeper.

“You feel that?” he rasps. “That’s mine. This mouth is mine.”

I whimper around the cock splitting my lips, vibration rippling up his length. My hips rock involuntarily, trying to grind air.

Suddenly he yanks free, strings of spit dangling, breaking. I cough, suck ragged breath.

He crouches, face inches from mine, fingers still twisted in my hair so tight my scalp burns.

“I don’t want you close to any other men! Did you get it?” The yell ricochets off travertine walls.

“Y-yes, sir,” I stammer, voice shredded.

He jerks my head once for emphasis. “Any other dick near you, I’ll cut it off. You understand, sugarplums?” Tears slip, hot and humiliating, mixing with spit. I nod frantically. The possessive blaze in his eyes scorches straight to my clit.

Adriano straightens, breathing hard through his nose. His cock, glossy from my throat, bobs angry and thick. For a beat I think he’s done—maybe he’ll drag me to bed, finish there—but he yanks me upright, spins me, and starts ripping clothes off like they offend him.

Buttons ping off marble. My black shirt flutters to the floor. He wrenches my sports bra over my head, trapping my arms for a heartbeat before flinging it away. My small breasts spill free, nipples pinching in the cool air, already aching for the teeth I know are coming.

Instead he shoves pants and panties down in one savage tug. I’m on my period; the string of my tampon peeks between my thighs, the only scrap of fabric he lets stay.

Blood-heat floods my cheeks. “I-I’m—”

He silences me with a glare, fists working his buckle open fully so his pants drop. “Shower, now.”

He twists the faucet. Water thunders against marble. Steam rises instantly, a suffocating cloud that smells of minerals and tension.

His hand slams between my shoulder blades, driving me under the spray still half-dressed in sneakers and socks. Water soaks my hair, paints it to my back in inky ropes. It turns the remaining shreds of my shirt transparent, gluing them to my waist.

The tampon string darkens, wet. Humiliation burns brighter than the spray.

He steps in behind me, trousers gone, tattooed chest slicking under streams. His cock, stiffer than ever, jabs my tailbone.

Without ceremony he bends me over, palm braced between my shoulder blades, ass offered to scorching water and cold air both.

I brace hands on the bench seat, legs trembling. The unstated question hovers: spit or lube?

His answer is raw, perfect cruelty—thumb gathering shower water, circling my tight knot once, twice, then punching through.

I cry out, the sound swallowed by water drumming tile. He stretches me open, adding a second digit, scissoring. The stretch burns, delicious and vicious.

I’m soaked inside, but not where he wants. He pulls out, lines up the broad head of his dick. “You were kissing my brother! Huh?”

“It was just a platonic kiss,” I gasp, water streaming into my mouth.

His answer is a thrust—hips rock and the thick crown pops past my ring. Fire sears up my spine, pleasure twisted with the ache.

“Platonic,” he sneers, hands gripping my hips hard enough to brand. “Your tongue anywhere near his, you think I won’t smell him on you?”

He slams deeper, balls slapping my pussy lips around the tampon string. My body jolts forward; sneakers squeak on wet tile.

I try to breathe through the stretch, but every exhale becomes a sob.

Water courses over my back, runs in rivers down the crack he’s stuffing full of cock again and again. The sound of skin on wet skin echoes—crisp, savage.

“You’re mine,” he growls, accent thickening. “This ass. This cunt. This pretty fucking mouth.” Each noun pairs with a thrust that rearranges my insides.

I claw at marble, searching for purchase, but there’s nothing but his iron grip. My tits jounce with the rhythm, nipples grazing cold stone bench whenever he folds me lower.

The pressure inside my belly coils, an impossible fullness that’s part pain, part blinding bliss. Suddenly he stops buried to root, chest heaving. His hand lifts.

“I’ll punish you for this,” he snaps.

The first spank cracks across my soaked cheek, water exploding off skin like shattered glass. I yelp, muscles clenching around his shaft buried deep.

“You—” smack “—do not—” smack “—kiss—” smack “—anyone—” smack “—but me.”

Each impact ripples through flesh, stings layering until my ass feels molten. I dance on my toes, sneakers slipping.

“Please, Adriano, please stop,” I blubber, tears lost in shower spray.

He pauses, palm hovering, admiring the crimson bloom. “You beg so sweet, sugarplums.”

Then his hips restart—slow, grinding, dragging that thick length back until just the head stretches my rim, then ramming home again.

He alternates: thrust, spank, thrust, spank until my voice is hoarse and my legs spasm.

My clit throbs, ignored, the tampon string slapping wetly with every impact—a constant reminder of how thoroughly he owns even my most private functions.

The coil in my abdomen winds tighter, climax looming despite the punishment, because the possession is absolute and my body is a traitor.

He senses it—always does—and curls over me, one hand reaching under to pinch my nipple, twisting until I squeal.

“Don’t you dare come without permission.” His breath brands my ear. I bite my lip hard enough to taste copper, fighting the wave.

Adriano straightens, speeds up, hips a blur of slapping muscle, abs flexing, water cascading off the angles of his tattooed chest.

Grunts tear from his throat—animal, ragged. His cock swells, stretching me further.

With a final roar he buries himself, balls drawn tight. Jets of cum flood my ass, heat blooming deep. I feel every pulse, every claim he stakes inside me.

He keeps his cock planted, letting the water run cold before finally easing out. I tighten automatically, trying to hold him, earning a hiss.

When he steps back, my body gapes, sore and empty, his spend trailing down my quivering thigh in cloudy

streaks diluted by the shower.

He doesn’t touch me again.

Adriano scrubs himself efficiently—face, hair, torso—watching me tremble in the spray, my ass on fire, shirt plastered see-through to my ribs.

He shuts off the faucet. Sudden silence rings louder than the storm.

A towel snaps open. He dries his skin, beard, cock, every inch, never offering it to me. Tattoos glimmer under droplets he missed.

He wraps the towel low on his hips, knotting with brisk finality. Dark eyes flick to mine, softer at the edges but still blazing with ownership.

“Clean yourself up,” he mutters.

Then he’s gone—door clicking shut, leaving only the ghost of his scent and the echo of my heartbeat.

I sag against the marble bench, cum leaking from my throbbing ass, tampon string tickling inner thigh, sneakers squelching.

Steam fades, mirror reappears, showing a wreck: mascara streaks, swollen lips, nipples peaked and red, ass crimson.

The water on the floor carries diluted pink—proof of period, proof of punishment, proof of him.

I draw a shaky hand between my legs, brushing clit once—electric—then pull it away, unsure if permission will ever come.

My knees buckle and I kneel there, droplets chilling on my skin, waiting for the strength to stand, to face him beyond the door, to wear again the invisible collar that ties me tighter than any chain.