My entire body tensed, turned pliant and taut at once, vibrating under his grip, under his pace, under the relentless force with which he hammered me into the wall. I was teetering on the edge, felt the pressure building. He felt it too, thrust deeper. "You're close. Come for me."
And I fell. Not silently, and certainly not discreetly. Fuck. I came with a cry that shuddered through me like an earthquake, wracking my body, overwhelming me. My core clenched around him, but he didn’t let himself be dragged under. Fought againstit with iron control while I was swept away by the wave. Everything went white. Flickering. Empty and full at the same time.
I hung limp against him, my forehead resting on his shoulder, my breath uneven, my heart racing. My body still hummed from the force of my climax, yet I could still feel him inside me—hard, hot, unmoving. As if nothing was over, but everything was just beginning.
He tightened his grip, lifted me with a low growl as if I were nothing more than his possession—warm, pliant, breathing heavily. I felt the muscles under my hands, his tense body, the control that was nearly tearing him apart.
"Tell me…" My voice was rough, fractured. "Do you ever get enough?"
He strode down the hallway, still holding me against him, his steps deliberate.
"We fucked in the car today," I murmured, half-dazed, half-disbelieving, "I just came for the second time, I can barely speak—and unless I'm mistaken, you're carrying me to the bedroom now?"
He laughed. Dirty. "I'll never get enough of you," he murmured against my neck. "Your pussy feels too good. And your control issues…" He grinned against my skin. "...they’re practically begging for therapy."
I lifted my head sluggishly, eyeing him skeptically. "Therapy? And what exactly does that mean?"
When we reached the bedroom, he kicked the door open with a casual motion and set me down right in front of the bed. His gaze raked over me.
"Tonight, you learn to let go…" he informed me, his eyes calmly scanning the room. Then he reached for his pants and, in one swift, silent motion, pulled the black leather belt free from the loops.
I watched him warily, standing motionless.
"Give me something to anchor you."
I raised an eyebrow in confusion. "Anchor me?"
He looked at me, his gaze flickering. Then he grinned—slow, with that sharp curl of his lips that never promised anything good. "Well… something to tie you to the bed with."
I blinked. The words hit me like a shock.
"You want to tie me to the bed?" My tone was pure, feigned outrage.
He stepped closer, never breaking eye contact. "You didn’t exactly live chastely with Vaughn, did you?"
I averted my gaze, running a nervous hand through my hair.
"He wasn’t… into that," I muttered, embarrassed. Just saying it out loud was uncomfortable. Intimate. Somehow shameful.
Alessandro was silent for a moment. Then he laughed softly, the sound more like mockery than genuine amusement. "Of course not," he finally said, dry and entertained. "Carter Vaughn. The perfect gentleman. He knows how to recommend wine—but not how to touch you."
His gaze trailed down my body, slow, unashamed. "No wonder you’re so defiant. He kept you wrapped in cotton wool for too long."
I stared at him, stunned by his audacity. "You’re really…" I struggled for words, still half-laughing. "Such an asshole."
"An asshole who knows how you need it." He stepped even closer, barely a hand’s width away. "Time to remind you what control feels like. And how good it can be to surrender it." He lifted the tie he’d pulled from his jacket earlier, let the fabric slide through his fingers. *"The belt for the bed. The tie for your eyes."
I instinctively stepped back. "I hate this."
"Yes, you always say that. But your reactions to pain and submission tell a different story." His voice had grown deeper,his eyes glinting. "You're a depraved little bitch who gets wetter the harder I fuck you."
I wanted to say something, any kind of objection—but he stepped behind me, pushed my hair aside, lowered his head to my ear. "Your body already knows how good it feels when you let go. Only your mind is still resisting. And that ends now."
I felt his fingertips lightly brush my neck. Gentle. Almost tender. My breath quickened.
"You're nervous," he growled, quiet, with a hint of pleasure. "But not because you're afraid of me. Because you already know what I could do to you—if you let me." His hand slid slowly over my stomach. "That's what excites you so much. That it might hurt."
I held my breath, my pulse racing. That flutter in the pit of my stomach—not fear. Anticipation.
