Page 18 of Wicked Bloodlines

“This doesn’t change anything,” I gasped as he lifted me, my back braced against the wall.

“Shut up,” he growled, mouth moving to my neck, biting down hard enough to make me cry out. “Just shut up.”

I wrapped my legs around his waist, feeling the hard press of him through his pants. My head fell back against the wall as he gripped my thighs, fingers digging into flesh hard enough to bruise. I welcomed the pain. It felt honest, nothing like the calculated cruelty I’d grown up with.

He tore my underwear away, the fabric giving with a satisfying rip. I fumbled with his belt buckle, desperate now, my fingers tangling with his in our mutual urgency. When he finally freed himself and thrust into me with a single brutal stroke, we both froze, locked together in shocked pleasure. I wasn’t ready but I didn’t care. The slight burn and the brutal fullness of him only heightened everything else.

“Move,” I whispered, digging my heels into the small of his back. “Fuck me like you hate me.”

His eyes flashed, something primal and possessive darkening his gaze. “I don’t hate you,” he said, voice rough as he pulled back only to slam forward again. “That’s the whole fucking problem.”

He fucked me against that wall with relentless intensity, each thrust punctuated by the slap of flesh and our harsh breathing. I clawed at his shoulders, leaving red furrows down his back that made him hiss and drive harder. This wasn’t making love. This was exorcism, both of us trying to fuck the weakness of needing the other out of our systems.

Without warning, he pulled away, leaving me empty and aching. Before I could protest, he spun me around and bent me over the edge of his massive bed. One large hand pressed between my shoulder blades, keeping me down while the other guided him back inside me from behind.

“This what you want?” he panted, gripping my hip with bruising force. “To be fucked like you’re nothing? Like you belong to me for my pleasure alone?”

“Yes,” I moaned, because in that moment, it was true. I wanted to be claimed, marked, owned. Not forever, but for now. Just long enough to forget everything else and lose myself in this hedonistic experience. “Harder!”

He complied, setting a punishing pace that had me clutching at the duvet, face pressed into the mattress to muffle my cries. Each thrust pushed me closer to the edge, pleasure coiling tighter and tighter. When he snaked his arm around to find my clit, I nearly sobbed with relief.

“Come for me,” he demanded, voice strained with his own approaching climax. “Show me what you’ve been hiding behind that perfect mask.”

The orgasm hit like violence, my entire body convulsing as waves of pleasure tore through me. I bit down on the duvet to keep from screaming, my inner muscles clenching around him in rhythmic pulses. He groaned, his rhythm faltering as he followed me over the edge, emptying himself inside me with a hoarse cry that might have been my name.

For several moments, we stayed locked together, the only sound our ragged breathing gradually slowing. Then he withdrew, leaving me feeling suddenly, strangely empty. I turned to face him, watching as he stripped off the rest of his clothes. He stepped into the bathroom. When he returned it was with a wash cloth.

Without a word, he helped me remove the remains of my dress. Then he used the still warm cloth to gently clean my pussy with slow gentle strokes that made me shiver. My oversensitive clit protested in the sweetest way. He held my gaze and I couldn’t look away.

When he finished, he climbed onto the bed, tucking one arm behind his head. His gaze never left mine. It felt like he assessed my reactions to him. I thought he’d been as lost in pleasure as I’d been, but this man had way more experience than me in every possible aspect of life.

I stood on shaky legs, unsure what to do. Standing there, naked, I felt completely exposed and vulnerable. I turned to go, but Matteo stopped me.

“Sofia, stop.” I turned to look over my shoulder, my arm going over my breasts. “Come to bed.” He shoved back the covers. “Please.”

I took a breath. This was the worst idea in the history of ideas. But before I could recite all the reasons I should turn tail and run, I found myself shuffling toward him.

I climbed onto the bed. The next thing I knew, Matteo had his arm around my waist, pulling me closer to him while his other arm pillowed my head.

“This changes nothing,” I said again, but the words sounded hollow even to my ears.

Matteo gently turned my head slightly as he leaned up slightly to look at me. I saw his gaze drop briefly to the bruising on my cheek.

“Does it hurt?” He brushed his thumb over the abused skin gently.

“A little maybe. I’ve had worse.” I tried to smile, to make light of the situation, but couldn’t quite commit.

He caught my hand, bringing it to his lips in a gesture so unexpectedly gentle it made my chest ache. “I meant what I said. He won’t touch you again.”

“In your world,” I said softly, “protection and possession really are the same thing, aren’t they?”

Matteo didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he dipped his head to kiss my shoulder briefly. “They have to be,” he finally said. “One doesn’t work without the other.”

I nodded, understanding now what I hadn’t before. The Luca family protected what belonged to them with ferocious dedication. If I wanted that protection, and I desperately did, I had to accept that it came with invisible chains. The question was whether those chains offered more freedom than the ones I’d worn in my father’s house.

As I drifted toward sleep in the arms of the man who was now both my greatest threat and my strongest shield, I decided that tomorrow was soon enough to resume our private war. Tonight, I’d take what comfort I could find in the arms of my enemy.

Chapter Seven