Page 30 of From Italy With Love

I came hard, burying myself as deep as I could go. The pleasure was so intense, so overwhelming, I saw stars explode behind my eyelids. Wave after wave crashed over me as I emptied my balls deep inside her, my body shuddering with the force of my release.

We didn’t sleep.

I took her again an hour later, slower this time, savoring every moment, on her side with her back pressed firmly against my chest, my hand between her legs while I moved inside her with deliberate, measured thrusts. She was so sensitive by then. Her nerve endings raw and heightened, as every touch made her gasp, made her tremble and shake against me, and when she came, it was with tears streaming down her flushed face from the sheer intensity of it. I kissed those tears away, tasting the salt on her skin, as I whispered words of praise and reassurance into her ear.

Then again, in the early hours of the morning, her on top this time, riding me while I gripped her hips and watched her breasts bounce with each movement, mesmerized by the sight of her. She was getting bolder now, more confident in her desires, taking what she wanted without hesitation or shame, and I watched her chase her pleasure with such abandon.

The way her head fell back, the way her lips parted, the way her body moved.

It was art.

She was art.

I flipped her over when I couldn’t take it anymore, when the need became too overwhelming to control, pinning her wrists above her head with one hand, then fucked her hard until we both came, her screaming into my shoulder to muffle the sound so we wouldn’t wake the entire hotel. Her nails dug into my wrist despite her pinned wrists, leaving marks I would wear proudly tomorrow.

Around four in the morning, after we had both caught our breath and I thought perhaps we had finally exhausted ourselves, I had her on her hands and knees, gripping her hips hard enough to leave bruises. Marks of possession I wanted her to feel for days, while I took her from behind with renewed hunger. This angle let me go deeper, hit spots that made her sob with pleasure, her arms shaking with the effort of holding herself up, and when I reached around to play with her swollen clit, circling it with my fingers, she came so hard she collapsed forward onto the mattress, her whole-body convulsing.

I followed her down, covering her smaller frame with mine, still moving inside her, relentless in my need, and when I came it was with my teeth on her shoulder, marking her, followed by her name on my lips like a prayer.

“I can’t,” she whimpered after that one, her voice hoarse, broken. Her body trembled with exhaustion and overstimulation. “Salvatore, I can’t anymore. It’s too much. Please.”

“Shh,” I soothed, pulling out carefully as I gathered her against my chest and wrapped my arms protectively around her. “It’s okay. Rest now. I’ve got you.”

But even as I held her, even as her breathing evened out and I thought she was finally falling asleep, my hands were moving over her body, tracing patterns on her skin. I couldn’t stop touching her. I couldn’t stop wanting her. I couldn’t stop this addiction that had taken hold of me. She stirred when my fingers found her clit between her swollen lips, as I explored her sensitive flesh. She made a sound that was half protest, half pleasure, her body responding despite her exhaustion.

“I know you’re tired,” I murmured against her ear, my voice rough with desire. “I know you’re sore. But I need you again. Just once more. Please, Amore Mio.”

“You’re insatiable,” she breathed, but she was already spreading her legs for me, already arching into my touch despite her protests, her body betraying how much she wanted this too.

“Only for you,” I said, and it was the absolute truth.

I’d never been like this before. Never needed anyone like this. Never felt this desperate, this consumed, this utterly lost in another person. She’d awakened something primal in me.

I took her again, gently this time, almost tender, because I could feel how sore she was, how exhausted her body had become from hours of pleasure. I moved slowly inside her, savoring every sensation, every small sound she made, every flutter of her muscles around me. And when she came, it was quietly, almost like a soft gasp, a gentle shudder that rippled through her entire body, and I followed her over the edge with my face buried in her neck, breathing in her scent, completely and utterly hers.

By the time the sky lightened outside the window, painting the horizon in soft shades of pink and gold, she was finally asleep. Curled against my chest, her breaths deep and even, her body completely relaxed in a way I had never seen before. The tension she carried, that careful wariness, that constant readiness to flee, had melted away entirely. I could see the marks I had left on her. The faint bruises on her hips, her thighs, her neck, blooming like dark flowers across her pale skin.

Evidence of what we had done.

What I had done.

Evidence of how thoroughly I’d claimed her.

Evidence that she was mine.

I should have felt guilty. I should have felt something other than this fierce, possessive satisfaction that burned in my chest like a brand.

But I didn’t.

Not even a flicker of remorse.

Not even a moment’s hesitation or doubt.

I watched her sleep as the room gradually filled with pale morning light, studying every detail of her face as if I were memorizing scripture. Her face was peaceful, younger somehow without the careful control she usually wore like armor. Her dark red hair spread across the pillow in wild waves, tangled from my hands, still damp in places from sweat and exertion. Her lips were swollen from my kisses, slightly parted, and I could see the faint mark where I had bitten down too hard in the heat of the moment.

She was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen.

And she was mine now.