Page 25

My breath hitches, his heat seeping into me, and despite the mess, the blood, the insanity of it all, I’m drawn in and hooked on him, his chaos, the way he makes me feel alive even when it’s wrong.

I thread a needle and get into it. The sting of peroxide wafts around as I clean him up.

He doesn’t flinch, just watches me, eyes vigilant and hungry, like I’m the only thing keeping him tethered.

The last stitch pulls tight, and I tie it off, but his good hand’s already on me, sliding up my thigh, fingers rough and calloused.

“Sit on my lap,” he rasps, his voice thick with want, a command that sends a shiver racing down my spine.

“But I just—” I start, glancing at the fresh stitches, the blood still oozing.

“Sit on my damn lap, Penelope, now,” he cuts me off, his tone flat, dripping with heat and menace and the kind of filthy promise that makes my pulse stutter and my core clamp.

His eyes lock on mine, black and burning, daring me to disobey.

“I don’t give a fuck about the stitches.

I need you on me, grinding that sweet little pussy against me, right fucking now. ”

“Adriano...”

“Fuck, Penelope,” he growls, pulling me onto his lap when I hesitate a beat too long.

I straddle him, his blood staining my shorts, hot and sticky against my skin, and grind down hard, the friction sparking heat that coils tight in my core.

His good hand grabs my hip, hard enough to bruise, guiding me as I roll against him, the bulge in his pants pressing insistent and thick against me.

He groans, a raw, animal sound, and slides his fingers up my thigh, finding the edge of my shorts, teasing the damp fabric clinging to me.

“Even when I thought I was taking my last breath, this is what I was thinking about, how I might never feel your slippery cunt wrapped around me again.” His fingers dig into my hips, then slip under my waistband, finding me soaked, and throbbing.

He groans, low and guttural, and plunges two fingers inside me, curling them deep until my back arches and a whimper spills out.

“Adriano—” My voice is a plea, hips rocking against his hand, chasing the ache.

“Need you,” he begs, voice cracking, pathetic and raw. “I need to be inside you, cara. Please, fuck, I’ll die without it.” His fingers pump faster, slick and relentless, thumb circling my clit until I’m trembling, teetering on the edge.

I hesitate, the stitches fresh, blood still seeping, but he’s kissing me now, hard and messy, all teeth and tongue, tasting of copper and desperation.

“Please,” he whines again, a broken sound that shatters me, and I’m done resisting.

I shove his pants down, his cock springing free.

The thick, veined, tip glistens with precum and I grab him, stroking once, twice, watching his head tip back with a choked moan.

I line him up, the blunt head nudging my entrance, and sink down, slowly savoring the stretch, the burn, the way he fills me so deep It’s almost too much.

“Fuck,” he snarls, his good hand on my ass, smearing blood across my skin.

The stitches split as I move, crimson trickling down his arm, pooling where our bodies join.

I ride him hard, hips rolling, thighs trembling, the wet slap of flesh loud and obscene.

He grabs my hair, draws my head back, and drags his tongue up my throat, sucking a bruise into my pulse.

“Look at you, my filthy fucking angel. Taking me so good, all covered in my blood. You love this, don’t you? Love being my dirty little whore.”

“Yes,” I gasp, nails raking his chest, leaving red welts.

He thrusts up, brutal, relentless, the head of his cock hitting that spot inside me that makes stars burst behind my eyes.

Blood smears between us, so slick and warm, and he grabs my hand, pressing it to his wounded arm, making me feel the pulse, the heat.

“Fuck me harder,” I beg, voice hoarse, and he obliges, pounding into me with a growl, his good hand sliding between us to rub my clit in tight, vicious circles.

“You’re so wet for me,” he rasps, teeth grazing my jaw.

“Dripping down my cock, soaking me. I’m going to fuck you until this is all you ever think about, until you’re ruined for anyone else.

You’re mine, cara—my tight little cunt, my everything.

” His words are a filthy litany, dripping with possession, and I’m lost in it, body melting around him, pleasure building so sharp it hurts.

“Did you mean it?” I pant, mid-thrust, my hands braced on his shoulders as I ride him, his cock buried deep, pulsing inside me. “Everything you said in that text?”

He freezes for a split second, then surges up, flipping me onto my back without pulling out, pinning me beneath him. His bloodied hand is on my throat, squeezing just enough to make my head spin, and he drives into me, slow and punishing, each thrust dragging against every nerve.

“Every fucking word,” he snarls, eyes wild, unhinged. “I missed you so much I’d crawl through hell to get to you. You’re my obsession, Penelope—my blood, my breath, my goddamn soul. I’d kill for this pussy, die for it, fuck you even when the world burns down around us.”

His hips snap harder, deeper, the chair creaking under us, the headrest colliding against the wall so hard it’s leaving dents.

And I’m shattering, screaming his name as I come, walls pulsing around him, milking him dry.

He groans, a primal sound, and spills inside me as his body shudders and he collapses, his blood and sweat and cum a sticky mess between us.

We’re panting, wrecked, and he laughs—a weak, raspy sound, his hand limp against my thigh.

“Better get me to the hospital, cara. Don’t want me bleeding out to death before I can fuck you again.”

I smile and kiss the corner of his mouth, tasting iron and him. “You’re impossible and we need therapy.”

“And you’re addicted,” he murmurs back, eyes glinting with that unhinged spark that pulls me in every time. His good hand slides up my back, possessive even in its weakness, fingers tracing the sweat-slick curve of my spine.

He’s right. I am.