Page 153 of Modern Romance December 2025 1-4

The hot words fall like sparks on my skin, igniting me, and I’m breathing fast as I lean forward, reaching into his jeans. He’s hot and so hard, and his skin is like silk, and when I put my hands on him, I feel the muscles in his thighs tense.

He wants this so badly, I can see it in his eyes, his expression searing as he watches. So I meet his gaze and I hold it as I open my mouth and wrap my lips around him, exactly as he wanted.

He hisses in pleasure, his hands sliding into my hair and gathering it in his fists. ‘Suck me, dragonfly,’ he growls. ‘Make me see stars with your mouth.’

And I want to. I want to make him see stars, see God himself. Send him to heaven and back, knowing that it was me who gave him that. Me who gave him such pleasure. So I do what he tells me, tasting him, exploring him with my tongue, nipping him with my teeth, and working him with my mouth. Then I watch the savage pleasure that ripples over his face, thrilling to the intensity of it, my own pleasure building higher and higher the more he’s affected by me and what I’m doing to him.

He murmurs something then, a vicious word in Italian, and I’m startled as he pulls my head away.

‘What are you—?’ I begin.

But he’s already hauling me up into his arms, shoving the green silk of my gown out of the way as he sits me in his lap, facing him. Then he looks down at his cock and the red marks on his skin left by my lipstick, and he shifts me, spreading me open delicately, then pushing inside me in one deep stroke.

‘Like this,’ he says roughly as I gasp aloud. ‘I want you like this.’

Then he’s pulling my mouth down on his, his kiss hungry, savage almost, and definitely demanding. I answer the demand, too, because I want him to want more. I want him to demand it, to let me know he doesn’t see me as fragile. That he truly believes what he says when he tells me I’m strong.

And he does. He give me no quarter and in releasing his own demanding nature, he releases mine. I kiss him back just as savagely and I’m just as demanding. I glory in how hard he grips me and in the sharp, deep thrusts of his hips. I love the feeling of his teeth against my bottom lip and then lower, against the side of my neck and then my collarbones.

He’s demanding, yet he’s the one slipping his hand down between my legs, his fingers on my clit, giving me the extra friction I need like a gentleman, and I’m the one who comes first, crying out his name. Seconds later, he gives one deep thrust before joining me in the flames.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Rafael

I hold herin my arms, my head fallen back against the back of the couch, staring sightlessly up at the ceiling as the aftershocks of that incredible orgasm grip me tight.

Dio.What has she done to me? I feel emptied out, sated, peaceful almost, in a way I’ve never felt before, not even after that night in Singapore. Or even the sex we had earlier today, and I’m not sure why.

Is it because of how she gave herself to me? Obeying my demands without question and then matching me in passion? Or is it because of how she was honest with me before, about the gifts her brother would give her and what a pressure that became for her?

I’m not sure, and perhaps it should worry me that I can’t put a finger on why, yet, right now, with her in my arms, all wrapped up in the green silk gown I knew would look amazing on her, it doesn’t seem that important. I don’t want to think about it now anyway. What I want is to sit here like this, with her in my arms, and not think about a single damn thing, except how lovely she looked unwrapping all the presents I gave her, and how the pleasure she took in them was mine.

It was also satisfying to know that they were different from the ones her brother got her, and that she loved that. Not that I needed her appreciation—I meant what I said when I told her I’d send them all back if she didn’t like them—but I did like the pleasure she took in them.

It’s been a long time since I’ve thought about non-sexual pleasure, but sitting on the couch watching her open all those boxes and bags, I was thinking of hers, and how strange it was to find that it was important to me.

I can’t recall the last time anything but my revenge was important to me, but somehow Olympia Zakynthos’s happiness has become so.

It’s a strange thing to admit and not one I’m ready to confess, not yet, so I stay silent as she shifts on me, lifting her head from where it lies on my shoulder and glancing up at me. Her hair is tumbled and her lipstick smeared and she looks gloriously ravished.

‘Dangerous, dragonfly,’ I murmur. ‘Watching you suck me was the most erotic sight I’ve ever seen.’

Oh,’ she says, blushing. ‘That’s good.’

Her obvious embarrassment is charming, especially after what we’ve just done, but I shift, deciding we need to move to the floor and rid ourselves of our clothes. I proceed to help her take off the gown and it’s like unwrapping my own, most delicious present. Then I take off the jeans and tee that I’m wearing, before I bring her down onto the soft rug in front of the fireplace.

I rain kisses all over her delectable body, wanting to give back at least some of the pleasure she gave me. She protests that I don’t need to reciprocate, but I silence her with my mouth, and then my hands, and then I take her beneath me and slide into her once again, moving slow and easy. I want to draw her pleasure out for as long as I can, and this time, when the orgasm comes, it’s a slow, gentle wave, cresting and cresting before rolling over us, rather than a hurricane smashing everything in its path.

Afterwards we lie in the warm, sated silence, the detritus of boxes and bags scattered everywhere, the Christmas tree glittering above us.

‘Some of those decorations are handmade,’ she says after a long moment, her voice soft and husky. ‘Did you make them?’

‘What gave it away?’ I’m on my back, my arm under my head, staring up at the branches of the tree. ‘The ineptly drawn reindeer or the badly applied glitter?’

She laughs. She’s got her head on my chest, her black hair spilling over my skin, and we’re wrapped up in a soft cashmere blanket. ‘All of the above?’ Her voice is warm with humour. ‘Seriously, though. You made them, did you?’

‘I did.’ I stare up at them and allow myself the memory. ‘I did those ones at school. And then I would save a bit of pocket money to buy new ones for the tree every year. My mother loved them. We would hang them up together every Christmas.’