Page 16 of Until You Break

EMILIO

The door clicked shut.

His words from the hall still rang in my skull.

From now on, this is where you sleep. My room. My bed. You don’t leave it unless I decide you do.

The lock seemed to echo them, sealing me into the promise.

Damiano didn’t move back. His hand stayed flat against my chest, holding me in place like I was an object he’d set down exactly where he wanted it. His gaze dragged over me, deliberate, unhurried, as if he was cataloguing every weakness he owned now.

Owned.

The lamp burned above us, too bright for my comfort but not enough to show everything.

Shadows clung to corners, deep enough to keep the places I had harmed myself hidden.

I prayed he wouldn’t notice the scars. If he did, I knew he would use them against me, another chain, another shame.

He saw my tremor, my flush, my resistance, but not the truth under my sleeves. A mercy or a cruelty, I didn’t know.

His rings glinted in the lamplight, white-gold crest catching on the pale skin of my collarbone where his hand pressed.

“You make me burn already,” he murmured, voice low and edged with hunger. “Mine.”

The thought shot through me. I was married. His rings on his hand, mine on my finger, two circles binding me to him in a trap I hadn’t chosen. I wanted the light dim, shadows to hide in, but he had left the lamp bright on purpose. To make me see. To make me seen.

Then his fingers slid to the lapel of my jacket.

“What are you—”

He stripped it off in one clean pull, tossing it to the chair. His gaze dragged down the line of my chest and shoulders, lingering with a hunger that was equal parts threat and worship. His hand skimmed down my side like he was testing the shape of something already his.

“Built finer than I thought,” he said, low. “And all mine.”

I caught his wrist. “You don’t get to touch me like this.”

He leaned in, his mouth brushing my ear, his breath warm and steady. “I do. I always do.”

The second layer went slower, shirt buttons undone one by one, his knuckles brushing my skin each time, leaving a trail of heat.

My jaw clenched nearly to pain, my body trembling, shame blooming higher with every button. He mocked me in clipped tones, savoring each inch.

“Look at you, already shaking,” he murmured. His hand lingered over the plane of my chest, fingers grazing lightly. “Skin soft. You smell good. Beautiful, and all for me to ruin.”

My face burned. “You’re disgusting.”

His smile curved like a blade. “And you’re getting hard.”

I bit down on my lip so hard I tasted copper, trying to kill the sound rising in my throat. But when his hand brushed lower, my body jolted, and a moan cracked loose anyway. His eyes lit, merciless. “Even silence betrays you, piccolo. I don’t need your words. Your body begs for me.”

I opened my mouth to deny it, but he kissed me instead, slow, filthy, coaxing the fight right out of me.

His tongue slid against mine, tasting, claiming, until my shoulders went loose and my mouth stayed parted.

Spit slicked my lips when he pulled back, his thumb smearing it over my chin with deliberate cruelty.

The belt came next, his knuckles grazing my hip as he unfastened it. The wedding pants slid down my thighs with a whisper of fabric, pooling at my ankles.

“Step out.”

“I won’t,” I said, though my voice shook.

His brow arched. One hand bracketed my jaw while the other lifted my foot, then the other, until the pants were gone.

Only my briefs left. My breath caught.

“Leave them,” I tried again.

He shook his head, a small, merciless smile. “No.”

The fabric left my skin in one slow drag. My cock was already hard, pressing up, flushed and wet at the tip, betraying me against the cooler air.

His gaze dropped. He made a low, approving sound in his throat, almost a growl. “Perfect,” he said. His thumb brushed across the swollen head, smearing precome, rubbing it over the ridge until my hips twitched. Humiliation. Heat. “My beautiful, virgin husband. Mine to ruin.”

I flushed hot all the way to my ears. “Don’t say that.”

He stepped back half a pace, the light cutting sharp angles across his jaw. His hand tapped his thigh once, deliberate.

“On your knees. Crawl.”

My breath hitched. “I’m not crawling for you.”

“You will.”

I hated the truth of it. The ache in my cock, the heat coiling lower, the sick way arousal tangled with shame. My body leaned toward him even as my mind screamed no. I despised myself for it, despised how much my own skin betrayed me.

A hand fisted in my hair, yanking me down until my knees cracked the polished floor. The burn shot up my shins. His grip forced my face low, humiliation hot in my throat.

“You’ll move for me,” he said, calm as scripture. “Or I’ll drag you by the hair.”

The lamp seared above, the floor gleamed under my hands.

I hated how my palms pressed down anyway, how my knees shuffled forward, inch by inch, every drag loud against the floorboards.

My cock throbbed heavy, leaking, humiliating me with how much it wanted.

Shame burned hotter than the wood under my skin.

My thighs ached, my breath fogged the glossy surface when I lowered too close.

Each scrape of bone against floor was another piece of pride torn away.

He walked behind me, slow, deliberate, letting me feel the weight of his stare. Rings clicked once against his belt as he loosened it further. “Good,” he murmured when I reached the bedframe, voice cutting down my spine. “You look better crawling. You’ll remember that.”

I froze, chest heaving. My skin burned from the inside out.

“Up.” His hand gripped the back of my neck, guiding me against the sheets. “Face the headboard.”

I obeyed, because my body moved before my pride could answer. Linen was cool under my knees.

A drawer opened. A cap clicked. The scent of slick hit the air, chemical-sweet and inevitable. It mingled with the sharp smoke of his cologne and the faint salt of sweat already on his skin, turning the room thick with sex.

“Stay still,” he said, his hand firm at my hip while the other worked lower. Two fingers slick, sliding against me before pressing in, obscene and unrelenting. The lube was cold, but his skin heat chased it fast, until every drag burned pleasure through my center.

Virgin tight. I clenched hard, body fighting the intrusion. My breath broke ragged, panic thrumming through me. I had never—no one had ever—touched me there. Every inch forced in was new, raw, shocking. My mind screamed no even as my body shuddered open.

His thumb brushed over the rim, then pressed in until my thighs trembled. “Breathe,” he said, voice low, inescapable. “Stretch for me. That’s it. Good.”

“Stop talking like that,” I said through clenched teeth.

He smiled against my shoulder. “But it works. You’re opening for me.”

He eased in deeper, both fingers pressing until the knuckles stretched me wide. I whimpered, hating the sound, hating the sharp ache that twisted into something darker.

Then came the third. He worked it slow, sliding in beside the others, spreading me wider than I thought possible. My back arched off the bed, a strangled cry ripping loose. The burn seared hot, walls straining, every nerve on fire.

“That’s it,” he murmured, steady. “Take it. You need it if you want to take me.”

“I don’t want—” I gasped, words breaking as his fingers curled just right. My hips bucked despite myself, chasing the touch. “I don’t want this.”

“You do. Your cock says you do. You’ve never been opened, never been stretched. And now you’ll never forget how it feels.”

His fingers scissored wider, then curled, stroking deep until my vision blurred.

Every curl brushed a hidden spot inside me that sent sparks through my stomach, shocking cries from my throat no matter how I tried to hold them in.

He caught my mouth with his then, kissing me slow and filthy, tongue pushing past my teeth as his fingers worked me open.

The mix made me whimper against his lips, torn between shame and the way my body arched into his hand.

He licked into me like he was tasting the sound, whispering against my mouth between kisses: “Good. Taking me so well. That’s it, piccolo. Stretch for me.”

When he finally pulled his fingers out, my body clenched, empty and aching.

This time his mouth claimed mine, filthy and hard.

His tongue drove deep, stealing what breath I had left as his hand slid back between my thighs.

He fingered me open again as he kissed me, forcing my body to take more while my mouth was already conquered.

Every curl of his fingers inside me matched the push of his tongue, making refusal impossible, drowning me in humiliation and heat until my hips pressed back without thought.

When he broke the kiss, spit shone between us, slicking my chin. His fingers withdrew, and fabric shifted. A zipper sighed. The heat in the room changed, the thick, human kind, even before he stepped close enough for his shadow to fold over mine.

“Look.”

I turned my head enough to see.

His cock. Thick. Veins swollen, running down the shaft like ropes.

Head flushed dark, wet with slick, dripping heavy at the tip.

His hand curled around the base, stroking once, spreading the wetness along the length until it shone.

His balls hung heavy beneath, full, swaying with each slow pump of his fist.

“Look at what’s going to open you,” he said, voice sharp as velvet. “Every vein. Every inch. You’ll feel this cock for days. You’ll walk past them tomorrow and they’ll smell me inside you.”

Panic lit my chest. “You’re too big. It won’t fit.”