Page 32 of Until You Break

I set a rhythm, deep and deliberate, the wet slap of our bodies growing louder with every thrust, the sound of my balls striking him punctuating the broken noises he couldn’t hide.

I forced his gaze down once, made him see the slick mess between us, the way his body clung greedily around my cock.

“Look what you’re doing to me,” I growled, half praise, half possession.

“Look what you’ve made of yourself for me.

” Shame flickered in his eyes, but arousal chased it quick, his cheeks flushing as he clenched tighter around me.

A whimper escaped, defiant and needy at once, as though part of him wanted to turn away from the sight and the rest of him wanted me to force him to keep watching.

His chest arched into mine, and I bent to take his mouth, swallowing every moan.

His cock slid hot between our stomachs; I ground down to smear him with himself, driving harder until he gasped, and took his breath when he tried to look away.

“Eyes,” I reminded. “On me, marito.”

When I felt him climbing, I slowed to a grind, holding deep, the base of my cock pressed flush so he felt all of me and nothing moved the way he wanted.

I ground slow, dragging in circles, making him feel the full length while my balls pressed heavy against him, every shift deliberate.

His body clenched around me, desperate, his strangled sound breaking against my mouth as I kissed him hard, keeping him still while I rolled my hips again and again.

Then I pulled nearly out, drove back in hard enough to make the mattress creak, balls slapping against him.

Again, slower, dragging, until his thighs trembled.

Again, sharp and deep, giving him the edge of release only to steal it back.

I kept him hovering there, each thrust a mix of promise and denial, until sweat slicked us both and his moans blurred into pleading sounds against my lips.

He begged in fragments, words tumbling out between gasps.

“Please, harder…please, let me—” but I silenced him with another grind, another punishing thrust that made the mattress shake.

His thighs shook, his voice broke, every plea swallowed into my mouth as I kissed him rough.

Each time he thought I’d let him go, I pulled back, drove deep again, balls smacking against him until he sobbed with need.

His desperation only made me want to keep him there longer, aching, undone, mine to ruin at the edge.

Obsession twisted tight in my chest. No one else would ever see him like this.

I praised him between thrusts, rough words against his mouth, telling him how perfect he felt, how beautiful he was wrecked beneath me, how his voice begging was the only prayer I’d ever answer.

Each time I denied him, he answered with another plea, louder, needier, until his voice cracked.

His hands clawed at my shoulders, then gripped the sheets, torn between begging and surrender.

When I told him he was mine, his eyes fluttered shut, a broken sound spilling out that made me drive deeper, harder, chasing both his need and my obsession with it.

“Please,” he said, voice gone thin. “Please—”

“Beg prettier.”

“Please, marito. Please let me come.”

“Better,” I said, and didn’t give it yet. He trembled under me, thighs shaking, breath stuttering against my mouth. I put my palm at his throat and tightened, choking him lightly, counting his next three breaths with my grip so he felt the math inside his windpipe: mine to give, mine to withhold.

“You feel that? My hand on your throat. My cock inside you. That’s all the air you get unless you ask.”

His pupils blew wide, body twitching under mine. His throat worked uselessly against my palm.

His cock leaked across his stomach, begging for friction, but I denied him even that. Beautiful, watching him fight for every drop of air and knowing I owned the math inside his lungs.

“Breathe for me, marito. I decide when you stop, and I decide when you come.”

Prayer doesn’t live in churches here. It lives in my grip on his throat.

His eyes glazed. “Damiano…please—”

I smiled against his cheek. “Good boy.”

The pace returned, faster now, each thrust angled to hit the place that had him shaking.

I kept my hand at his throat, tight, then easing, then tight again, until his body learned to breathe where I allowed it.

He was gorgeous like this: wet, red-mouthed, sweating, moaning into the kisses I took from him.

“Say my name,” I said.

“Damiano.”

“Louder.”

“Damiano.”

“Again,” I ordered, and fucked him harder when he obeyed.

He broke first. His cry was raw as he spilled across his stomach and my hand, his body clenching around me so hard it dragged my own edge closer.

I didn’t let him look away. I praised him through it, telling him how gorgeous he looked coming apart for me, how perfectly he milked me.

His lashes clumped with tears, a flush streaking his throat, every breath catching on another whimper.

His hands trembled against the sheets, then clawed for me as though only my body could hold him together.

Each word I gave him dragged another sound out of him, until he sobbed with the force of it.

My obsession burned white-hot. No one else would ever see him like this, begging, ruined, exquisite.

I watched every twitch, every broken noise, the moment humiliation turned into relief and relief into desperate want again.

I rode him straight through it, my hand easing at his throat only when he forgot how to breathe without me.

His eyes met mine, wet and dazed, and I forced him to hold that gaze through every twitch and clench.

Shame and ecstasy warred across his face, his moans breaking as I told him again how beautiful he was, how perfectly he belonged wrecked beneath me.

The piano swelled in the background, notes rising and falling in time with his shudders, every chord scoring the sight of him undone under me.

“That’s my good boy,” I said, still fucking him while he jerked and shook under me. “Look how beautifully you come when I tell you. The whole city should see you like this. On your back, ruined, begging with my name in your throat.”

His heat milked me tight, dragging every drop out of me with greedy pulses I couldn’t fight. My orgasm hit violent, spine arched, breath torn out like a growl, cock spilling hard while his body shook around me. The sound I made wasn’t for the crowd. It was for him.

I gripped his jaw, kissed his open mouth, and let myself go, pace roughening, breath breaking, a low, unpretty sound torn out of me at his ear as I came deep inside him, pulse beating in time with the throb at his throat under my palm.

We stayed like that until the piano ended. I loosened my hand, felt his breath fill all the way again, and counted it with him until the fight left his muscles.

I pulled out slow, tied off, and tossed it away. He flinched when the sheet brushed him. I liked the reminder.

By the end he was marked in sweat, bruises, and my voice inside his breath.

In the bathroom, I ran a cloth warm, wrung it until steam rose, and came back to the bed.

I wiped him clean in patient strokes that were not penance.

They were possession done neatly. I brushed his hair back from his eyes with the clean edge, then took his hand and turned his palm up, kissing the heel of it before I let go.

Obsession pressed hot in my chest—no one else would ever get to care for him like this, no one else would see him softened in my hands.

“Shower,” I said, pulling him up with me.

Steam fogged the glass, the piano still faint through the door.

I worked soap across his shoulders, watched it slide in rivulets down his chest and thighs, rinsed him slow under the hot spray.

His skin steamed, flushed against mine. He grinned suddenly, playful, dragging wet fingers down my stomach.

“Maybe I should paint this view instead.” I shoved him gently into the tile, made him laugh, then caught his mouth in a kiss under the spray.

The music bled faint through the bathroom door, softer now, each note falling like it washed him as clean as the water did.

By the time I dragged the towel rough down his chest, then softer along his arms and hair, the piano had quieted to a hush that seemed made for this—our breath, the steam, his body warmed and pliant against mine.

“What about today?” he asked as I buttoned my shirt, eyes flicking to me in the mirror.

“I’ve got work to do,” I said. “But I’ll be back later to take you out. A suit will be waiting for you to put on.”

“Where are you taking me?” he pressed, playful, tilting his head while he stepped into his clothes. He waggled his brows when I didn’t answer fast enough. “What if I don’t like surprises?”

“It’s a surprise.” I stole a kiss as I tightened my cuff. His pout only made me smirk. “Doesn’t matter if you like surprises. You’ll wear the suit I give you, and you’ll sit where I put you.” I tugged him closer, my mouth brushing his ear. “And you’ll thank me for it after.”

He kissed me back, sweet, a thank-you whispered for the phone. Guilt twisted through me for waiting this long to give it. “If you want to see Enzo today,” I added, brushing damp hair from his forehead, “ask Adrien to drive you. Neutral ground only. Not Valenti territory.”

He groaned, half smile, half complaint, and tucked closer. “Then you’d better make it worth my while.”

I caught his chin, made him meet my eyes. “Careful what you ask for, piccolino. I always collect.”

The piano lingered as we dressed, soft notes carrying through the room. Each chord felt like it marked him here, mine, before the city could touch him again.