Duca's voice settles over me like a dangerous caress.
"You're damn perfect."
It's a completely unexpected compliment. No one—ever—has seen me as more than just enough. I'm not ugly, but when you grow up surrounded by ugliness, you start to believe it's part of you. I feel his gaze on me, slow, intense, as if every inch of my skin is beautiful. It makes me hold my breath without realizing it.
I'm undone in front of him—vulnerable, acutely aware of every reaction of my body. The way he traces my shape with his eyes sets my skin on fire, and the sensation of being seen like this—desired, without restraint—makes me tremble.
Something intense slides beneath my skin, between my breasts, like a shiver that runs through my entire body. I inhale sharply, startled by how powerful such a small gesture can be.
"Yes. Perfect."
I laugh without meaning to. The sound escapes me, emotional, and I immediately feel his reaction—the calm satisfaction in the way he leans toward me. His mouth covers mine before I can say anything else. The kiss is deep, controlled, and when his tongue slips in, I feel my knees go weak, even lying down.
A moan slips into his mouth, and his hand moves lower without hurry, as if he knows exactly what he's looking for. The heat inside me gathers into a painfully sweet point, and my reaction is instant, impossible to hide.
I breathe unevenly when he pulls back just enough to speak to me again.
"You're already wet for me, aren't you?"
His tone is satisfied. Certain.
His kisses trail down my neck, and my mind begins to scatter in every direction. I no longer think in full sentences. Only in sensations. Only in the need to have him closer.
A sound slips from low in my throat. "Duca, please."
He stops. Just for a moment. Long enough to lift my chin with two fingers.
"Please what?"
My lashes tremble as I look at him. He knows exactly what he's doing. "Are you really going to make me say it?" I ask—half challenge, half plea.
He smiles. Slow. Dangerous. "Yes."
A frustrated sigh escapes me. "Don't be unbearable."
He shrugs, completely relaxed. "I want you squirming. I want your sounds in my ear. But I also want to hear what you want. From your own mouth."
I murmur something unintelligible, because even if I pretend to be tough, this is completely new territory for me. Then, without giving myself time to think, I let my hand slide down his body and wrap my fingers around his cock.
His reaction is immediate. He swears, throws his head back, and the low sound that escapes him sends a wave of satisfaction through my body. The way he jerks under my touch makes me smile. He's caught. Just like he caught me.
I smile at him, my heart pounding wildly. Looks like I'm not the only one who can blush.
"Wicked little love," he says, laughing. "You're going to make me rush when I want to savor you."
At first, my grip is unsure, exploratory. I take my time. I gather my courage. Then I tighten my fingers more firmly, watching his reactions, learning him as I go. His breathing changes, and I know I'm doing something right.
"You're so thick," I murmur, my voice already slightly rough, "so big… Duca, I don't think this is going to fit inside me."
I don't take my eyes off him when I say it. I like the effect I have on him. I like it far too much. The lines of his beautiful face are sharper now, desire having transformed him.
Without warning, he grabs my wrist and, in one swift motion, I'm pushed back onto the slanted bed. The air is knocked from my chest in a surprised "uff" as he pins my hands above my head. I look up at him, shocked—but not afraid.
"Hey! I wasn't done touching you."
He smiles at my tone, and the look on his face tells me that's exactly what he wanted to hear.
"You're done."
He leans over me, his mouth dropping to my neck. His breath burns my skin.
"Alla," he murmurs. "My love."
The words ignite something in me. I feel the heat gathering beneath my skin, my body responding, my mind opening—blooming.
I feel him pressing between my legs. My body reacts instantly, a shiver racing up my spine when my wetness touches him. I try to free my hand, but he holds me there, repeating the motion—slower, heavier, more deliberate.
Frustration tears a rough sound from my throat. He knows exactly what he's doing.
"I'll give you what you want the moment you say it," he murmurs. "Be specific."
"Fine," I snap, irritated, even though the flush in my cheeks and the frantic pulse in my throat betray me. I like it. I like it far too much. "I want to feel you inside me. I want you to fuck me hard. I want you to bury your—"
I don't get to finish.
In a single, powerful, decisive thrust, he drives into me, and the words shatter into a cry. My body arches, my mind empties, and all that's left is the sensation of him—complete, overwhelming. It hurts.
"Oh, God…" I cry out as my body bows, my head falling back. Everything contracts into one crushing sensation, and the world seems to narrow until nothing exists except him. The way he fills me. His heat—intense, almost dizzying.
I feel him tense above me, hear the low sound torn from his throat, and it sends another wave crashing through my body. It's too much—and exactly what I wanted. I'm acutely aware of the way my body grips him, of how tight everything is, until my breath catches. Part of me knows it should have been slower, gentler—but the part of me that's burning couldn't have waited another second.
He stays perfectly still for a moment, as if forcing himself to give me time. I can feel his control, the tension coiled inside him, and it only makes me want more. Much more.
So I move my hips.
"Stop," he says, a playful note in his voice as he leans over me. His mouth lowers, and when I feel his tongue on my skin, on my breast, a sharp shiver slices through my body. "I'm letting you adjust."
"I've adjusted," I gasp, unable to stop myself. His low laugh vibrates against my skin. "I want more. I need you to move."
The way he reacts tells me he needs the same thing. Being held like this, with him inside me, is enough to blur every trace of coherent thought.
"Insatiable little love," he says quietly.
I frown, irritated and impatient, and the look on his face tells me that this is exactly what he finds adorable. He grips my thigh and lifts it, hooking it around his waist. My body responds instantly to the position, and I lift my hips again.
"Move," I urge him.
"I'm enjoying the view."
He smiles slyly, and I feel his hand sliding slowly beneath my leg, up over the curve of my hip, my ass. He squeezes, tilts me exactly how he wants, and the sensation pulls a weak sound from my throat. When he pulls back slightly and then pushes in again—slow this time—my frustration melts into a pleasure that makes me moan.
"Yes…"
He does it again, but this time much harder. My body slides on the bed and I cry out, unable to hold it back. There's no trace of pain left now—only need, only delirium.
I feel both of his hands on my hips, firm, certain, angling me exactly the way he likes. The way we like.
The moment he has me exactly where he wants me, the sensation changes. He pulls back and then drives in again, harder, more insistent. His rhythm intensifies, and I feel every movement like a blow of heat. My breasts rise and fall with the force of his thrusts, and whatever expression is on my face must say everything—because I feel him smile, satisfied, his face tucked into the curve of my shoulder.
I writhe beneath him, my back arching as I lose all control. It's a silent, broken plea—and he understands it perfectly.
He lowers himself over me, his mouth tracing a slow line down my chest. When his tongue touches my nipple, a small, uncontrolled sound slips from my lips.
"So beautiful," he murmurs, his voice low, possessive. "So perfect. Mine."
The words hit me straight in the stomach.
"Oh, God… I need…" I moan, murmur—I no longer have the capacity to be coherent.
"What do you need, Alla?" he asks, almost whispering, then bites my nipple. It's impossible to think anymore. I only feel.
"Faster," I beg, without a shred of pride left. "Harder. More!"
He catches my gaze, and the way he looks at me makes me burn even hotter.
"You want to come, little love?"
"Yes!" I cry out, no longer caring how it sounds.
Everything happens quickly after that. He lifts me, the bed creaks as he repositions us, and in an instant I'm on top of him, my body rising and falling without warning.
"Fuck," he breathes, and my hands clutch his shoulders. My nails dig into his skin, instinctive, desperate. A part of me hopes they'll leave marks. Proof.
He grabs my hair and pulls my head back, forcing me to look at him. My eyes open with difficulty, hazy, and he studies me as if he wants to burn the moment into memory.
"When you said my name for the first time," he says slowly, "all I wanted was to hear you say it exactly like this."
My body moves to the rhythm he sets, lifted and lowered again and again, until we're both breathing hard, hanging on the edge of pleasure. Every movement knocks the air from my chest; every return makes me shake harder.
His words are low, raw, and they strike straight into the fire inside me. "Say my name, Alla!"
I can't think anymore. I can't filter anything.
I close my eyes, and the plea slips from my throat before I can stop it. "Oh, God… please. Please, please, please."
I feel the exact moment something breaks in him. He changes. The air changes.
In an instant, I'm pinned to the bed again, and the intensity with which he takes me pulls an uncontrolled sound from my throat. Everything turns harder, faster, hungrier. This is no longer about restraint. No longer about play. It's as if he's been waiting for me his entire life—and now that he has me, he can't—and doesn't want to—stop.
When his hand slips between us and starts to touch me, my reaction is violent. I jolt so hard I nearly lift off the bed, a broken moan tearing out of me without any coherent shape. My head moves from side to side, my body unable to stay still under the assault of sensations.
"Come on, little love, come on," he says, his voice low, steady. "Say my name!"
I wish I could. Right now I'd give him anything he asked for—but I simply don't have a voice anymore, no thoughts left. I'm nothing but a sea of sensation, full of him, wanting only him.
The sounds we make together are dirty, chaotic, impossible to ignore. Skin on skin. Ragged breaths. The bed creaking beneath us. Everything blends into a rhythm that makes me lose all sense of time.
He leans down and takes my mouth in a kiss that leaves no room for air or thought, and I cling to him because I want all of him. Every part. Now and forever.
When I whimper against his lips, I feel his mouth trail down my neck, to the sensitive skin beneath my ear. His words burn against my skin, almost unbearable.
"Do you feel it?" he murmurs. "Do you feel what you're doing to me?"
I can't answer. All I can do is moan as the sensations rise, gather, tighten into a point that threatens to tear me apart.
His hand doesn't stop as he drives into me harder and harder. He doesn't let me breathe. His movements grow faster, more insistent, and I feel everything inside me pulling together, my body beginning to give in, dragged inexorably toward the edge.
It feels like I'm dying—and yet I've never been more alive. I don't want it to stop.
I feel the exact moment my body tightens around him, as if everything inside me collapses into a single incandescent point. My muscles clench beyond my control, and the sensation is so intense it almost hurts. Almost—so close, right on the edge of the abyss. That's where I am.
He lifts my hips even higher, forcing me to feel everything, and a short, helpless sound slips from my lips.
"That's it," I hear him murmur, his voice low, certain. "Come for me."
I can't hold anything back anymore. I curse, my eyes squeezed shut, my breasts rising with each ragged breath. My body gives in completely, and an explosion of light floods my senses, as if everything I am is burning from the inside out.
I scream his name without realizing it, without being able to stop myself.
"Duca!"
The sound of his name seems to break something in him too. I feel him tense, feel the immediate response, and the wave carrying me intensifies even more. He fills me with his release, and I feel whole. Everything blends into an overwhelming sensation, and for a moment the world disappears entirely.
The pleasure stretches on—it doesn't fade right away. His movements grow slower, more uneven, as if he doesn't want it to end either. Neither do I. I want him here, pressed against me. I want to feel his closeness, his weight, his reality.
He pulls me against his chest and, with a slow movement, rolls us until he falls onto his back and I end up sprawled over him. My body fits perfectly against his, as if this is how it was always meant to be. We're both breathing hard, slowly coming down from the high, our hearts beating in a rhythm that gradually begins to settle. I go soft against him, sated and still trembling slightly.
I feel his lips on the crown of my head—a gentle kiss, unexpectedly tender after everything that came before. His arm wraps around me, holding me close, as if he has no intention of letting me pull away. After a moment, I lift my head and look at him, resting my chin on his chest. My fingers trace the lines of his body, sliding up and curving toward his neck, memorizing him.
My touch seems to calm him. There's something familiar in the gesture. Intimate. And I like how naturally it settles between us.
When he strokes my cheek with a finger, my head tilts into the touch without me even realizing it. I only become aware of it later—but the way he smiles tells me he noticed. I like the idea that I respond to him instinctively, that I let myself be drawn in without defending myself.
"What are you thinking about?" I ask, my voice still rough.
His hand moves along my back, down my spine. "You," he says simply. "How fast you came into my life. How unexpected. How complete."
The way he looks at me is intense, as if he wants to absorb me entirely. My eyes, my mouth, every expression—he makes me feel seen. Truly seen. And for the first time in a long while, I don't feel the need to hide.
I smile at him, and the shyness in my eyes gives me away. I know it. And I know he sees it. His desire to kiss me again is almost palpable.
When I try to shift slightly, just to change position, he holds me in place. Amusement flickers across my face. "Are you going to let me get up?"
"Highly unlikely."
I laugh softly. "You're still inside me."
"Yes."
My smile turns mischievous, and the thought that crosses my mind lights my eyes again. "Well," I say playfully, "if you're planning on staying there… maybe we could do this again?"
He grips my chin, and the way he looks at me tells me everything I need to know. That it isn't over. That it never even came close.
"Alla, little love," he murmurs, a dangerous smile on his lips, "we've only just begun."
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