SWNOVELS Sinners Consumed: Chapter 2
and drips of blood pass in a blur. I make eye contact with the serpent poking its vicious head out from underneath the open collar of Raphael’s shirt and tighten my grip on his neck.
“Where are we going?” Although, my heart already knows.
“My bedroom.”
“Why?” I whisper.
He shifts his forearms under my ass. “So I can fuck you, Penelope. Why else?”
I knew the answer to that question, too, but it doesn’t stop the shock electrifying my skin. It’s the brazen way his silky voice wraps around the sentence. Flippantly, factually, like it’s his God-given right to fuck me. Like he didn’t hear me when I told him I’m not his. Makes sense, I guess. God gave him everything else.
My pulse strums so violently in my clit the rest of my body feels weak. Still, I know I should put up some sort of protest. I smack my forehead against his chest and make a half-assed attempt to wriggle out of his grip.
“Well, I don’t want to fuck you, asshole.”
His shoulder connects with a door and we burst through it. One hand slides between my thighs and cups me over my pajama shorts. It’s a rough, audacious hold that makes my eyes roll to the back of my head. His now-damp hand comes back to my hip.
“Uh-huh,” is all he says. I catch the serpent’s smirk before Raphael tosses me on the bed.
I bounce twice, then scramble up to the headboard and press my back to it like it’s a life raft. Like it might save me from the six-foot-four monster with the reckless stare, looming at the foot of the bed.
We lock eyes and his half-lidded eyes only pull me deeper into dangerous waters. Nerves crawl through my veins like spiders, because I’m not entirely convinced he’s bluffing. But then he pops the top three buttons of his shirt, and, well, suddenly I don’t give a fuck if he’s bluffing or not.
My breathing shallows and I watch him watching me, his eyes roaming over my body like he’s considering where to start. I lost the blanket somewhere between the lounge and the galley, and now I’m cursing myself for wearing my shortest shorts to sleep in Raphael’s car.
My focus drops to the bulge straining below his belt. I cross my legs in self-preservation.
“Thought you took girls on dates before fucking them?”
His eyes rake over my tits. “Do I?” he asks dryly.
“That’s what they say.”
A demonic smirk tilts his lips. “And what else do they say?”
I swallow. “That you only fuck from behind.”
His gaze lifts to mine, flashing black.
“How very gentlemanly of me.”
In one swift motion, he sheds his shirt, balls it in a bloodied fist, and tosses it on the floor.
Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. All other characters in the Bible too. Backlit by the early morning sun streaming through the window, he’s a mountain of muscle and sin, and no amount of ink staining his body can conceal his brawn or definition. Rubbing a bloodied paw down his abs, he takes a lazy step toward the bed, a move that makes my mouth water in anticipation and my toes curl in fear.
He looks up at me warily. Spreads his arms like we’ve found ourselves in an unfortunate situation, and the consequences will be less painful if we just accept our fate.
“Guess you were right.”
The sunbeam cutting across the playing cards and scriptures on his chest traps the meaning of his words: I’m no gentleman.
I shouldn’t be so stupefied. I knew it from the beginning. From the moment I sauntered up to him at the bar and his gaze heated the flesh through the slit in my stolen dress. But I guess being faced with the reality is scarier than the fantasy.
And Raphael Visconti in all of his sinful glory, is scary as fuck.
Clink, thawp. His belt slides from its loops with a flex of a bicep. It sounds like the crack of a whip and it sobers me immediately. On instinct, my eyes dart to the door, and I wonder if I’d make it past the monster if I ran fast enough. Deciding there’s not a chance in hell, I stifle a groan and stare at the sheet by my thigh instead. Run a trembling hand over the cream Egyptian cotton and make a shitty joke, as if it’ll poke a hole in my unease.
“I knew you ironed your sheets.”
An animalistic grunt spills from the bottom of the bed. I look up just in time to catch ink dipping under black boxers before a strong hand grips my ankle and yanks me flat. The ceiling disappears as quickly as it arrived, obstructed by shoulders wider than a soccer field and eyes just as green.
Sweet, holy hell. Despite only being five-foot-two with a straight spine, I’ve never felt small before. Guess most girls whose thighs chafe in summer have the same issue, but when Raphael’s hot, heavy body comes down on top of mine, pinning me to the bed with steel muscle and ill-intent, I feel like I’ve been swallowed by an eclipse.
Despite the delirium-inducing warmth, I shiver when he grabs my bun, tugs my head back, and nestles his face into my throat. “Do me a favor, Penelope,” he growls against my racing pulse. “Unless you’re moaning my name or sucking my dick, keep your fucking mouth shut.” Another tug on my bun, another crackle in my clit. “I’m so sick of the shit that comes out of it.”
I know I’m meant to be furious, but fuck, it’s hard to be angry when you’re melting under meat and muscle. Hard to think. His torso skims down my body, his hands following suit, until he’s nestled between my thighs. Thick, swollen fingers curl over the waistband of my shorts, and my heart gives up beating altogether.
Fuck. Is he going to finish what he started in his office? I don’t know if I’ll be able to handle it. I haven’t been able to handle the mere idea of it. I’ve used the shower head on my clit four times thinking about it, and haven’t made it past the third imaginary lick before—
Oh, god. He rips my shorts down my legs, and with his absent-minded toss, they disappear into the shadows behind him. He glances quickly at the strip of lace covering my pussy, then buries his face into it.
My gasp melts into a shudder at the warm, wet pressure. Some mine, some his. A deep rush of pleasure spreads out from my center and through my limbs like a wildfire, hot and uncontrollable.
I know I won’t survive it.
When I feel his tongue push the fabric of my thong into my entrance, I clamp my teeth over my bottom lip to stop myself from moaning. I might not be in the right state of mind, but my desire to not give this man the satisfaction of breaking me is instinctual.
I squeeze my eyes shut and try to think of anything but what’s going on between my legs, but it becomes impossible when he yanks my thong off, too. My lids pop open just in time to see him fist my panties and toss it in the direction of his dresser. They fly through the room and land on a lamp.
He glances up at me. “Mine now.”
“You fucking my panties, or something?”
A hard flick on my clit makes stars flash in front of my eyes.
“Or something.”
Christ. The thought of him jacking off into my panties has my head spinning. It’s so crude, so ungentlemanly, and it’s obscene how flattered I am. With a rough tug, he pulls my legs apart, clamps my knees to the bed, and sits up just enough to study what’s in between them.
Blood thrums in my ears. A light breeze cools the slickness coating my pussy and inner thighs, making me shiver. Raphael gives a small shake of his head, then brushes a surprisingly gentle thumb over the tuft of hair down there.
“They tailor made you to my liking, Queenie,” he murmurs. Then his tone sours. “Of course they fucking did.”
Queenie? I’d thought I imagined him calling me that in the car. Why is he calling me Queenie? But then he drops to his elbows, slides his shoulders under my knees, and licks from entrance to clit. Immediately, I file the thought into a box labeled Questions for when Raphael Visconti doesn’t have his face buried in my pussy and drop my head against the pillow.
The next hot, wet stroke of his tongue comes slower, punctuated by an angry suck on my clit. I force myself to slow my breathing and relax my thighs, because I know not only will I not survive this, I won’t make it past the next five seconds at this rate.
My blood turns to steam and rises, creating a haze over the bed, growing thicker with every crazed lick and hard suck and guttural groan. Every nerve in my body has slid south and come alive. Jesus, I can’t come already. Partly because I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing how hot he makes me—although it’s pretty obvious by the sloppy sounds coming from my entrance every time his tongue dips into it—and partly because I don’t want him to know how pathetically inexperienced I am.
I’ve only ever had sex with two men; neither went down on me. Guess there’s not much room for it in the back of a souped-up Honda. They didn’t care about getting me off, anyway.
Despite Raphael’s enthusiasm, I’m pretty sure he doesn’t care about my pleasure either. His hands grip me so tightly his busted knuckles disappear into my flesh. He holds me where he needs me, tilting my hips upward to take longer, angrier laps from me.
Right now, I couldn’t care less about his motive. Each lick brings a fresh wave of delirium, bigger and scarier than the last.
“Oh, fuck,” I moan when he swirls his tongue around my clit for a sudden change of pace. He groans in approval and buries his face deeper into me.
The pressure builds, driving me mad, until I’m so close to coming the ceiling breathes above me. I release the bed sheets and dig my fingers into his thick hair, pulling his head back.
Our eyes clash; mine filled with desperation, his blackened with irritation.
“I think I’m gonna—”
“Don’t you dare.”
After a final nip on my clit, he throws me on my hands and knees and closes the gap behind me.
“These. Fucking. Thighs, Penelope,” he hisses. His hands are rough and selfish as they skim up the backs of my legs and palm my ass. “Had to change the uniform because of these thighs.”
Despite my skin humming in anticipation, I frown. “What’s wrong with these thighs?”
He slaps my ass, hard. My head drops to the bed, allowing the pillow to absorb the brunt of my moan.
“They piss me off.”
I don’t have a clue what he’s going on about, but I don’t care. Not when he grips my ass and sinks his teeth into a cheek. White-hot pain carves a frantic path to my pussy, where it settles into a satisfying throb.
“Ow!”
“Shut up.”
“Jesus,” I growl into the pillow. “Thought you were charming.”
A dark chuckle cools my pussy lips. “Not in the bedroom, Queenie.”
“Yeah, no shit. Why does anyone fuck you when you speak to them like—oh, god.”
He slices through my sarcasm by sliding two fingers inside of me. As maddening pressure grows and blooms with every unwilling rock of my hips, a strangled sound rises up my throat and fills the room.
Behind me, Raphael makes a noise of satisfaction. “You’re so tight, baby. You’re so…” His free hand spanks my ass again, loaded with his frustration. “Cazzo. Sei perfetta.”
A shaky sigh escapes me, the neurons in my brain firing with what I learned in Italian for Dummies.
“More,” I mutter into the pillow, not entirely sure I want him to hear me. He responds by pressing his heavy chest to my back, bracing himself with a hand by my head. I turn to look at it. A busted, bloodied paw resting on luxury cotton, it ended a life less than an hour ago. For me.
I squeeze my eyes shut. The thought shouldn’t bring me closer to the edge.
Raphael pushes his fingers deeper inside me and holds them there. His lips come to the shell of my ear with a loaded question.
“How many other fingers have been in this pussy, Penelope?”
The violence in his tone tells any number greater than zero will be too many, but I want to avoid the subject of being inexperienced, so I turn to flippancy.
“Dunno. That’d be a lot of fingers to add up.”
That earns me a hard thrust into my pussy and a bite on my ass. My lids pop open, just in time to see the hand by my head curl around the bed sheet.
“I just killed a man for looking at you. Think I won’t kill a few more for having their fingers inside of you?”
Breathlessness sweeps through me and heightens my pleasure. “I’m just saying; that’s a lot of math at a time like this.”
He abruptly pulls his fingers away. A mix of hollowness and desperation replaces them, but it only lasts a few moments, then I hear the snap of an elastic waistband and he pushes his length into me with one hard thrust.
My walls burn from the girth and the shock, tearing a cry from my throat. Raphael’s head follows mine to the pillow, coming to rest by my cheek. “How many dicks then, smart-ass?”
I let out a strangled sob in response and twist my head away from him. Behind me, I feel his stomach tense against my ass. He pauses, then pulls out slowly, almost the whole way, before entering me again with more caution.
When a light kiss touches the space between my shoulder blades, my spine goes rigid and something warm and unsavory fills the space inside my rib cage. The move is at odds with rough hands and the burning down south. He’s trying to be nice, to allow me to adjust to him.
I don’t fucking like it.
But after a few more lazy thrusts, my breathing slows, the fire simmering to a much more pleasurable heat. I adjust my weight to accommodate more of him, and with every slow slide and dark breath that skitters up my back, the ache in my core turns into a desperate pulse.
More, I want to scream. Fuck me like you entered me. Fuck me like you would all the other girls.
But I don’t have the humility to ask for it. Instead, I press my forehead into the pillow and arch my back, subtly trying to get him deeper.
A hand runs through my hair and pulls out my bun. Strands of red fall around my shoulders, then disappear from view as Raphael scoops them up into his fist and holds them at the base of my neck.
“How many dicks, Penelope?” he asks again, a softer edge to his tone this time.
Oh, so he’s serious about it. I’m set on telling him a lie. I want to piss him off. Want him to fuck me harder.
I tense my shoulders and brace for impact.
“Too many to count.”
A feral hiss coasts over my back as Raphael pushes inside of me with a violent, fire-starting stroke. My head bumps against the headboard, and when he thrusts into me again, his hand comes down on top of my crown.
I realize it’s to cushion the next blow. The move is too tender, too gentlemanly, and a spark of irritation flickers in my core.
I twist out of his grasp and look back at him. We lock eyes and my next breath stutters.
Fuck. He looks like a king. Every inked muscle contracting as he fucks me. I get it now, why he only fucks women from behind. He knows they wouldn’t survive watching him impale them, and if they did, there’s no doubt they’d want to get fucked again.
Other girls. In a moment of madness, I’d thought I wanted him to fuck me like he fucked them, but now, the idea fills me with bitterness.
As our eye contact deepens, he slows his thrusts and his gaze heats.
Annoyed my overworking brain decided to join the party, I rest on my forearms and slam my ass down the length of his dick.
“How many women have you fucked, Raphael?” I snap back.
His jaw tightens and he throws his head back, hissing something dark in Italian at the ceiling. He releases my hair and runs his hand down his throat. When his eyes fall back down, he glares at my ass like a maniac.
“Do that again.”
The sudden power reversal tightens my nipples. Through half-lidded eyes, I watch him watching me, as I slide all the way up to the tip of his dick and hold myself there. His gaze lifts to mine in confusion.
“Say please.”
Ba-dum. Ba-dum. Two heartbeats pass, threatening to crack open my chest. For the stupidest of moments, I think he might actually say it.
It only takes another moment to realize I’m more stupid than I thought.
His hands grip my hips so tightly they threaten to bruise my skin. He plows himself into me without restraint or mercy, sending my eyes to the back of my head.
“Please?” I hear him growl. “You want me to beg?”
Heat swells between my thighs with every angry thrust. Fuck, I’m so intoxicated by fullness and man I fear I might overdose on it. I bury my head into the pillow and bite down on the fabric for all of three seconds, until another hiss touches my ears and fingers weave into my hair.
Raphael tugs my hair so hard I’m pulled into an upright position in his lap. My back lands against his hard chest, my thighs flush with his.
“Do I look like a man who begs, Penelope?” he snarls, yanking down the straps of my vest top and bra. He folds down the cups and then, with a frustrated grunt, unhooks it at the back and hurls it out of view.
Briefly, I’m taken back to a rain-soaked car, Driving Home for Christmas crackling on the radio. In what parallel universe did Raphael Visconti give me a black Amex in exchange for taking my bra off?
As soon as the cool air touches my bare breasts, he warms them in his busted hands, molding them to his liking. My nipples ache with the need for attention, and I’m not disappointed when he squeezes them between his thumb and forefinger.
“Fuck,” I moan, throwing my head back against his collarbone. I grind against his cock, relaxing myself until he’s so deep inside me my ass is flush with his base.
He wraps an inked forearm around my waist, pinning my body to his. His other hand gives my breast a final squeeze before sliding down to my clit.
The second he presses two fingers against it, I know it’s game over. He strokes up and down, stoking the flames in my lower core until they threaten to set me ablaze.
I rock against his cock and push against his fingers, desperate to chase the high. “Don’t stop,” I breathe, rolling my head to the side when Raphael’s teeth carve an electric path up my throat. “I’m gonna—”
My eyes pop open as his fingers leave my clit.
“What are you—?”
“Say please,” he mocks.
I slow the roll of my hips, absorbing his words. You have got to be shitting me.
I’m so high, so feverish, that, although I’m too stubborn to say please, I’m also too desperate to argue. Instead, I bring my own hand between my thighs.
Raphael catches my wrists in one hand and roughly pulls them above my head. A dark chuckle vibrates my back. “Nice try.”
He brushes his knuckles against my throbbing clit, building a slow-moving tremor again. “Say please, Penelope.”
I wrestle against his grip, but it’s immovable. “Fuck off.”
“I don’t know what language that is, but it’s not how you say please in English.”
My breaths quicken as the pressure builds again, and for a maddening moment, I think he’s forgotten his stupid game. But when my nails dig into his thigh and I let out a cry, he withdraws the pressure.
“No,” I whimper.
“Say it.”
“No—”
When he rubs me again, I shake my head in panic, knowing I can’t deal with what’s coming.
“Don’t stop.”
“What’s the word, Penelope?”
“I can’t—”
“Just fucking say it.”
“Please.”
It escapes my lips in a desperate, breathy whimper, and even as Raphael’s fingers rub me harder and faster, I know the sound of it will haunt me later.
Right now, though, I couldn’t give a flying fuck. Delirium explodes through my veins, eating up all the oxygen in my blood. The fire rages hot then cools to a lethargic warmth, filled with relief.
My head falls heavy against Raphael’s chest, and his strokes against my pussy grow soft and gentle. His breathing slows.
“Good girl,” he whispers, planting a tender kiss on my neck.
Good girl. I don’t hate that he calls me that; I hate how it blooms in my chest like a flower. Then its petals wilt, rotting my insides, and I squirm to get it out of me.
Painfully aware of his rock-hard cock still pulsating inside of me, I know I need to fuck the feeling away. I need to bring the man to an orgasm, if only to level the playing field and make him come as undone as I just did.
He lets me push his arm off my waist and drop forward on the pillow. His thighs flex against mine, and I twist to look at him.
He regards me with dark, suspicious eyes. When I slide up his dick again, he turns his attention to my ass and takes a slow, deep breath. I’ve learned my lesson—I wouldn’t get a please from this man even if he was trying to stop me lighting the world on fire—but the way he grinds his teeth as he watches his length disappear inside me is almost worth it.
He lets out a noise of satisfaction. Gives a small shake of his head.
“You’re perfect. You know that?”
My heart churns. Right now, I need steel, not silk. I move to look away, but he grips my jaw to keep me there. With his other hand, he grabs the top gathered on my waist and uses it like a handle to push himself deeper inside me.
“You want to know how many women I fucked,” he grinds out.
“No,” I whisper. Truthfully, I’d rather pour hot wax in my ears than hear the answer.
He laughs darkly. “Good, because I have a better number. How many times I’ve fucked my fist thinking about you.”
A languid fascination drifts through my core. My tender clit starts thumping again. Christ. A man like Raphael doesn’t get himself off, not with a fist nor with my panties. It’s so primal. So uncontrolled.
I burn with the need to know more.
“How many times?”
He rakes his teeth over his bottom lip, eyes glinting. “Too many to count.”
Well, I guess I deserved that answer. I arch my back deeper, my nipples grazing against the bedding and igniting a fresh heat within me. “What do you think about?” I whisper.
He pulls from my jaw and rakes both hands down the side of my body, tracking his movements. “This isn’t far off, Queenie.”
I half moan, half laugh. “Dreams really do come true, hey?”
He glares at me, but amusement softens his irises. “You talk a lot less shit when I fuck you in my dreams.”
Before I can think of a witty response, he winds his hand into my hair and pushes my face down into the pillow. Clearly, he’s done entertaining me. A strangled moan escapes my lips with every thrust, and when he picks up ferocity and pace, punctuating each stroke with callous Italian, molten heat spreads throughout me.
“Fuck, Penny,” is the last muttered oath that slides from his lips before the wall of his stomach tightens against my ass and a different type of warmth fills me.
As I melt into the bedding, body slack, Raphael’s weight comes down on top of me. He’s heavy and all-consuming, and I find that I don’t mind one bit.
My lids flutter shut for the briefest of moments. I listen to his heartbeat thump slightly out-of-sync with mine. Feel his breath cool the sweat on my nape. When his touch softens on my hip and he slips out of me, he plants a hot kiss on my neck.
“You were amazing.” The bed dips, and the snap of elastic as he pulls up his boxers echoes in my ear. “Unfortunately,” he adds bitterly.
Clutching the sheets to my chest, I twist around, watching his inked back as he saunters toward the bathroom.
He slows to a stop and palms the back of his neck, before turning to pin me with a dark expression. “Condom,” is all he says.
My blood runs cold; a stark contrast to the hot juice running down my inner thigh. How could I be so stupid? Embarrassingly enough, the thought of using protection didn’t even cross my mind. Not when Raphael declared he was going to fuck me, nor when he followed through with venom.
I let out a shaky breath. “I’m on the pill.”
His eyes narrow, annoyance pulling his jaw taut. The word why dances somewhere between the door and the bed. Of course, I don’t tell him I’ve been on it since I was thirteen to regulate my periods.
He runs a busted hand down his throat, settling his gaze on the headboard behind me. “You clean?” he asks tightly.
I stare at him in disbelief. “Are you?” I snap back.
His eyes fall down to me in bitter amusement. “Yes, Penelope. I’m not usually stupid enough to fuck a broad without a condom.”
And then the bathroom door slams shut behind him.