Mafia's Surrogate Bride Chapter 18

Aria's POV

The mirror reflected everything—my naked, trembling body pressed against Damian's fully clothed form, his hand around my throat, the way my eyes had gone wide and desperate as his fingers worked inside me.

"Clean them," he had commanded, and I'd obeyed without question, my tongue working over his fingers with desperate need.

The taste of myself on his skin should have embarrassed me, should have made me pull away in shame. Instead, it only intensified the burning that coursed through my veins. The drug made everything feel heightened, every sensation amplified until I could barely think beyond the desperate need for more.

When he lifted me from the shower, water still streaming from my hair and skin, I felt weightless in his arms. The contrast between his expensive suit and my naked, wet body should have reminded me of the vast distance between our worlds. Instead, all I could focus on was the solid warmth of his chest, the way his arms held me so effortlessly.

The bedroom hit me like a physical blow, that massive bed dominating the space like an altar of sin.

He didn't place me gently on those sheets—he dropped me like prey he'd caught, and I gasped as the cool silk met my burning skin.

"You're going to regret asking me for this favor," he had warned.

Now, sprawled naked on his bed while he stood fully dressed at the foot like a judge passing sentence, I understood. This wasn't mercy—this was punishment disguised as pleasure. And God help me, I wanted it anyway.

"Please," I whimpered, the word ripping from my throat. My thighs pressed together reflexively, seeking any friction to ease the torment burning between them.

Damian's eyes tracked the movement like a predator watching wounded prey struggle. He began removing his jacket with deliberate slowness, each second of delay another twist of the knife.

"Look at you," he said, "Do you have any idea how pathetic you look right now?"

The words should have stung, should have given me back some dignity. Instead, they sent heat flooding through me so intensely I actually moaned.

"I need—" I started, my voice breaking.

"You need what?" He stepped closer, and I could smell him—expensive cologne and male dominance . "Say it. Tell me exactly what you need."

My face burned with shame, but the drug stripped away any capacity for lies. "I need you to touch me. I need you to make it stop burning. I need you to—"

"To what?" His voice dropped to a whisper that somehow carried more menace than any shout. "To fuck you? Is that what you're begging for, piccola?"

The crude word from his elegant mouth made me cry out, my back arching off the bed. "Yes," I gasped. "Please, yes."

"Even knowing what I am? What I'm capable of?" He sat on the edge of the bed, close enough that his body heat made me tremble with need. "You saw what happened to the last woman who displeased me."

Valentina. Carried out bleeding and broken. The memory should have terrified me back to sanity. Instead, in my drug-addled state, it only made him seem more dangerous, more powerful, more irresistible.

"I don't care," I breathed, and meant it. "I don't care about anything except this burning."

"Such honesty," he murmured, his fingers finally—finally—brushing against my ankle. "The last time, you pretended I was someone else. You called out another man's name while I was inside you."

The memory crashed over me—how I'd kissed him thinking he was Marco, how I'd clung to the fantasy until he'd forced me to face reality, to admit who was really making me feel that way.

"I won't do that again," I promised desperately. "I know exactly who you are."

"Do you?" His hand slid higher, tracing my calf with maddening lightness. "Tell me who I am, then."

"You're Damian Cavalieri," I panted, my hips lifting involuntarily as his touch crept higher. "You're dangerous. You're powerful. You could destroy me with a word."

"And yet here you are, spread out on my bed like an offering." His hand reached my knee, paused there while I writhed with need. "Begging me to claim you."

"Yes," I sobbed, past all pretense or dignity. "Please. I'll do anything."

"Anything? Be careful what you offer, piccola. I might just take you up on it."

His hand moved higher, skimming the sensitive skin of my inner thigh, and I thought I might actually die from the anticipation. Every muscle in my body was coiled tight as a wire, waiting for his touch where I needed it most.

"Tell me," he said, leaning closer until his breath was hot against my ear, "do you want to experience something different this time?"

"I... I don't know what you mean," I whispered, though my body betrayed me by arching toward him instinctively.

"Don't you?" His voice carried dark amusement. "You're so innocent, *piccola*. So naive about what men like me are capable of." His fingers traced along my collarbone, barely touching, yet each contact felt like fire. "That night three weeks ago was just the beginning. I was... gentle with you then."

Gentle? My mind reeled at the word. What he'd done to me that night had felt like being consumed by a wildfire, like being broken apart and rebuilt in his image. If that was gentle, what did his idea of rough look like?

I didn’t get a chance to think too much because soon, he was fucking me roughly.