Chapter 8: Total Devastation
Her whisper was a raw, broken thing against his neck. “More, Kimi. Please.”
The sound went straight through him, hot and liquid. He pulled back just enough to see her face—flushed, her dark eyes wide and clouded with a need that mirrored the ache in his own body. That single word, more, shattered any last pretense of restraint.
A slow, wicked grin spread across his face. “Greedy girl.”
He didn’t go back to her mouth. Instead, he trailed a line of open-mouthed kisses down the column of her throat, over the frantic pulse there, down to the swell of her chest. He took his time, worshipping every inch he’d only ever seen from a distance, felt through a summer dress. Her skin was fever-warm, tasting of salt and that vanilla perfume she always wore. She squirmed underneath him, a soft, desperate sound escaping her lips as he nipped at the delicate curve of her breast.
“Kimi…”
“Shhh. I’ve got you.”
He moved lower, his hands sliding down her sides to grip her hips, anchoring her. He kissed the plane of her stomach, the delicate dip of her navel, feeling the muscles quiver under his lips. He could smell her now, that intimate, musky sweetness, and it made his head spin. He hooked his thumbs in the lace of her panties—the ones he’d bought her last birthday, a secret joke only he understood—and drew them down her legs, tossing them somewhere into the dim room.
For a moment, he just looked. She was beautiful. Swollen, glistening, completely open to him. Her thighs trembled as he pushed them apart, his gaze fixed on her.
“So pretty,” he murmured, his voice thick. “All puffy and wet for me. Fuck, Alessia.”
Then he lowered his head and licked a slow, firm stripe from her entrance to her clit.
Her back arched off the bed, a choked cry tearing from her throat. Her hands flew to his hair, not pushing him away but fisting in the curls, holding him there. The taste of her was electric, better than any champagne, any victory. He groaned against her, the vibration pulling another sharp gasp from her.
He devoured her.
He licked into her, deep and thorough, then focused on the tight, hard bud of her clit, circling it with the flat of his tongue before sucking it gently between his lips. She was gushing, each trembling sigh another offering. He drank her down, lost in the rhythm of her body, the way her hips jerked against his mouth, the broken litany of pleas and his name.
“Please—oh God—right there, don’t stop, Kimi, please don’t stop—”
He didn’t. He pinned her hips harder to the mattress when she bucked, holding her exactly where he wanted her. His tongue worked her relentlessly, fast and then slow, soft flicks followed by firm, steady pressure. He could feel the tension coiling tight inside her, a spring about to snap.
“Come on,” he growled, lifting his head just enough to speak, his lips wet with her. “Come for me. Now.”
It hit her like a seizure. A sharp, keening wail ripped through the quiet room as her body bowed, rigid for a blinding second before it shattered. He felt the rhythmic pulsing against his tongue, tasted the fresh flood of her release. He kept his mouth on her, gentling his movements, lapping her through it until her cries subsided into ragged sobs and her grip on his hair went slack.
But he wasn’t done.
He pushed her straight into a second one, barely letting her breathe. He slid two fingers inside her, curling them, and that was all it took. Her inner walls clenched around him instantly, and she came again with a shocked, guttural moan, her nails scraping down his shoulders. This peak was deeper, rolling, less violent but more profound. She thrashed her head side to side on the pillow, tears leaking from the corners of her eyes.
“Too much… can’t…”
“You can,” he whispered, his voice hoarse. He didn’t let up, his tongue and fingers working in a filthy, perfect sync. He was relentless. He wanted to wreck her, to brand this into her so deeply she’d never look at anyone else. “One more. Give it to me. Everything.”
Her third climax broke quietly, a wave of pure sensation that left her limp and boneless, a continuous, low whimper humming in her chest. He finally slowed, then stilled, pressing soft, closed-mouth kisses to her inner thighs, her stomach, as she trembled through the aftershocks.
The room was silent except for their harsh, syncopated breathing. He crawled back up her body, his own arousal a painful, urgent throb against his sweatpants. He kissed the tears from her cheeks, tasting their salt.
She looked up at him, her eyes dark pools of spent wonder. Her hand, shaky, came up to touch his jaw, his lips—lips that were wet, shining with her. She stared at them, then at him, a new, hesitant curiosity dawning in her gaze.
He caught her wrist, pressing a kiss to her palm. “Next time, baby,” he promised again, the words a dark echo from the sun-drenched living room, but now they were a vow sealed in her own taste.
He pulled her into his chest, wrapping himself around her completely, tucking her head under his chin. Outside, the Mediterranean night pressed against the blinds, holding its breath. Inside, the only truth was the beat of her heart against his, and the terrifying, exhilarating knowledge that there was no going back.
Inside, the only truth was the beat of her heart against his, and the terrifying, exhilarating knowledge that there was no going back.
They lay like that for long minutes, skin slick, the quiet broken only by the slowing rhythm of their breath. Gradually, the world beyond their tangled limbs began to seep back in: the distant hum of a boat on the water, the faint, citrus smell of the linen spray on the sheets. Alessia stirred first, her fingers flexing against his bare back.
She tilted her head up, her dark curls sticking to her damp temples. Her eyes searched his, not with regret, but with a focused, newfound hunger. Then, with a soft sigh, she leaned in and kissed him.
It was clumsy, off-center, but so eager. Her lips moved against his with a gentle insistence, and when her tongue shyly touched his, she moaned. The sound was one of pure, startled discovery. She tasted herself on him, and instead of pulling away, she deepened the kiss, her hands beginning to wander across the hard planes of his chest.
Her touch was feather-light, tracing the definition of his abs, skating over the ridge of a hip bone. She was shy, her fingertips trembling slightly, but they moved with a dogged curiosity that made his stomach tighten.
“You can explore,” he murmured against her mouth, his voice rough. “Take your time. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”
She nodded, her lips curving into a small, private smile against his jaw. Her palms slid lower, following the trail of blond hair that disappeared into the waistband of his grey sweatpants. She hesitated there, her breath catching. Then, with a courage that made his heart hammer, she let her fingers glide over the thick, rigid length of him straining against the fabric.
She gasped. “Kimi.”
“Yeah.”
“You’re so… hard.” Her whisper was full of awe. “And hot. It’s like you’re burning through them.”
He groaned, the sound ripped from deep in his chest as her curious fingers traced his outline. Her touch was innocent, incendiary. She was mapping him, learning the shape and heft of him through the soft cotton, and it was the most agonizing, perfect torture he’d ever known.
“Does that…” she started, then swallowed. “Did I make you feel like this?”
“You’re the only one who ever has,” he said, the truth of it stark and simple between them.
Her dark eyes flicked up to his, wide and serious. “Teach me,” she whispered. “Please. I want to make you feel good, too.”
He caught her hand, his own engulfing it. He guided her back, wrapping her slender fingers around him, showing her how to grip him through the fabric. “Like this,” he said, his voice thick. “Just… stroke. However you want.”
She began to move, tentative at first, a slow, unsure friction. He dropped his head back onto the pillow, a tendon standing out in his neck. “Yeah, baby. Just like that.”
Encouraged, her strokes grew more confident, her touch firmer. She watched his face, enthralled by the way his lips parted, the way his blue eyes darkened almost to black, the sharp hiss of air he drew in when she adjusted her grip. She was completely focused, a student mastering a new, vital skill. Her other hand came up to cradle his jaw, her thumb brushing his cheekbone.
“You’re beautiful like this,” she said, the words soft with wonder.
He laughed, a choked, breathless sound. “Nobody calls me beautiful.”
“I do.”
Her rhythm faltered as she became distracted by the feeling of him responding, growing even harder, hotter beneath her palm. She bit her lip, a faint line appearing between her brows. “Can I… see you?”
The question hung in the air, a precipice. He’d promised ‘next time’ in the living room, then again moments ago. Next time was now. He held her gaze, seeing no fear, only a bright, trusting curiosity that threatened to undo him completely. He nodded, once.
His hands went to the knot of his waistband. A quick, practiced tug and the fabric loosened. He shifted his hips, pushing the grey sweats down his legs in one fluid motion, kicking them off the end of the bed.
The cool air of the room hit his skin, but it was nothing compared to the heat of her wide-eyed stare. Alessia’s breath caught, a sharp little inhalation that seemed to echo. She’d seen him in swim trunks, in tight racing suits, but this was different. This was total, vulnerable reality. A furious blush swept from her cheeks down her neck, painting her olive skin a deep, flustered rose.
She didn’t look away. Her gaze traveled the length of him, dark eyes absorbing every detail with a focus she usually reserved for her university textbooks. Her lips were slightly parted. Slowly, as if moving through water, her hand lifted from his chest. She hovered, her fingertips mere inches away, trembling.
“Can I?” she whispered.
He just nodded, his throat too tight for words.
Her first touch was a ghost of a thing, just the pads of her fingers brushing the smooth, heated skin of his inner thigh. Then they skimmed upward, tracing a path through the coarse blond hair, until her knuckles accidentally grazed the base of his shaft. She flinched, then stilled. Gathering her courage, she let her entire hand settle around him.
Her gasp was soft, full of wonder. “Oh.”
She flexed her fingers experimentally, learning the weight, the impossible hardness. Her skin was so soft, a stark contrast to the tense, ready flesh she was holding. “You’re so hot,” she breathed, almost to herself. “And smooth. Like silk over steel.”
She began a tentative stroke, from root to tip, her thumb brushing over the swollen head. A bead of moisture gathered there instantly, slick and clear. Alessia paused, her gaze fixated. With a reverence that shattered him, she used her index finger to collect it.
She held her finger up between them, watching the fluid catch the slivers of light leaking past the blinds. She rubbed it between her finger and thumb, fascinated by the texture. “What is this?” she asked, her voice hushed.
“That’s me,” Kimi managed, his own voice rough. “For you. It’s called pre-cum.”
Her dark eyes flicked to his, holding his gaze for a heartbeat. Then, with an absent, natural curiosity that was purely Alessia, she brought her finger to her mouth and sucked it clean.
The moan that escaped her was low, breathy, and real. Her eyelids fluttered. “It’s… salty,” she murmured. “But kind of sweet, too. You taste good.”
Something primal and possessive roared to life inside him. He hooked an arm around her waist and dragged her up his body, crashing his mouth onto hers in a searing, desperate kiss. She tasted herself on his tongue, and now himself on hers—a dizzying, complete circle. Her free hand fumbled back to his cock, gripping him clumsily, her strokes urgent and uncoordinated.
“Fuck,” he swore against her lips, the word guttural and awed. The pressure was all wrong, her rhythm erratic, but it was the most profoundly erotic thing he’d ever experienced. Every awkward twist of her wrist, every squeeze born of eager enthusiasm, lit his nerves on fire. She was trying so hard, so desperately to give back the pleasure he’d given her.
“Is this right?” she panted between kisses, her forehead damp against his. “Tell me what to do.”
“Use it,” he grunted, guiding her slick hand. “Use what’s there to make it smoother.”
She obeyed instantly, spreading the moisture he’d provided over his length, her movements becoming slicker, a little more confident. But she was still watching his face, learning. “Help me,” she whispered, a plea. “I want it to be so good for you. Show me.”
He covered her hand with his own, increasing the pressure, setting a pace that was slow and deep. “Just like that. Perfect. You’re perfect.”
A deep, rolling tension began to coil at the base of his spine, tightening with every slide of her palm. The sight of her, lips kiss-swollen, eyes dark with concentration as she worked his body, was going to undo him. A raw, fractured sound tore from his chest. “Alessia… I’m gonna come.”
Her eyes widened, but her hand didn’t stop. If anything, she gripped him tighter. “Yes,” she breathed, a command and a gift all at once.
He lost the capacity to guide her. His hand fell away, fisting in the sheet beside his head as his hips jerked off the mattress. She kept going, her strokes speeding up, fueled by instinct and a fierce desire to see it through. He cried out, a broken version of her name, as the world whited out. Pleasure erupted, hot and pulsating, striping his stomach and her still-moving hand.
For a moment, there was only the sound of his ragged breathing. He forced his eyes open.
Alessia was looking down at her hand, glistening and wet. A slow, dazzling smile spread across her face, pure, unfiltered delight. She looked back at him, her expression one of triumph and awe. Without a hint of hesitation, she brought her coated fingers to her lips and sucked them clean, one by one, her tongue swirling to catch every drop. A soft, satisfied hum vibrated in her throat.
“I did that,” she said, the words full of quiet marvel.
He pulled her down, crushing her to his sweaty, spent body, burying his face in her dark curls. He was wrecked, completely and utterly. Her heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic, alive rhythm that matched his own. Outside, the first sliver of dawn began to bleed at the edges of the blinds, turning the dark room a deep, bruised grey. The chaos of the coming day—the team calls, the media, the world that thought it owned him—waited just beyond the glass.
But here, tangled in sheets that smelled of them, with her taste still on his tongue and hers, none of it mattered. He held onto her, this perfect, greedy girl who had just rewritten his entire universe, and knew, with a certainty that was both terrifying and absolute, that every other victory of his life would now pale in comparison.
He held onto her, this perfect, greedy girl who had just rewritten his entire universe, and knew, with a certainty that was both terrifying and absolute, that every other victory of his life would now pale in comparison.
They lay tangled, sticky and spent, for what felt like hours. His racing brain, usually a hurricane of data and adrenaline, was quiet. The only calculus that mattered was the soft weight of her head on his shoulder and the way her fingertips idly traced circles on his chest. He pressed his lips to her hairline, breathing in the scent of sweat and her vanilla shampoo.
“So,” she said finally, her voice muffled against his skin. “That was… educational.”
A snort of laughter shook his frame. He’d expected awe, maybe profound declarations. Not that. “Educational? Christ, Lessi. You just detonated me. Call it what it is.”
“Fine.” She propped herself up on an elbow, a playful glint in her dark eyes despite the lingering shyness in her smile. “It was the single most profound physical experience of my eighteen years. Happy?”
“Getting there.” He grinned, catching her wandering hand and linking their fingers. “Still sounds like a textbook.”
She swatted his arm lightly, then let her gaze drift over their naked bodies, a faint blush returning. “Okay. It was insanely hot. And I’m still a little dizzy. And I can’t believe I just… did all that.”
“Believe it.” His thumb stroked her knuckles. “You were incredible.”
A comfortable silence settled, filled with the sound of distant gulls and their slowing breaths. Her exploration resumed, less tentative now. She traced the old scar on his ribs from a karting crash when he was fourteen, the faint tan lines from his team kit, the defined tendons in his neck. He watched her, mesmerized by her focus.
“I like your skin,” she announced softly, as if confessing a secret. “It’s different than mine. So many marks. Stories.”
“Most of them are stupid,” he murmured, but he arched into her touch like a cat.
“They’re you.” She said it so simply, so conclusively, it stole the air from his lungs. She leaned down and kissed the scar, her lips a soft, forgiving pressure on the hardened tissue. The gesture was so intimate, so unconditionally accepting, it made his throat tighten.
He needed to lighten the atmosphere before he said something devastatingly stupid, like I love you. He rolled suddenly, pinning her beneath him amidst a gasp. He hovered, drinking in the sight of her splayed out on the rumpled sheets, her dark hair fanned out, her body still flushed from their exertions.
“Your turn,” he said, his voice dropping to a mock-growl. “I’ve been cataloguing you for years. Now I get to map the territory properly.”
Her laugh was a breathy, nervous thing. “Cataloguing?”
“Mmm. The freckle behind your right ear. The exact way your left hipbone sits higher than the right.” He demonstrated, kissing each landmark. “The tiny white scar on your knee from when you fell off your bike chasing me.”
“You remember that?” Her eyes were wide.
“I remember everything about you.” The words hung there, too honest, too raw. He deflected by skimming his fingers down her sides, finding the sensitive spot just above her hips.
She shrieked, a pure, uncontrolled sound of surprise, and tried to squirm away. “Kimi, no! Don’t you dare!”
“Too late.” He dug in, tickling her mercilessly. She bucked and thrashed, her laughter erupting in helpless, squealing gusts. It was the same laugh from when they were kids building forts, unselfconscious and joyous. It filled the dim room, banishing the last shadows of tension.
“Stop! Stop, I can’t breathe!” she begged, tears of mirth streaming from the corners of her eyes.
He relented, collapsing half on top of her, both of them panting and grinning. She pushed at his shoulder, still giggling. “You’re the worst.” “You love it,” he shot back, nuzzling her neck.
Her giggles subsided into contented sighs. She wrapped her arms around his back, holding him close. They were a mess—dried sweat, the evidence of his release sticky between them, her curls a wild tangle. He’d never felt more comfortable in his own skin.