Chapter 6: Nocturnal Confession
The silence of the mansion at night was absolute. No ticking clocks, no creaking floorboards—just the muffled weight of wealth and isolation pressing down on every room. Bella lay in the center of the enormous bed, the sheets tangled around her legs, the remnants of their earlier violence still humming under her skin.
She hadn’t meant to fall asleep. But exhaustion had dragged her under, and now, in the dark, she swam back to awareness with the slow, creeping realization that she wasn’t alone.
A hand slid up her bare thigh, warm and deliberate.
Her breath hitched. She didn’t open her eyes.
Sandro’s touch was different tonight—not the brutal possession of the study, not the cold detachment of before. This was slow. Almost reverent. His fingers traced the inside of her leg, feather-light, mapping the soft skin there before reaching the damp warmth between her thighs.
She let out a shaky sigh, pressing her lips together to stifle it.
“Don’t,” he murmured, his voice rough from sleep or something darker. His thumb circled her clit, slow and steady, coaxing a wetness that had no business existing after what they’d done earlier. “Let me hear you.”
She didn’t answer. Couldn’t. His fingers slipped lower, parting her folds with an obscene slickness, sliding through the mess he’d left inside her hours ago. The sound alone made her hips jerk.
“Still wet for me,” he said, satisfaction curling through the words like smoke. He pushed two fingers inside her without warning, stretching her, curling them just right to make her back arch off the mattress. “Christ, Bella. Still fucking tight.”
She gasped, gripping the sheets. His palm ground against her clit as he fucked her with his fingers, the rhythm relentless, the pleasure already coiling too fast, too soon.
Then his mouth was on her.
He dragged her down the bed by her hips, his tongue replacing his fingers in one filthy, searing stroke. She cried out, her legs falling open wider as he licked into her like a man starved, his stubble scraping her inner thighs. His tongue flicked her clit once, twice—then his lips closed around it, sucking hard.
She nearly came right there.
He growled against her, the vibration making her whimper. One hand pinned her hip while the other slid back inside her, fucking her in time with his mouth, his tongue relentless. She could feel the tension building, her thighs trembling, her breath coming in ragged little moans.
Then he pulled away.
She made a noise—a broken, needy sound—and he smirked in the dark before flipping her onto her stomach.
“Not yet,” he muttered, dragging her hips up until she was on her knees. His cock pressed against her entrance, thick and hot, already leaking against her skin. He rubbed the head through her slick folds, teasing, maddening. “You don’t get to come until I say.”
Then he sank into her in one deep, unrelenting thrust.
She choked on a moan, her fingers clawing at the sheets. He filled her completely, his hips flush against her ass, his breath hot on the back of her neck. He didn’t move. Just let her feel it—the stretch, the fullness, the way her body clenched around him like it was trying to keep him there forever.
“Fuck,” he gritted out, his voice strained. His fingers dug into her hips hard enough to bruise. “Every time. Every goddamn time, you feel like this.”
Then he pulled out—almost all the way—and slammed back in.
She sobbed, her vision going white at the edges. He set a brutal pace, each thrust driving her forward into the mattress, her breasts rubbing against the sheets, her clit catching on the fabric with every snap of his hips. She could hear the wet slap of skin, the ragged sounds of his breathing, the creak of the bedframe under their combined weight.
One of his hands left her hip, sliding around to her front, fingers finding her clit again. He rubbed tight, fast circles, his cock still pounding into her, the dual sensation pushing her closer, closer—
“Come,” he ordered, his voice raw.
She shattered.
Her orgasm ripped through her like a live wire, her body clamping down on him, her scream muffled in the sheets. He groaned, his thrusts turning erratic, his fingers pressing harder against her clit to drag out her pleasure. Then he was coming too, his hips stuttering, his cock pulsing inside her as he spilled deep with a low, guttural curse.
He collapsed over her back, his breath hot against her shoulder. For a long moment, neither of them moved.
Then he pulled out.
The loss was immediate, a cold ache where he’d just been. She heard him move behind her, the rustle of fabric, the quiet click of his belt buckle.
She didn’t turn around.
The bed dipped as he sat beside her. His fingers brushed her hip—just once, barely a touch—before he stood.
“Greco won’t be a problem anymore,” he said quietly.
She didn’t answer.
The door closed softly behind him.
She lay there, the scent of sex still heavy in the air, the ghost of his touch still burning on her skin. He had erased one debt tonight. But the other—the one between them—grew deeper with every passing second.
And she had no idea how to pay it.