Chapter 8: Flour-Stained Knees - His teeth sink into her shoulder as he fists a hand in her hair, forcing her head down while his other hand shoves her skirt up, his growl of 'You'll fucking scream my name where your father works' punctuated by the wet slap of flesh as he rams into her unprepared cunt.
The word still hung in the air between them, a ghost in the sunlight. Mine. Bella felt it echo in the hollows he’d carved inside her, a claim stamped into her sweat-slicked skin. He had collapsed against her after his final, shuddering release, his weight a solid, shocking warmth. Now, he rolled away, the absence of him suddenly cold.
She stared at the ornate plasterwork of the ceiling, her body humming, aching in places she’d never known could ache. The scent of him—spice, clean sweat, and something darker, uniquely Sandro—was deep in her lungs, on her tongue. She could still feel the brutal, perfect stretch of him, the way he’d pinned her wrists, the filthy, beautiful things he’d growled into her ear as the dawn broke.
He moved from the bed without a word, a shadow against the growing gold of the window. She watched the muscles of his back flex as he pulled on a pair of black trousers. The silence was a living thing, thick and uncomfortable.
“Coffee,” he said, his voice rough, not looking at her. It wasn’t a question.
He left the room, and the space felt both emptier and easier to breathe in. Bella pushed herself up, wincing. The silk sheet pooled around her waist. Her clothes from yesterday were folded neatly over a chair—a small, absurd courtesy.