Chapter 8: Balcony Betrayal
She had smiled through the ceremony. She had held the pillow, her hands steady as stone, while the ghost of his thrusts echoed in the ache between her legs. Now, the reception swirled in the grand salon behind her, a tempest of silk and laughter she could no longer navigate. The night air on the balcony was a cool relief against her flushed skin. It did nothing to quiet the riot inside her.
A hand settled on the small of her back, fingers splaying possessively. She knew his touch before he spoke.
“A beautiful service,” Vito said, his voice a low vibration beside her. He held two glasses of champagne, offering one. His wedding band gleamed, a golden lie in the lamplight. “You played your part flawlessly.”
She took the glass, her fingers brushing his. A static shock, small and sharp, travelled up her arm. “It wasn’t a play for her,” Julienne said, watching Isabella spin on the dance floor, a blur of white satin and pure joy.
“Everything is a performance, Julienne.” He sipped his drink, eyes on the dark water below. “The question is who you’re performing for.”
He placed his empty glass on the balustrade. His hand returned to her back, sliding down to curve over her hip. He pulled her subtly, firmly, away from the light spilling from the salon doors, deeper into the shadowed corner of the balcony.
“My suite is on the floor above,” he said, his mouth close to her ear. His breath was warm, smelling of expensive whiskey and menace. “The private elevator is at the end of the hall. Be in it in five minutes.”
He didn’t wait for an answer. He melted back into the reception, leaving her trembling with the champagne flute cold in her hand. Five minutes. She watched Isabella throw her head back, laughing at something Paolo said. The pain was a physical knot under her ribs.
She counted to three hundred. Then she walked back inside, moving through the crowd like a ghost. She deposited her glass on a passing tray. She didn’t look back.
The hallway was quiet, muffling the distant music into a dull throb. The private elevator doors were ornate, polished brass. They slid open soundlessly when she approached. The inside was lined with red velvet. It smelled of his cologne. She stepped in, and the doors closed, sealing her in a silent, ascending box.
It opened directly into a foyer. The suite was vast, dark, overlooking the Grand Canal. A single lamp cast a dim pool of light on a massive bed. He stood by the window, his jacket and tie discarded, his shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows. He was watching a water taxi slice through the black water.
“Close the door,” he said, without turning.
She heard the lock engage with a heavy, final click. He finally looked at her. In the half-light, his face was all sharp planes and hunger. “The dress,” he said, nodding to her bridesmaid’s gown. “Take it off.”
Her fingers fumbled with the delicate lavender chiffon. The zipper stuck. She fought with it, a flush of shame heating her skin.
“Tear it,” he commanded, his voice flat.
She gripped the bodice in both hands and pulled. The fabric gave with a sharp, satisfying rip. She let it fall, a puddle of ruined silk at her feet. She stood before him in only her heels, exposed, her skin prickling in the air-conditioned chill.
He crossed the room slowly, a predator assessing. He circled her. His knuckles trailed down the line of her spine, making her shiver. “You were the most beautiful thing in that chapel today,” he murmured. “And you were mine.”
He stopped in front of her. His hand came up to cup her jaw, his thumb stroking her bottom lip. “On your knees.”
She sank down, the plush carpet rough against her skin. He unbuckled his belt, the leather sliding through the loops with a whisper. His zipper’s rasp was loud in the quiet room. He freed himself, already fully hard, thick and veined in the low light.
“Open,” he said.
She obeyed, taking him into her mouth. He was smoother this time, salty at the tip. She relaxed her jaw, letting him slide deeper. He placed his hands on her head, not forcing, just holding. “Look at me,” he growled.
She opened her eyes, looking up the line of his body to his face. His expression was stark, stripped of all civility. Pure, rapacious need. It ignited something dark and answering in her gut.
“Good girl,” he breathed, his hips giving a slight thrust. She sucked, hollowing her cheeks, using her tongue. He watched, his breath coming faster. “Just like that. Take it all.”
She took him deeper, until her nose pressed against his skin, until she gagged. Tears welled in her eyes. He held her there, his fingers tightening in her hair. “Swallow,” he commanded. She did, her throat working around him. He groaned, a deep, shattered sound.
He pulled out suddenly, glistening wet. “Stand up. Turn around. Bend over the bed.”
She rose on shaky legs. The vast expanse of the duvet was cool under her palms as she leaned over. He moved behind her, his hands rough on her hips, yanking them back. She heard him spit, a wet sound, and then felt the slick pressure of him against her.
He didn’t enter her. He rubbed the head of his cock through her wetness, coating himself in her, teasing her clit with blunt, maddening strokes. She gasped, pushing back against him, a wordless plea.
“You want it?” he whispered, his voice ragged. “Tell me.”
“Please,” she breathed into the duvet.
“Please, what?”
“Please fuck me.”
“Where?”
She knew. “In my ass.”
He spit again, the sound crude, vulgar. He pressed the thick head against her other hole, a tight, forbidden ring of muscle. He pushed, just an inch. The burn was exquisite, brutal. She cried out, her fingers clawing the bedding.
“Relax,” he ordered, his hand coming down hard on her ass cheek. The slap cracked through the room. The sting bloomed, mixing with the sharp, stretching pain. “Take it. You’ve earned this.”
He pushed forward, a slow, inexorable invasion. It felt like being split open, remade. She panted, tears wetting the duvet. He seated himself fully, buried inside her to the hilt. They both froze, a statue of conjoined violation.
He began to move. Short, shallow thrusts at first, letting her body adjust to the brutal fullness. Then deeper, harder. Each stroke was a rough claim, a punishment and a reward. The pain began to transmute, burning into a shocking, white-hot pleasure.
“You’re so fucking tight,” he grunted, his pace increasing. His fingers dug into her hips, holding her in place for his pounding. “This is mine. This secret, filthy hole. It’s where I keep you.”
His words unspooled her. She came with a choked sob, her body clamping around him in rhythmic, shattering waves. It tipped him over the edge. With a final, brutal thrust, he groaned, pulsing deep inside her. She felt the hot rush of his release, a final, visceral claim.
He collapsed over her, his weight pressing her into the bed, his sweat cooling on her back. For a long minute, there was only the sound of their ragged breathing and the distant putter of a boat on the canal.
He pulled out slowly. The emptiness was profound, a raw, aching void. He stood, and she heard the soft rustle of his clothes. He didn’t speak.
She finally pushed herself up, turning to look at him. He was already half-dressed, tucking his shirt back in, his face a composed mask. The man who had just fucked her raw was gone, replaced by the don.
“Clean yourself up,” he said, his voice devoid of all heat. He nodded toward a lavish bathroom. “Isabella will be looking for you to toss the bouquet.”
He left the bedroom, closing the door softly behind him. Julienne stood on trembling legs. She walked to the bathroom, her reflection in the gold-edged mirror a stranger’s—swollen lips, smudged mascara, a hollow look in her blue eyes. She ran the water, cold, and splashed her face.
The tear in her dress was irreparable. She found a hotel robe hanging on the door, thick and white. She put it on, tying the belt tightly. She bundled the ruined lavender chiffon under her arm.
When she stepped back into the bedroom, it was empty. The only evidence was the rumpled bed and the scent of sex hanging in the air, soon to be swept away by the canal breeze. She took the private elevator down. The doors opened to the same empty hall.
She could hear the reception still thriving, the music now upbeat and pulsing. Isabella’s voice, bright and happy, called out above the din. “Jules! There you are! We’re about to throw the bouquet! Where’s your dress?”
Julienne clutched the ruined silk tighter under the robe. She forced a smile onto her face, the performance beginning anew. “I spilled champagne on it,” she said, her voice surprisingly steady. “I had to change.”