Page 49 of Forbidden

Despite the pain, a slow, teasing curve forms on his lips. “I think it’s romantic that I was just in a car accident and still made it all the way to see you.”

“You are insane.”

“And you love it.”

I should throw something at him. But instead, I grab his good wrist and drag him to the sofa in the living room. “Sit.”

He obeys, though his smile does not fade. He watches me, those gray-green eyes hooded as I rummage through the cabinets, grabbing the little supplies I have.

When I return, I kneel beside him, biting my lip as I pull up his sleeve. The cut is deep, but not lethal. I clean the surface first with shaking hands, pressing a dish towel to the wound to stop the bleeding. He does not flinch.

“You did not have to do this,” I murmur, not meeting his eyes. “Break in, I mean.”

His fingers brush my chin, tilting my face up. “I needed to see you.”

The words settle low in my stomach, burning slow.

“I was going to see you in the morning,” I whisper.

“Morning was too far away to be near you. Not with the way we left things. I’m sorry, Pen.”

Something in me breaks.

I lean in before I can stop myself, my hands grab his shirt and pull him closer. His lips crash against mine, roughly and I melt into it, into him, into this depraved and twisted thing between us. His fingers tangle in my hair, his body pressing against mine, and I know that this man will ruin me.

And I will let him.

I pull back for a while to wrap the towel tighter, my hands slick with his blood, and glare at him. “I’ve got nothing here, just peroxide and bandages. This needs stitches and if I do it, it won’t be pretty.”

“Then stitch me up,” he says, leaning closer, his lips brushing my jaw. “I trust you.”

My breath hitches, his heat seeping into me, and despite the mess, the blood, the insanity of it all, I’m drawn in and hooked on him, his chaos, the way he makes me feel alive even when it’s wrong. I thread a needle and get into it. The sting of peroxide wafts around as I clean him up. He doesn’t flinch, just watches me, eyes vigilant and hungry, like I’m the only thing keeping him tethered.

The last stitch pulls tight, and I tie it off, but his good hand’s already on me, sliding up my thigh, fingers rough and calloused.

“Sit on my lap,” he rasps, his voice thick with want, a command that sends a shiver racing down my spine.

“But I just—” I start, glancing at the fresh stitches, the blood still oozing.

“Sit on my damn lap, Penelope, now,” he cuts me off, his tone flat, dripping with heat and menace and the kind of filthy promise that makes my pulse stutter and my core clamp. His eyes lock on mine, black and burning, daring me to disobey. “I don’t give a fuck about the stitches. I need you on me, grinding that sweet little pussy against me, right fucking now.”

“Adriano...”

“Fuck, Penelope,” he growls, pulling me onto his lap when I hesitate a beat too long. I straddle him, his blood staining my shorts, hot and sticky against my skin, and grind down hard, the friction sparking heat that coils tight in my core. His good hand grabs my hip, hard enough to bruise, guiding me as I roll against him, the bulge in his pants pressing insistent and thick againstme. He groans, a raw, animal sound, and slides his fingers up my thigh, finding the edge of my shorts, teasing the damp fabric clinging to me.

“Even when I thought I was taking my last breath, this is what I was thinking about, how I might never feel your slippery cunt wrapped around me again.” His fingers dig into my hips, then slip under my waistband, finding me soaked, and throbbing. He groans, low and guttural, and plunges two fingers inside me, curling them deep until my back arches and a whimper spills out.

“Adriano—” My voice is a plea, hips rocking against his hand, chasing the ache.

“Need you,” he begs, voice cracking, pathetic and raw. “I need to be inside you, cara. Please, fuck, I’ll die without it.” His fingers pump faster, slick and relentless, thumb circling my clit until I’m trembling, teetering on the edge.

I hesitate, the stitches fresh, blood still seeping, but he’s kissing me now, hard and messy, all teeth and tongue, tasting of copper and desperation.

“Please,” he whines again, a broken sound that shatters me, and I’m done resisting. I shove his pants down, his cock springing free. The thick, veined, tip glistens with precum and I grab him, stroking once, twice, watching his head tip back with a choked moan. I line him up, the blunt head nudging my entrance, and sink down, slowly savoring the stretch, the burn, the way he fills me so deep It’s almost too much.

“Fuck,” he snarls, his good hand on my ass, smearing blood across my skin. The stitches split as I move, crimson trickling down his arm, pooling where our bodies join. I ride him hard, hips rolling, thighs trembling, the wet slap of flesh loud and obscene. He grabs my hair, draws my head back, and drags his tongue up my throat, sucking a bruise into my pulse.

“Look at you, my filthy fucking angel. Taking me so good, all covered in my blood. You love this, don’t you? Love being my dirty little whore.”

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