Page 52 of Brutal Union
His voice, rough with morning and dark satisfaction, makes me turn. Marco is propped on one elbow, studying me with those dark eyes that see too much. The morning light turns his skin golden, highlights the scratches I left across his chest. The sheet sits low on his hips, and I can see he's already half-hard again.
"Coffee," I manage, though my voice comes out husky. "I need coffee."
"Like that?" His eyes travel down my naked body slowly, lingering on my breasts, the bruises on my hips shaped like his fingers, the wetness now trailing down to my knee. "You're dripping with my cum."
The crude observation makes heat flood my face, but I lift my chin. Something about the way he's watching me, possessive, hungry, but also curious, makes me bold. Instead of reaching for his robe hanging on the bathroom door, I take another step toward the kitchen, letting him see everything. The marks his mouth left on my inner thighs. The purple bloom of his mouth on my throat. The way my nipples are still swollen and red from his attention.
"Yes," I say simply. "Like this."
Something flashes in his eyes. Surprise, maybe, or approval. He throws back the sheet and rises from the bed, completely naked and unashamed, his cock now fully hard and jutting out proudly. The sight of it in daylight makes my mouth water. Thick, veined, the head already glistening with precum.
"Brave this morning," he observes, moving toward me with that predator's grace that made me wet even when I hated him. "Last night you begged so sweetly. This morning you parade around marked and dripping like you own the place."
"Don't I?" The question escapes before I can stop it, and his eyes darken dangerously.
He's on me in three strides, backing me against the wall, his hands bracing on either side of my head. His cock presses against my belly, leaving a wet trail of precum on my skin. This close, I can smell us. My arousal, his cum, the lingering scent of sex and sweat and possession.
"Say that again," he growls, but there's something pleased in his tone.
"This is my home now," I breathe, meeting his gaze steadily despite the way my pulse races. "Our bed. Our penthouse. I'm your wife, not your prisoner. That means this place is mine too."
His hand shoots out, tangling in my hair, yanking my head back to expose my throat. But instead of the violence I expect,his mouth finds that sensitive spot below my ear, his tongue tracing the shell before he speaks.
"Dangerous words, principessa. Claiming ownership of a Rosetti's territory."
"I'm a Rosetti now," I remind him, gasping as his free hand cups my breast, thumb circling my sore nipple. "You made sure of that. Multiple times last night."
His laugh is dark against my skin. "I did. And I plan to make sure of it multiple times this morning too."
"Coffee first," I insist, though my hips are already rocking against him, seeking friction. "I'm human. I need caffeine before you destroy me again."
He pulls back, studying my face with an expression I can't read. "You're different this morning."
"We're different," I correct, unconsciously echoing words that feel important. "Aren't we?"
Instead of answering, he steps back, giving me space. "Coffee then. But principessa?" His eyes drop to where his cum is now coating my inner thighs. "Don't clean up. I want to see my marks on you while you drink your morning coffee like a civilized woman."
The contrast, civilized coffee while decorated in his debauchery, makes me clench around nothing. I walk to the kitchen on unsteady legs, hyperaware of his gaze tracking my movement, of how my body aches with each step.
In the kitchen, I reach for the coffee maker, stretching deliberately to grab a mug from the high shelf. I hear his sharp intake of breath, feel the weight of his stare as my body extends, my breasts lifting, my ass on full display. The exhibition of it, the power in choosing to display myself, makes fresh wetness pool between my already-soaked thighs.
"Fuck," he mutters, and I hide my smile as I pour coffee with steady hands.
When I turn, he's pulled on pajama pants but nothing else, and I can see the outline of his erection straining against the fabric. He's made his own coffee, and now we stand facing each other across the kitchen island like any normal couple, except I'm naked and dripping with his cum, and he's looking at me like he wants to bend me over the counter.
"How do you feel?" he asks, and the question surprises me with its gentleness.
"Sore," I admit, taking a sip of coffee. "Marked. Changed."
"Regrets?"
The question hangs between us, weighted with more than just concern about last night. This is about everything. The kidnapping, the forced marriage, the weeks of tension that led to me dropping to my knees.
"No," I say honestly. "No regrets. You?"
"How could I regret this?" He gestures to me, naked in his kitchen, and something in his expression makes my chest tight. "You're magnificent."
The compliment is simple but hits deep. Not beautiful, not sexy, but magnificent. Like I'm something powerful, something to be awed by rather than just possessed.
