Page 48 of His Nephew's Ex
“All you have to do is stop fighting what we both know is inevitable.” His hands frame my face, forcing me to meet his intense gaze. “You’re carrying my child,stellina. You’re under my protection. You’re sleeping in my bed. The only thing left is making it official.”
“Maybe I don’t want it to be official.”
“Liar.” The accusation is soft, intimate, cutting through my defenses like a blade. “You want the security I offer. You want the certainty of belonging to someone strong enough to protect you. You want to know that no one will ever hurt you again.”
He’s right, and I hate him for it. Hate that he can see through my protests to the woman underneath who’s tired of fighting alone, tired of being afraid, tired of pretending she doesn’t crave exactly the kind of protection he’s offering.
“That doesn’t mean I want to be owned.”
“Owned?” His laugh is dark honey, rich and intoxicating. “Is that what you think this is? Ownership?”
“Isn’t it?”
“This is partnership,stellina. The most dangerous kind.” His thumb strokes across my lower lip, and I have to fight not to part my lips for him. “The kind where we’re both equally fucked if we lose each other.”
Understanding crashes over me, awakening something ravenous and raw in my chest—terrifying in its intensity, intoxicating in its power. Part of me has already been claimed by him, lost without my permission.
I should shove him away, should scream at him to stop, but my body betrays me completely. This dangerous, devastating man has become my only constant in a world gone mad. He’s become inevitable—like breathing, like blood through my veins, like something essential I never knew I needed.
Something shifts in his expression as he sees my surrender, and then he’s on me—his mouth claiming mine with a ferocity thatsets my blood on fire. Nothing like the careful tenderness he showed me that first night.
This is a hungry claim, the desperation of two people who’ve been dancing around each other for too long. His hands tug my jeans loose, then he turns me around, bending me across his desk like the prey he’s been stalking. His fingers find my center with unerring certainty, slipping beneath fabric to stroke into slick heat.
“God,stellina,” he murmurs against my ear. “You’re so ready for me.”
My body arches toward him, demanding more, demanding everything. He moves behind me, pulling my jeans and panties down in one smooth motion, then spreading my thighs with solid hands that never fail to make me feel impossibly delicate.
I hear him undo his belt, feel the brush of fabric as his pants drop, feel the heat of his naked length pressing against me. The slight hesitation before he slides into me almost seems like respect—a silent request for permission that makes something dark and possessive stir in my chest.
I don’t say anything. But I also don’t pull away.
I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of showing him how much I want him, but I also don’t want him to stop.
Fuck. I need this. Need him.
Need him to destroy me, to remind me why I’m here, to shake something loose inside me.
He slides into me in one smooth thrust, and I cry out at the feel of him moving inside me. One hand remains on my waist, fingers gripping me like a lifeline, while the other braces against the desk next to mine.
Then he starts to move.
Slow. Certain. Consuming.
He’s thorough. In everything he does. And everything he does is unapologetic, demanding, overwhelming.
He pounds into me, hard, punctuating each thrust with possessive words whispered in Italian. Against me, below me, inside me, I’m completely his. There is nothing I can do to stop him, nothing I can offer to release me from this prison of sensation he’s created.
He was right—the second time is better than the first, my muscles remembering his size, adjusting to the way he’s carving new space for himself deep inside me, claiming me in a way that won’t ever be erased. I lift up on my arms, driving myself backward against him, meeting his rhythm and wordlessly begging for more.
This brutal, primal claiming is the only thing that makes sense right now.
If this is ownership, I don’t want freedom.
Because this is absolutely divine.
Friction builds between us, his breath coming in ragged gasps, and I can feel him start to tighten behind me, preparing for release. But the pounding pressure building inside me demands satisfaction first. His fingers sink deeper into my skin, and his grip tightens in a way that promises bruises tomorrow, a branding that will mark me as his for days after this moment has passed.
That does it.
