Page 82 of The Beast Who Broke Me
I think about it. Doing what he says. And then I try to push up again, hard as I can.
His eyes darken, and he’s on me at once, one knee between my thighs, his weight pressing me down into the saggy cushions. My hands come up to his chest automatically, but whether it’sto push him away or just touch him, I’m not sure. I can feel his heart again, pumping much harder than it should be. It’s not like he had to exert himself to get me here.
Underneath him.
“Get off me,” I pant out.
He takes my wrists slowly and pins them down over my head on the arm of the couch. “Make me,” he says softly. “Make me get off.”
The heat that floods through me is total, annihilating. I’m hard. He’s hard. I can feel it, and my hips lift into him automatically. But my face burns from humiliation as much as desire.
I could fight. I could bite. I could knee him in the groin and be out that door before he recovered.
I don’t. And the fact that I don’t—the fact that some sick, starving, needy part of me would rather be pinned under Damiano Orsini than get free of him—is something I’m going to have to work through, sooner or later.
What would Nonno Lou think of his last heir right now? Pinned to a broken couch, getting hard from being manhandled by a Giuliano?
He’d think exactly what he always thought. That I was born to bend.
Born tobreak.
But Nonno Lou is dead. I’m still here.
“Someone might come back,” I gasp out. “And stop you.”
“You think they could stop me?”
I buck and twist and writhe, but I’m pinned in place by solid muscle. There’s a rushing noise in my ears, and a beat pulsing through my whole body as I feel Damiano Orsini’s hard cock pressing up against mine.
I grind up into him.
There’s something wrong with me. There must be.
But if there’s something wrong with me, there’s something wrong with Dami, too, because his pupils are blown so wide they’ve turned his brown eyes black.
I writhe again, pointlessly. “At least shut the door.”
“No. If one of them comes back, I want them to see their precious Don getting fucked in the ass by the man who really owns him.”
Desire zings through me at the idea. He rolls off me, but only to rip my shirt open, making me protest. But it was just a distraction, because a second later he pulls me up and flips me over the back of the sofa—face dangling down toward the floor, my weight folded over the spine. He yanks my shirt right off, and then his hands are at my waist, tugging my pants and underwear down.
And I let him do it.
More than that.
Iwanthim to do it.
His weight shifts on the sofa, and I hear his belt open. The rasp of a zipper. And then I hear the clink of the olive oil bottle being picked up from the coffee table.
I go rigid, look over my shoulder at him. “Don’t use that.”
“You don’t want this dry. Believe me.”
The oil. Brought for the ceremony, the sacred anointing that would make me Don. Dami is pouring it over his fingers, and I can hear the slick sound as he coats himself, and the profanity of it should horrify me.
It just excites me more.
He lines up and starts pushing in, no prep at all. I claw at the sofa, astonished at the way my body opens for him, every time, without hesitation. Even now. Even after everything he’s done to me.
