บททั้งหมดของ Désiré Me 2: บทที่ 121 - บทที่ 130

BéatriceHis arms, as solid as oak beams, carry me out of the shower. My legs are like marshmallow, my head rests limply against his shoulder. The cool air of the bathroom, after the humid furnace, makes me shiver. He says nothing, his steps silent on the wet tile. He lays me down gently on the vast, unmade bed, on the rumpled silk sheets that still hold the warm imprint of our bodies and the acrid smell of our night's exertions.The dawn light, more forthright now, filters through the gaps in the curtains, striping the bedroom's twilight with pale gray blades. I can see him distinctly. Water beads on his tanned skin, on the tense muscles of his shoulders, on the dark down of his chest. He looks at me, lying before him, naked, offered, still trembling from the last aftershocks of my orgasm and the shock of the shower. His gaze is no longer questioning. It is inhabited, possessive. As if he has just conquered a contested territory and is marking its boundaries.He lies down next to me,

AURÉLIEThe suite door closes behind me with a dull, definitive click. The same sound as a few hours ago. But everything has changed.The air is thick, saturated. A smell of warm skin, dried sweat, sex, and soiled linen. Their night. My stomach twists, clenches to the point of nausea. The dawn light, golden and sharp, filters through the gaps in the curtains, striping the twilight and illuminating the dancing dust. It lights up the bed. A battlefield. Torn sheets, pillows thrown on the floor, blanket bunched at the foot of the mattress. A black silk stocking hangs, languid, from a corner of the nightstand, like a flag abandoned on a site of defeat.Lorenzo is there. Lying on his side, naked. Back turned. A mass of relaxed muscles, of golden skin. Strands of his dark hair stick to his damp nape. And I see the marks. Bright red streaks, parallel, on his right shoulder blade. Deep scratches, almost violent. The imprints of Béatrice's nails, the passionate clawing of a panther marking its

 AURÉLIEHe accepts. He is gentle, as promised. Cautious, patient. He seeks, guides with an exasperating and delicious slowness. The pressure at my entrance becomes insistent, almost questioning, then forthright, determined.The pain is a white flash. Brief, sharp, blinding, a burning knife that splits me in two. A high-pitched moan, utterly authentic, escapes my throat, muffled by the pillow. A sound I don't recognize, the sound of a wounded animal.He stops immediately. His whole body tenses, on alert.— Are you okay? Dio mio, Aurélie, are you okay?His voice is a hoarse whisper, laden with a concern that wrenches my heart horribly, fills me with a shame so deep I feel nauseous.I nod frantically, my eyes squeezed shut, tears of pain and emotion seeping from under my lids.— Yes. Yes, continue. Please.He resumes his movement. Slow. Deep, with a calculated slowness that makes every milli

 AURÉLIEThe hot water streams over us, a burning veil that erases the traces of the night without washing away the filth inside me. Lorenzo holds me against him, his large, possessive hands sliding over my soaped skin. His fingers, gentle now, explore with a tenderness that repulses me as much as it traps me. He murmurs Italian words against my ear.— Bellissima... perfetta... mia per sempre.I close my eyes, feign surrender, and let my body respond – a shiver, a stifled moan when he brushes the sensitive spot between my thighs. He thinks it's pleasure. For him, it is. For me, it's a macabre performance, one more mask to wear.He makes me come in the shower, or at least, he thinks he does. His expert fingers circle, insist, and I contract my muscles, arch my back, cry his name in a broken voice. My body betrays my mind: a treacherous wave rises, not of love, but of pure, animal friction. I bite my lip until it bleeds to ke

 LORENZOTwo months. Two months of absolute bliss in our Tuscan palace. The companies run themselves without me—virtual meetings, competent directors—because my world is here, with her. Aurélie, my goddess, prefers the quiet of the estate: she redecorates the living rooms with exquisite taste, orders Italian furniture, jewels for her perfect skin. I encourage her: spend without counting, it's our money, for our nest. But above all, take care of me. Of us. Every evening, I come home, find her in fine lingerie, ready to welcome me. She is receptive, in love, her body a fire that never goes out.Mornings begin with her warm body against mine. I wake her by penetrating her gently, her moans filling the suite. She always opens, tight and wet, gripping me like a velvet vise.— Buon giorno, amore... already?— Always for you.She undulates, rides my hips, her breasts dancing under my hands. I come deep inside he