Chapter Two: Unmasked Desires
1186 Words
Milan. Six years later.
The gallery shimmered with champagne-soaked light, expensive colognes, and the murmur of Italy's elite. Sculptures worth millions stood like silent gods around the white-walled space, while curated jazz spilled from hidden speakers, smooth and low.
Isobel De Luca was untouchable now.
Tall, draped in a backless black silk dress that clung like a lover, she glided between guests like art personified. Her hair fell in waves, lips painted wine dark, and her expression unreadable behind a delicate silver mask.
“Bellissima,” murmured a count as she passed.
She didn't slow.
This is her kingdom now–Europe’s most exclusive gallery curator, known only by whispers and desires. No one asked about her past. No one knew about the boy asleep upstairs in her penthouse suite, or the nightmare she once called a marriage.
Especially not the man who had walked in just minutes ago.
Alessio Ricci.
He hadn't aged. Or maybe he had—just not in ways visible to the eye. His jaw was sharper. His frame broadened. His presence is more brutal. He wore black like sin, a watch that cost more than a car, and a half-smile that made women drop their morals like slips.
Isobel saw him from across the gallery.
Her stomach clenched.
She hadn't heard his name in years—not spoken it. But her body remembered. The way her n*****s pebbled. The ache between her thighs. The ghost of his c*m dripping down her legs that night she'd fled.
She turned away sharply, heart thudding. “He can't see me.” She murmured.
But he already had.
Alessio’s gaze followed the sway of her hips, the exposed curve of her spine, the red sole of her heels. Something primal stirred deep in his chest. He didn't recognize her. Not behind the mask. Not in this new skin.
But he was drawn to her like a curse.
She slipped behind a velvet curtain to the private section of the gallery.
Alessio followed.
The hallway was dark and empty, lined with floor-lit panels and a massive sculpture of Eros and Psyche entwined in lust.
She turned when she heard his footsteps—cool, collected. But her pulse was chaos.
“You shouldn't be back here,” she said, voice low, accent kissed by years away.
“I'm rarely where I should be,” he replied, stepping closer
Their eyes locked.
Recognition hasn't bloomed yet. Just tension. Erotic. Dangerous. His gaze dropped to the swell of her breasts, the peek of her side under the dip of the dress. She didn't flinch when his fingers grazed her jaw.
“I know you,” he said huskily.
“No, you don't.”
His hand trailed down her arm. “But I'd like to.”
Her lips parted.
And just like that, restraint shattered.
Alessio backed her against the sculpture pedestal, lips crashing into hers. This time it wasn't violence. It was hunger—years of need compressed into a kiss.
She responded with equal fire.
Their mouths clashed, tongues tangling, teeth scraping. He dragged the straps of her gown down her shoulders, exposing the soft, full mounds of her breasts. Her n*****s were already stiff, begging.
He growled.
“You're perfect.”
She arched as he bent, taking one n****e into his mouth, sucking hard, licking the tender tip as his hand slid down her side to the slit in her dress.
Isobel moaned, head back.
“You taste like sin,” he murmured, licking a path between her breasts.
Her hands found his belt. She needed to feel him—every inch. His c**k was thick, pulsing, barely restrained by his tailored pants. She freed it, and he hissed when her soft hand wrapped around the base.
“f**k…”
She stroked him slowly, eyes locked on his as her thumb teased the leaking slit. His d**k was massive, hot, veined. Her core clenched at the thought of him inside her again.
Alessio lifted her with brutal ease, laying her across the pedestal like art. Her dress slid up to her waist. She wasn't wearing panties.
His eyes darkened.
“Spread it for me.”
She did, revealing her glistening folds, the pink heat of her arousal exposed shamelessly.
Alessio dropped to his knees.
He pressed his mouth to her p***y like a man starving—his tongue licking long, hard strokes over her slit, then flicking her c**t in savage circles.
She gasped, trembling, thighs tightening around his head.
He didn't stop.
He sucked her c**t into her mouth, groaning as she writhed. One thick finger slid into her soaked channel curling upwards, making her body jerk.
“God…. don't stop,” she moaned, gripping the edges of the pedestal.
He added a second finger. f****d her with them slowly, while his tongue kept attacking her swollen nub.
She came hard.
Her body convulsed, legs locking around his neck, p***y clenching his fingers in rhythmic spasms. He lapped up her release like wine, groaning.
Then he stood, c**k red and angry.
“I need to f**k you.”
He didn’t wait for permission.
He aligned himself and pushed into her slick heat, groaning as her tight p***y swallowed him whole.
She cried out, clutching his arms, nails dragging down the muscles of his back.
Alessio began to thrust—deep, slow strokes that reached her soul. Her walls clenched around him, and he cursed again, biting down on her shoulder as he drove harder.
Skin slapped skin.
Breasts bounced.
Her back arched as he f****d her like a man possessed, her moans echoing off the gallery walls.
Their sweat-slicked bodies tangled—his thick c**k plunging in and out of her wet p***y, hitting the perfect angle again and again.
“God, you feel like heaven,” he rasped.
She was close again—eyes glazed, mouth open in silent pleasure.
He gripped her waist, pulled her tighter, and thrust deep.
She shattered.
Her p***y milked his c**k, and he spilled into her, filling her with hot streams of c*m that gushed around the base of his shaft.
They collapsed together, breathless.
For a moment, silence reigned.
Then she sat up, legs still trembling. Her mask had slipped.
He finally saw her.
His entire body froze. The high vanished in a heartbeat.
“Isobel?” he breathed.
She flinched.
His c**k was still buried inside her.
Her hands trembled as she pushed him away, slipping off the pedestal and grabbing the shredded remains of her dress.
“Wait,” he rasped. “You—”
But she was already walking out barefoot, c*m dripping down her thighs.
He stood stunned.
Blood rushed through his ears, his mind catching up.
He’d just f****d his ex-wife.
Raw.
No protection.
And she hadn’t said a word.
But the final blow came an hour later.
When his assistant called with news from Milan’s surveillance feed.
“Boss… you’re not going to believe this. That woman—she went back to the penthouse… with a kid. A little boy. Five, maybe six. Looks… a hell of a lot like you.”
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