** Blaise, once again is not a good person. **
The air at Ron and Lavender's funeral was thick with a suffocating silence, broken only by the occasional sniffle or cough from the mourners. They sat rigidly in a hard wooden chair, her posture straight and unyielding, as if the weight of the world was pressing down on her shoulders. Her eyes, red and swollen from days of grief, were fixed on a point somewhere beyond the modest ceremony—a focal point that seemed to blur with the haze of her own detachment.
She felt oddly removed, as if encased in a thick layer of emotional ice that insulated her from the pain and the somber atmosphere around her. The loss of them had hit her with a force she wasn't prepared for, but the depth of her sorrow was paradoxically matched by an unsettling numbness.
Six nights of tearful breakdowns had left her feeling raw and empty, a well of sorrow that had run dry. Each tear shed felt like a small, futile attempt to bridge the chasm between the overwhelming sense of loss and the detachment that seemed to take over her emotions. Her usual well of strength and resilience seemed exhausted, replaced by a hollow, achingly quiet grief that made her feel distant from everything and everyone around her.
The ceremony continued with its solemn rituals, but her mind was elsewhere, lost in a fog of fragmented memories and unspoken words. She could barely process the words of comfort or the shared condolences; her own thoughts felt too heavy, too tangled, to allow for much beyond the automatic nods and polite smiles. As she sat there, she wondered if this numbness was a shield or simply another form of suffering—an emotional defense mechanism that kept her from truly experiencing the full weight of the loss.
Now, a chilling numbness had settled in its place. Amidst the tear-streaked faces and whispered condolences, she felt an overwhelming sense of isolation. She was a lone island in a sea of grief, adrift in a storm of her own making. Each tear that fell around her seemed to accentuate her solitude rather than bridge the gap. The shared sorrow of others felt distant and foreign, as though she were encased in an impenetrable bubble of her own sadness. In that sea of mourning, she drifted alone, battling a storm that no one else could truly see or understand.
The past few days had been a whirlwind of forced composure and relentless busywork. Now, surrounded by a handful of mourners in a setting so quiet it felt almost surreal, the weight of reality finally threatened to crush the dam she'd so desperately tried to hold back.
The strain of holding it together gave way as a single tear escaped, tracing a glistening path down her cheek. It was the first in what felt like hours, a fragile release from the suffocating pressure of her emotions. The tear was but a tiny crack in her facade, yet it hinted at the promise of a deeper, more cathartic sob that lay just beneath the surface, waiting to be released in a moment of vulnerability.
Looking around the somber gathering, she felt an overwhelming wave of despair wash over her. The air was thick with grief, and every face in the crowd seemed to reflect the same shell-shocked expression she wore. Harry's green eyes, usually so vibrant and filled with life, were now dull and clouded, burdened by a sorrow that felt almost palpable, binding them all together in their collective heartache. He offered a small, sad smile—a gesture of comfort that was too fragile to bridge the chasm of loss that stretched between them. It was a reminder of their shared history, but it also served as a painful acknowledgment of what they had lost.
Beside him, she clutched his hand tightly, her fingers interlaced with his in a silent pact of support. The fiery spirit that had always defined her was noticeably dimmed, her usual warmth now overshadowed by the weight of their grief.
Her eyes glistened with unshed tears, and though she attempted a watery smile, it fell short of reaching her eyes, which reflected the deep ache in her heart. She squeezed Harry's arm, as if drawing strength from him, but the gesture only highlighted the fragility of their situation. Together, they were a picture of shared sorrow, each seeking solace in the other while struggling to navigate the tumult of emotions surrounding them.
Nearby, Neville stood with his shoulders slightly hunched, his face etched with sorrow that seemed to have aged him beyond his years. The usually steady demeanor he carried like armor was wavering under the strain of the day's events. His brow was furrowed, and he looked lost in thought, as if grappling with memories and feelings he couldn't quite articulate. The weight of the moment pressed heavily upon him, making every breath feel laborious. He was accompanied by Luna, whose ethereal presence typically brought a sense of calm and wonder to the room. Yet now, even she seemed touched by the pervasive sadness that enveloped them.
Luna's large, blue eyes, which often sparkled with a strange and perceptive light, were now clouded with a deep well of empathy, reflecting the pain of loss that they all felt so acutely. She stood close to Neville, her hand resting gently on his arm as if anchoring him in the storm of emotions swirling around them. When her gaze met Hermione's, it was filled with an understanding that was both comforting and heartbreaking. In that moment, Hermione felt as though Luna could see directly into her soul, sharing in the anguish that pressed upon them all. Luna's gaze held a mixture of sorrow and compassion, as if she was bearing the weight of the world's sadness on her delicate shoulders, ready to share the burden with those she loved.
The world around them blurred into a haze of muted colors and indistinct voices as they all stood united in their grief. The air was heavy with whispered condolences and the quiet sobs of those who were struggling to accept the reality of what had happened. Hermione could feel the collective heartbeat of their small group as they all tried to process the magnitude of their loss. Each heartbeat echoed a promise to remember them, to honor their lives even as they mourned their untimely deaths. In that moment, they were bound together not just by their past, but by a future that suddenly felt uncertain and fraught with danger.
As the service continued, she found herself searching the faces around her, seeking out the comfort of familiarity amidst the sorrow. She knew they would need to lean on one another in the days to come, to navigate the murky waters of grief together. The shared understanding among them was a silent vow; they would carry each other through the darkness, as they had done so many times before. And even in their pain, there was a flicker of hope—a belief that love, friendship, and resilience would light the way forward.
As the brief ceremony ended, a smattering of condolences were exchanged, hollow words offering little comfort in the face of such a profound loss. One by one, the mourners drifted away, their hushed whispers fading into the rustling leaves of the surrounding trees. She remained rooted to the spot, a statue carved from grief, alone with the ghosts of her memories.
Hermione rose, her legs wobbly beneath the weight of grief. She moved towards Harry and Ginny, their faces etched with a sorrow that mirrored her own. As they reached each other, a silent understanding blossomed.
Words were superfluous; their entwined limbs spoke volumes of a shared history, of battles fought and losses endured. Harry, his emerald eyes filled with a grief that mirrored the storm brewing in her own chest, pulled her into a tight embrace. Ginny, her fiery spirit dimmed by the weight of loss, echoed the gesture, her hand squeezing Hermione's arm in a silent show of solidarity. In that embrace, she found a fragile solace, a connection that transcended the chaos swirling within her. It was a reminder that she wasn't alone, that they would face this darkness together, as they always had.
She nodded numbly, her thoughts tangled in a storm of grief and disbelief. Each breath felt heavy, laden with the weight of her raw, primal sorrow. Yet, amidst the crushing waves of anguish, a flicker of defiance sparked within her. Harry's voice, thick with unspoken pain, cut through her haze: "We should go."
With a soft pop, they Disapparated, leaving behind the stillness of the graveyard. The familiar world reemerged in a swift blur—yet nothing felt familiar anymore. The Burrow's vibrant greens, once a sanctuary of warmth and comfort, now seemed starkly altered, their vivid hues tainted by the shadow of recent tragedy. The idyllic setting, a place that once represented solace and safety, now felt like a bittersweet reminder of what had been lost.
~~~~~~
As they landed, Harry, Hermione and Ginny exchanged a silent look, their expressions mirroring the deep sorrow etched on her face. The air seemed thick with unspoken words, the kind that lingered in the spaces between them, heavy and unyielding.
She felt like her grief was sinking into her bones as she moved through The Burrow, each creaking floorboard and peeling wall filling her with memories that both soothed and hurt. It was strange, how these walls could hold so many remnants of the past, reminders of simpler times that now felt achingly distant. Each corner of her childhood home whispered of Ron, his laughter that once rang through the halls, his playful arguments with her, his steady presence that grounded their family. And Lavender, who she had once seen as nothing more than a distraction, had quietly become a part of their lives, a piece of Ron's happiness that now lay shattered like a broken charm.
She climbed the stairs to her bedroom, drawn by a need to surround herself with reminders of the person she used to be, back when the world was a little kinder and grief hadn't left its dark imprint on her heart. The room looked untouched, still holding the echoes of her teenage years. She ran her fingers along the edge of her old bed, the covers faded but comforting, like a patchwork of memories. Her gaze swept over the posters peeling from the walls, her old Quidditch gear stashed messily in the corner, and the assortment of books and trinkets scattered about. It was like stepping into a time capsule, a world preserved in amber, untouched by the pain of the outside world.
But where she had hoped to feel comfort, there was only an empty, hollow ache. She tried to summon the memories—nights spent dreaming of future triumphs, of adventure, of a life that felt expansive and full of promise. But each memory seemed to fizzle out, swallowed by the ever-present weight of loss, the reminder that Ron, her brother, was gone. No more joking banter, no more shared secrets, no more seeing his face light up at some small triumph or mischief.
She sat on the edge of her bed, her hands resting in her lap as she stared blankly at the walls, feeling the silence press in around her. She remembered the countless nights she'd spent in this room, daydreaming about Quidditch, about boys, about anything but war and loss. She could almost hear her own laughter echoing faintly, mixing with the distant memory of Ron's voice calling her name, teasing her or begging her to help with something. The room was filled with ghosts, intangible yet painfully present, reminders of a past she could never reclaim.
She closed her eyes, letting the memories wash over her, a torrent of snapshots flashing through her mind. She saw a much younger Ron, his face scrunched up in concentration as he taught her how to throw a proper punch after she'd been picked on at school.
She saw his awkward teenage self, bumbling through his first crushes, his fierce loyalty that often got him into trouble, his fierce love for his family.
She remembered Lavender's laughter, bright and contagious, her arms wrapped around Ron in pure, unabashed happiness. She hadn't always approved of their relationship, but now she could see, in painful clarity, how deeply they had loved each other. Lavender hadn't just been his wife—she had been his light, his joy, and now they were both gone.
The grief twisted within her, sharp and unforgiving. She knew that beyond the immediate ache of their absence lay a longer, more treacherous path. The days, months, even years ahead would be marked by the slow, brutal process of learning to live without them.
The countless questions circled in her mind, unanswered and unyielding, gnawing at her sanity. What if she'd spent more time with Ron? What if she'd told Lavender how much she appreciated her bringing Ron joy, grounding him in a way few others could? What if, what if, what if. It was endless, the "what ifs" coiling around her heart like a vise.
Her gaze drifted to the window, where the early morning light filtered through, casting soft, golden hues across her room. It should have been beautiful, a comforting sight, but instead, it felt almost mocking. The world continued to turn, indifferent to her pain, to the monumental void left by the loss of two people she held so dear. She resented it, the way life carried on so unfeelingly. The sunrise, the birds chirping, the gentle rustling of leaves—it all felt like a cruel reminder that her world had been irrevocably altered, yet everything else remained unchanged.
For a moment, she felt a surge of anger. She wanted to rage against the unfairness of it all, to scream and demand answers from a world that had taken so much from her. She wanted to tear down the walls of her room, to rip away the memories that haunted her, to make the world understand the magnitude of her loss. But the anger was fleeting, leaving behind only a deep, hollow sadness that settled in her chest like a weight she could barely carry.
She thought about the days ahead, the inevitable return to a life that felt foreign without them in it. She imagined the empty seat at family dinners, the quiet absence that would linger in the spaces Ron and Lavender had once filled so effortlessly.
The thought was unbearable, each future memory feeling fractured before it even had a chance to form. She knew her family would grieve together, that they would find ways to honor Ron's memory, to keep his spirit alive in the stories they told and the love they shared. But the thought of facing it, of piecing together a life that now felt fundamentally broken, was overwhelming.
She curled up on her bed, hugging her knees to her chest as she tried to make sense of the tangled mess of emotions inside her. She felt like a ship adrift, lost in a sea of grief with no clear direction, no way of finding solid ground. The memories of Ron and Lavender, once a source of joy and comfort, now felt like sharp shards of glass, each one cutting deeper, a painful reminder of what she had lost.
She sat there for what felt like hours, letting the silence envelop her, cocooning herself in the memories and the pain, as if by surrendering to it, she could somehow make sense of it all. But the emptiness remained, a vast, yawning chasm that stretched before her, filled with the echoes of a past she could never reclaim.
Eventually, a soft knock on the door pulled her from her thoughts. She looked up, her eyes red and swollen, to see Harry standing in the doorway. He didn't say anything, didn't try to offer words of comfort that would only fall hollow. Instead, he crossed the room and sat beside her, his presence a steady anchor in the storm of her grief. He reached out, wrapping an arm around her shoulders, and she leaned into him, letting his warmth seep into her cold, numbed heart.
They sat there in silence, bound together by a shared sorrow, an understanding that needed no words. Harry's hand gently rubbed her back, a simple gesture that offered a sliver of solace, a reminder that she wasn't alone in her pain. She could feel his own grief radiating off him, a silent echo of her own, and in that shared space, she found a fragile comfort. They had both lost so much, but they had each other, a small light in the overwhelming darkness.
She took a shuddering breath, her fingers clutching Harry's shirt as if he were the only thing keeping her grounded. She knew the road ahead would be difficult, that the grief would linger like a shadow, always there, always waiting. But in that moment, held in Harry's arms, she felt a flicker of hope—a belief that, somehow, they would find a way to carry on, to honor Ron and Lavender's memory by living, by loving, by holding onto each other through the storms.
With Harry beside her, she felt a tiny sliver of strength returning, a resolve to keep going, one day at a time. The path would be long, and the pain would be ever-present, but she knew she wasn't alone. And as they sat there, wrapped in the silence of shared grief, she allowed herself to believe that, maybe, they would find a way to heal, to carry the memory of Ron and Lavender with them, not as a burden, but as a reminder of the love they had shared, the laughter and joy that had once filled their lives.
At that moment, she made a quiet promise to herself. She would keep going, for Ron, for Lavender, for the family they had been a part of, and for the future they had all dreamed of together. It wouldn't be easy, and there would be days when the pain felt insurmountable, but she would endure, carrying their memory forward, a light in the darkness that would guide her through the shadows.
~~~~~~
When Blaise arrived to take her home after the funeral, she didn't hesitate—she threw herself into his arms, clutching onto him as if he were the only thing keeping her from falling apart completely. Her fingers curled into the fabric of his coat, desperate, shaking, her face buried in the crook of his neck as she inhaled the familiar scent of him. She needed this. She needed him.
His arms wrapped around her, fierce and grounding, his grip unrelenting as though he could physically hold her together when she felt like she was unraveling at the seams. He said nothing for a long moment, just held her, letting her fall apart in the safety of his embrace.
"Let's go home, my love," he finally murmured, his voice low and rough, a promise and a command all at once. She nodded weakly, allowing him to guide her away, the familiar lurch of Apparition swallowing them both.
The moment they landed, she didn't give him a chance to think, to breathe, to pull away.
She climbed onto him, her legs wrapping around his waist, her fingers tangling into his hair as she pressed herself against him with desperate urgency. Her lips found his neck, hot and feverish, trailing down his skin, needing to feel something, anything other than the hollow ache inside her.
He stiffened beneath her touch.
"Mia cara…" his voice was soft but edged with steel. A warning. "What are you doing?"
She didn't answer. She didn't want to think, didn't want to talk—she just wanted to drown in him, to let him take her apart so she didn't have to feel the grief clawing at her insides. Her lips moved against his throat, her hands dragging over his chest, her body pressing harder against his.
But then—his hands locked onto her shoulders, a bruising grip, unyielding.
She barely had time to react before he wrenched her back.
"Tesorina," he hissed, his tone sharp enough to cut, his eyes dark and dangerous. "Stop. It."
She refused. She lunged forward again, catching his lips in a kiss that was all fire, all desperation, all the things she couldn't say.
She needed him to take it—to take her, to take all the pain and silence the agony in her chest. But before she could deepen it, before she could even draw another breath, she was slammed against the wall, pinned in place by the weight of his body.
"That is enough, Ginny," he growled, his voice like ice, a deadly calm slipping over his features. "This is not the time for this."
She stared at him, breathless, stunned, her heart hammering in her chest. Her hands curled into fists, anger flaring through the cracks of her grief.
"But—" she started, her voice raw, her body still aching for something, for anything that would pull her out of this black hole of sorrow.
"There is no 'but,' Ginevra," he snapped, stepping back, his expression carved from stone. "Enough."
She felt the shift in the air, something deeper than anger, something colder. His gaze was unreadable, his posture rigid, his hands clenched at his sides as though he were holding himself back.
And then—his next words struck like a whip.
"And tomorrow," he said, his voice deceptively smooth, "we will discuss you touching Potter."
Her stomach twisted.
Her breath caught as she snapped her gaze up to his, her body instantly on edge. "I didn't touch him, Blaise!" she insisted, her voice rising, frantic.
His expression darkened.
"Oh, but you did," he sneered, stepping closer, his voice dropping to a low, deadly whisper. "The only reason I haven't killed him yet is because he's grieving. But the next time he lays a hand on you, the next time you let him—" his head tilted, his voice dripping with venom, "I will snap his fingers. One by one."
She flinched.
He reached out, his fingers curling around her chin, tilting her face up so she couldn't look away. His grip was firm, commanding. Unforgiving.
"I don't care if you're feeling lost," he murmured, his voice low and laced with something darker. "You don't get to act out and think there won't be consequences."
Her pulse thundered in her ears.
For a moment, she wanted to fight him, to push back, to scream that he didn't own her, that he had no right to tell her what to do, what to feel. But she knew him too well. Knew that pushing him now would only make the fire burn hotter.
And the truth?
A dark, twisted part of her found comfort in it. In his control. In the way he held her together when she was unraveling at the seams.
His fingers left her chin as he stepped back, his expression unreadable once more.
"Now," he said coldly, adjusting his shirt with slow, deliberate movements. "Go take a shower and pull yourself together. I don't want to see you until you've calmed down."
She opened her mouth to argue but his silence was heavier than the words pressing against her tongue. There was nothing left to say.
Swallowing her pride, her rage, her grief, she turned on her heel, her fists clenched at her sides as she walked toward the bathroom.
She felt his eyes on her the entire way.
He had never been this cold with her before. She was used to his control, his possessiveness—the quiet, deliberate way he wrapped himself around her life like a shadow.
But this? This was different.
This wasn't the smooth indifference, the effortless authority that made her heart race in equal parts thrill and frustration. This was ice. This was fire.
She had pushed him too far tonight, and he wasn't going to pretend he was unaffected.
The funeral itself had been nothing more than a meaningless ritual to him, an event he attended out of obligation, not grief. What had him seething, pacing the darkened room with fists clenched at his sides, was something else entirely—Potter.
Potter, putting his hands on her.
The very thought sent a fresh surge of fury through him, burning through his veins like poison. How dare she let another man—no, not just any man, but Harry fucking Potter, lay a hand on her? She knew what that meant. She had to know. And yet, she had still done it.
Had she been testing him? Trying to provoke him? If so, she had succeeded. And now, she was going to understand the weight of her actions.
Through the silence, he heard it—the faint, muffled sobs leaking through the bathroom door.
Any other night, it would have softened him. He would have gone to her, whispered something low and soothing against her temple, held her until she stopped shaking. But not tonight.
Tonight, he felt nothing. No sympathy. No urge to comfort. Just the lingering fire of his own anger, smoldering low and unrelenting.
She thought she could act out? Push him? Flaunt her bratty defiance and expect him to shrug it off like he was some lovesick fool? No. No. She had spent all evening testing his patience, seeing how far she could go before he snapped. Now she was going to feel the other side of him. The side that didn't forgive easily. The side that didn't forget.
He moved to the armchair, sinking into it with an air of calm too sharp to be real. He lit a cigarette, each inhale and exhale deliberate, his gaze fixed on the door she was behind. The sound of her soft cries barely registered to him, overshadowed by his own thoughts—by the message she needed to learn.
She had expected him to come to her. She was waiting.
Even now, he could picture her inside, sitting on the cool bathroom tiles, arms wrapped around herself, biting her lip raw, waiting for the door to open. Waiting for him. Hoping for him.
But he didn't move.
Let her cry.
Let her sit with the reality of what she had done. The silence between them, the empty space where his presence should have been, would speak louder than any reprimand ever could.
She needed to feel this. She needed to understand.
With him, there were consequences.
And this—this was her first taste of them.
He took another slow drag, exhaling a thin stream of smoke, his expression unreadable, his fury cold now, settled deep into his bones.
Tomorrow.
Tomorrow, when the raw edge of her defiance had dulled and she was ready to listen, they would talk.
And she would understand.
Understand that there was a line. And that he would not allow her to cross it again. Not without paying the price.
Understand that he was in control. That with him, there was no room for rebellion.
And if Potter dared to come that close again?
He would make sure she regretted it.
She stepped out of the bathroom, her skin still damp, the scent of steam and vanilla clinging to her. The weight of the silence in the room was suffocating, thick with something unspoken, something dark. She barely dared to breathe as she padded forward, her every movement slow, measured.
The air felt charged, electric, like the moment before a storm. She didn't have to look up to know his gaze was on her—waiting, watching. Assessing.
His voice cut through the quiet like a blade. "Are you done?"
She swallowed hard. "Yes…"
He still didn't move, his posture relaxed but his presence suffocating. "Are you sorry?"
A pause. The words clung to her throat, thick with hesitation. "…Yes."
His fingers tapped idly against the armrest, the only sign of movement. "What are you sorry for?"
Her lips parted, but the words refused to come. Finally, she forced them out, soft but weighted. "For… hugging Harry."
His stare darkened. That wasn't enough. He was waiting, demanding more.
"And?" His voice was like silk stretched over steel.
She felt her pulse hammer against her ribs. "I didn't do anything else."
Wrong answer.
He leaned forward just slightly, his body still a picture of calm, but the shift in energy sent a sharp shiver down her spine. His voice was deceptively soft, laced with a quiet danger that made her stomach twist. "And that's exactly the point."
Silence stretched, thick and suffocating.
"Strip."
She froze. Her breath caught, eyes flicking up to meet his. A challenge burned in them, sharp and unrelenting.
Her fingers trembled slightly as she clutched at the towel around her body. A part of her wanted to resist, to test the boundary he had drawn, but deep down, she knew better. She knew this game. And she knew that he never played without winning.
Still, she hesitated.
He arched an eyebrow, amusement flickering in the depths of his dark eyes. "Don't make me repeat myself."
Her pulse roared in her ears as she let the towel slip from her body, her breath shuddering as cool air kissed her skin.
She stood exposed before him, every inch of her bare to his gaze, and yet it wasn't shame that made her tremble—it was him. His presence. His control.
"Come here," he murmured, tilting his head toward his lap.
She moved forward slowly, deliberately, her legs feeling like lead as she crossed the distance. Every step made her more aware of the shift in the air, of the way he exuded dominance without so much as lifting a finger.
When she was close enough, his hand shot out, fingers wrapping around her wrist as he pulled her forward with a fluidity that made her gasp.
She landed in his lap, her back pressing against his chest, her legs spread over his, fully open to him. His arms curled around her waist, locking her in place, as his fingers found her jaw, tilting her head back until her throat was bared to him.
"Do you know why I'm angry?" he murmured against her ear, his voice a lethal whisper, his breath hot against her skin.
She swallowed hard. "Because of Harry."
His grip on her jaw tightened slightly, just enough to make her gasp. "No, amore. Because you forget who you belong to."
A shudder ran through her as his lips brushed the shell of her ear, his voice both a warning and a promise.
"You wanted my cock, didn't you?" he asked, his tone darkly amused.
Her cheeks burned, but she nodded, the heat between them unbearable.
"Say it," he commanded, his fingers tracing slow, agonizing circles over the sensitive skin of her inner thigh.
Her breath hitched, her body responding to him before her mind could catch up. "I wanted it," she whispered, barely able to get the words past her lips.
His hand trailed lower, teasing, testing her patience, his other arm still wrapped firmly around her waist, keeping her where he wanted her.
"Then let me remind you," he murmured, pressing a searing kiss against the side of her throat, his voice dripping with possession, "who you belong to."
She barely had time to process the hunger in his voice before he took what was his.
"You wanted to act out," he mused, his tone deceptively casual as his fingers traced agonizing patterns along her inner thigh. "Now, you'll learn what it means to ask for forgiveness properly."
She barely had time to process his words before he claimed her completely, the sensation electrifying, possessive. Her breath caught in her throat as he stretched her, filled her in a way that sent shockwaves of pleasure up her spine.
"Merlin—please—" The words tumbled from her lips before she could stop them, her voice breaking with need.
His lips curled into a smirk, but his grip on her waist didn't falter. "Did I tell you to speak?" His voice was edged with a dark amusement, laced with warning.
She whimpered, biting her lip hard, her body trembling as he set a slow, torturous rhythm. He relished in the way she tensed, in the way her breathing hitched, in the soft, strangled moans she tried so hard to suppress.
"You love this," he whispered, his voice nothing more than a breath against her skin, a wicked caress. "The way I take my time with you, the way I remind you who owns you."
He dragged his teeth along the curve of her neck, making her gasp, his grip tightening as he thrust into her with deliberate control, drawing out every reaction, every tremble.
"You're mine," he growled, his voice laced with possession. "And I don't share."
His hand slipped lower, finding her most sensitive spot, pressing firm circles that had her arching against him, a sob of pleasure escaping her lips before she could stop it.
"You're close, aren't you?" he murmured, his tone darkly satisfied. His pace quickened, pushing her closer and closer to the edge, his dominance suffocating, overwhelming, intoxicating.
She couldn't answer, could barely think. Every part of her was unraveling under his touch, consumed by him, by this, by the fire he had ignited inside her.
"That's it, amore," he whispered, his lips brushing her ear, his voice a decadent sin. "Let go."
And when she did, he held her tighter, watching, reveling in the way she shattered completely for him.
Just as the pressure coiled impossibly tight within her, she shattered, her body convulsing as waves of overwhelming pleasure tore through her. A cry escaped her lips, raw and unrestrained, as she came hard, her release spilling onto the rug beneath them. The sheer intensity of it left her breathless, her entire body trembling from the force of her climax.
But he wasn't finished.
He thrust into her with unwavering control, prolonging her pleasure, pushing her past the limits of what she thought she could take. His grip on her hips tightened, holding her firmly in place as he guided her through the aftershocks, his deep, commanding voice sending shivers down her spine.
"That's it," he murmured, his tone thick with satisfaction. "Ride it out, baby. Show me just how much you love this."
Her body obeyed without thought, moving instinctively against him, chasing the pleasure he so effortlessly pulled from her. Desperation laced every roll of her hips, every gasp and moan that fell from her lips. She was lost in him, in this moment—completely undone.
His dark eyes drank her in, watching the way she surrendered, the way she let herself be consumed by the fire he ignited within her. His dominance wrapped around her like a vice, unyielding, possessive, intoxicating.
"Apologize," he growled, punctuating each word with a deep, deliberate thrust that sent shockwaves of pleasure spiraling through her.
She tried to speak, but the words tangled in her throat, lost in the haze of sensation. "Blaise, I—" Her breath hitched, another sharp cry escaping as he pushed her closer to the edge again, her body trembling with the unbearable pleasure mounting within her.
"That's not an apology." His voice was steel, dark and demanding, yet filled with wicked amusement as he drove into her harder, coaxing another helpless moan from her lips.
Her vision blurred, her hands clutching at his shoulders, nails digging into his skin as she fought to find the words between the frantic rhythm of their bodies. "I—I'll never touch him again!" she finally choked out, her voice breaking on the confession, thick with desperation. "I swear it! Never again!"
His grip tightened, his approval a dark hum against her skin. "That's more like it," he purred, his lips brushing against the shell of her ear. "But I'm not convinced yet. Say it again."
Another thrust sent her spiraling, her body betraying her as pleasure overrode reason. "I'm sorry," she gasped, the words slipping free like a prayer, like a plea. "I'll never look at him again. Please, my love. I'm so sorry."
His lips curled into a satisfied smirk, his voice a husky murmur against her throat. "Good girl." The praise melted over her like liquid fire, setting every nerve ablaze.
With a slow, torturous precision, he slid his hand between them, his fingers finding the place where she was most sensitive, where she was already teetering on the brink. He pressed firm, deliberate circles against her, drawing another helpless cry from her lips as pleasure consumed her all over again.
"You're close," he whispered knowingly, his pace steady, controlled, drawing out every ounce of tension from her body. "Give it to me."
Her world shattered once more, her back arching as she came undone beneath his touch. Her release hit her in sharp, uncontrollable waves, her body convulsing as pleasure surged through every limb. He didn't let up, didn't stop, prolonging the sensation until she was left gasping, trembling, completely spent.
"That's it," he murmured, pressing a possessive kiss to her jaw as she melted against him, boneless and wrecked. "Just let go. I've got you."
She barely had the strength to respond, her body still quaking with aftershocks, her mind floating somewhere between exhaustion and bliss. But his words echoed in her bones, sinking deep into the marrow of her soul.
"You're mine," he murmured against her lips, sealing his claim with a final, lingering kiss. "And I'll make sure you never forget it."
~~~~~~
They lay entwined in the soft cocoon of their bed, the late evening light filtering through the curtains, bathing the room in a golden glow. The remnants of their earlier tension still lingered, an unspoken weight in the air, but here, in the quiet aftermath, it felt as if they existed in a world of their own—untouched by anything but each other. She clung to him, her cheek pressed against his chest, listening to the steady, grounding rhythm of his heartbeat. It was the only sound that mattered.
His fingers traced lazy patterns along her spine, feather-light yet possessive, sending shivers down her skin. "You're so beautiful," he murmured, his deep voice a warm caress against her temple. "You light up my life in ways you can't even imagine."
She inhaled deeply, her body molding to his as she absorbed his words, his warmth. Being in his arms felt like the safest place in the world.
She hesitated before speaking, her voice barely above a whisper. "I didn't mean to make you jealous." The admission hung between them, fragile and uncertain. Her emerald eyes lifted to meet his, searching, pleading for reassurance.
His gaze was dark and unreadable, but his hold on her remained firm, steady. "But you did, mia cara." There was no anger in his tone, only the weight of truth. "You know I love you more than anything in this world. Without you, I am nothing."
His intensity made her breath hitch, the sincerity in his voice striking her in a place so deep it ached. Guilt gnawed at her, wrapping tight around her chest. "I'm sorry," she murmured, her fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt as if she could press her regret into his very skin. "I am genuinely sorry."
His thumb brushed against her cheek, catching a tear she hadn't realized had fallen. "I know, bambolotta," he sighed, his voice softer now, the storm within him settling. "I know you didn't mean to."
But she could still see the flicker of something else in his eyes—something darker, something unrelenting. He wasn't just possessive; he was territorial, and she'd tested that instinct tonight.
A nervous shiver ran down her spine, though it wasn't fear she felt—it was something else entirely. A heat, a curiosity. The memory of his control, his authority over her, sent a thrill through her veins.
"I liked… the way you handled things," she confessed, the words tumbling out before she could second-guess herself. Her cheeks burned with the admission, but she didn't look away.
His expression shifted instantly, amusement flashing behind his sharp gaze. "Oh?"
She swallowed, nodding. "The way you took control… it felt—" She exhaled shakily. "It felt right."
A wicked smirk curved at his lips, his fingers tightening around her waist. "Making you obey, pet?" His voice was a low, velvety purr, filled with dark promise.
Her breath hitched. "Yes," she whispered, her pulse pounding in her throat.
His smirk deepened, his eyes glittering with satisfaction. "We can play that game anytime you want, amorina. All you have to do is say the word."
A delicious shiver rolled through her at his words. "Really?" she asked, hopeful and eager, a new kind of hunger stirring inside her.
"Absolutely." His fingers flexed against her skin, his grip both reassuring and possessive. "I want to explore every part of you, uncover every desire you've ever had but were too shy to admit." His lips brushed against her jaw, the whisper of a kiss that sent heat pooling low in her stomach. "You mean everything to me, and I will always respect your boundaries… but I won't let you hide from yourself."
Her heart pounded, exhilaration curling through her like smoke. "Then let's explore together," she breathed, her hands sliding up to tangle in his hair, their foreheads nearly touching.
His gaze darkened with something primal, something reverent. "Together, always."
He pulled her down, capturing her lips in a slow, lingering kiss—one that started soft and tender, but deepened into something far more consuming. He tasted like heat and control, like the promise of everything she never knew she wanted.
By the time they pulled apart, her breath was ragged, her body humming with anticipation. She rested her head against his chest, letting the sound of his heartbeat anchor her once more.
His fingers tangled in her hair, stroking gently. "We'll make this work, baby," he murmured, his voice filled with an unwavering certainty that melted every last piece of doubt in her. "No matter what happens, you're mine, and I'm yours."
The sincerity in his words sent warmth flooding through her, wrapping around her like a second skin. She smiled against him, pressing a kiss to his collarbone, feeling the weight of their love settle around them.
With the promise of new adventures ahead, of trust and exploration, she felt something she hadn't in a long time—excitement, hope, the thrill of discovering not just new parts of herself, but new depths of them together.
And as they lay tangled in each other, wrapped in warmth and whispered promises, the world outside faded into insignificance.