Page 29 of Charming Villain

Her tongue flicks out, tentative, barely brushing against me, and I groan. Fuck, she gets the picture now. I push forward just enough to slide the tip past her lips, and her mouth is so warm and wet that I almost lose it right there. But I don’t. I hold back, pulling out just enough to smack my cock against her cheek, leaving a sticky trail on her skin. “A good wife,” I say, my voice dripping with venomous desire, “knows how to please her husband. And you’re gonna learn how to please me, Gianna.”

I push back in, this time deeper, feeling her throat tighten as she tries to adjust to my length. Her tongue flattens under me, her lips wrapping around my shaft, and fuck, it’s like she was made for this. My hand tightens in her hair, yanking her head back just enough to make her gasp, and I thrust in harder, deeper, until I feel the back of her throat. Gianna gags, tears welling in her eyes, but I don’t stop. I can’t stop.

“That’s it,” I growl, my hips moving now, fucking her mouth with a rhythm that’s as brutal as it is desperate. “Take it. Swallow it. Be a good wife.” Her moans vibrate around me, muffled and broken, and the sound is filthy enough to make me see stars. I nearly choke on my breath as I feel my balls tighten, ready to explode.

“Wrap your hands around it,” I snarl. My cock is slick with her spit, glistening under the dim light as it disappears between her swollen lips. Gianna’s mascara is smeared down her cheeks in messy streaks; her eyes are wrecked with tears that pool in the corners before spilling over. She looks like a goddamn masterpiece of submission, and I can’t get enough of it.

Her hands tremble as they obey, delicate fingers wrapping around the base of my shaft, squeezing just enough to make me groan. “That’s it, beautiful,” I mutter, my voice thick with lust. “Use everything—your mouth, your hands, that tight little throat of yours. Get me off.”

I twist my fingers in her hair, yanking harder, forcing her head to tilt back as I slam my cock deeper into her mouth. I feel her throat convulse around me. She gags, her body jerking, but I don’t let up. Her hands start to move, stroking me in time with my thrusts, her lips and tongue working overtime to please me. The sound of her moans, muffled and broken, vibrates against my dick in a way that’s obscene.

“Good girl,” I growl, my hips pistoning in and out of her mouth in a savage rhythm. “Take it all. You’re my wife—this is what you’re made for.” Her tears mix with the spit that’s dripping down her chin, pooling on the floor beneath her like some kind of depraved art piece.

“Fuck, Gianna,” I hiss, voice ragged with need, fingers tightening in her hair until she whimpers. “You’re gonna make me cum so hard. Swallow it like the good little wife I know you’ll be.” I’m a man possessed, a man so destroyed that he must destroy others, consumed by a darkness that feeds on her submission and tears.

Her hands work faster now, her fingers sliding up and down my length as her tongue swirls around the head of my cock. She’s a natural. Her body was made to serve me, to take every inch of me without complaint. The sight of her, broken and beautiful, is enough to push me over the edge.

“That’s it,” I grunt, my hips jerking erratically as I feel the first wave of release crash over me. “Take it. Take every fucking drop.” My cum floods her mouth, thick and hot, and she swallows without hesitation. Her throat works around me to milk every last drop.

When I finally pull out, she’s a mess—spit and tears and cum smeared across her face like a goddamn trophy. I grab her chin, forcing her to look up at me, and smirk. “You did good, wife,” I say, my voice dripping with satisfaction.

Her lips are swollen, and I hate that the sight of her post-orgasm doesn’t fill me with the same triumphant glee it did in the middle of the act. It fills me with a hollow ache where victory should be.

I half-expect to see hatred in her eyes. But instead, I see the same undisturbed calm. Gianna stares at me as if she’s done what she had to do, no more, no less. That unreadable expression cracks something in me.

“Get out,” I rasp, chest heaving. I got my release, but it wasn’t what I wanted.

She rises slowly, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, and leaves without a word. The door shuts behind her with a soft click.

I slump onto the edge of the bed, head in my hands, my body still thrumming with aftershocks. I should feel powerful. I should feel like I won. But I don’t because I realize I lost something too—my control, my dignity, whatever shred of distance I was pretending to keep between us. The was punishment as much for me as it was for her.

My fingers dig into my scalp as shame and frustration war inside me. I wanted to break her composure. Instead, I’m the one left raw and exposed, my emotions scattered like shards of broken glass across the floor. The worst part is knowing that tomorrow, we’ll both pretend this never happened.

I wanted to erase the ache of her fingers against my scar, of the impossible softness in her touch. I wanted to wipe it out and degrade her until that caring touch vanished from my memory. But I failed.

Tomorrow, I tell myself,I’ll do better tomorrow.

Chapter17

Gianna

I’ve been here for two weeks now, though it feels like a lifetime. I measure days by chores rather than any real sense of time—on Mondays, I do laundry; on Tuesdays, I sweep the floors; on Wednesdays, I vacuum. And every day, I cook, clean, and tidy while pretending not to feel Luciano’s eyes on me whenever I pass him in the hallway. We share the same house but exist in different universes. Sometimes, I wonder which one of us is the ghost, haunting the other.

I’ve been getting more comfortable in the kitchen since being forced to cook for the last two weeks. I’ve been testing my boundaries with spices and recipes that I find in the old cookbooks Luciano keeps stacked on a shelf near the pantry. They’re worn with notes scribbled in the margins, but I can’t tell if those markings belong to him or someone else from long ago. It doesn’t matter. The cookbooks are here, and I figure the best way to maintain some sense of control is to master the one thing he gives me total freedom in: preparing meals.

I flip through pages until I spot a recipe for fish in a white wine sauce served on a bed of pasta. The instructions look intricate—marinating the fish, deglazing the pan, creating the perfect balance of herbs and aromatics—but I’m determined to learn. My father never allowed me to cook; the chefs made everything, treating the kitchen as their domain while I watched from afar. But this is my cage now, and if I have to be trapped in it, I want to be good at something. Even if it’s just cooking a meal, even if the only person who’ll taste my efforts is the man who keeps me here.

The kitchen is quiet except for the faint hum of the dishwasher I started a few minutes ago. I gather my ingredients carefully: fresh fish filets, plump cloves of garlic waiting to be minced, pearl-white onions, a bottle of white wine, a stick of European butter softening on the counter, and herbs. The pasta is already boiling on the back burner. I plan to serve everything hot at once, which is a small triumph to show myself that I can handle this.

Things go smoothly at first. I pat the fish dry, season it with salt and pepper, and heat oil in a pan. The sizzle that greets me as I lay the filets down is encouraging. I work through the sauce step by step, biting my lip in concentration and being mindful of the spattering oil. As the fish browns, I recall the instructions: deglaze with wine, let the alcohol simmer off, then swirl in butter.It’s not so bad,I tell myself.Maybe I’m good at this.The kitchen fills with an appetizing aroma as the garlic and herbs hit the pan. I watch the edges turn golden and crisp, taking pride in how the skin crisps up just right. The wine steams as it hits the hot pan, carrying away the browned bits from the bottom in swirling eddies of sauce.

But my confidence is short-lived. I misjudge the handle of the pan, and when I reach to move it, my hand closes around the scalding metal. Searing pain takes a split second to register before my nerves scream in protest. My fingers instinctively clench tighter before my brain can send the signal to let go, making those precious fractions of a second feel like an eternity against my skin.

Pain explodes in my palm, and I gasp, finally letting go. The skillet clatters on the stovetop, making everything lurch dangerously. Oil splashes near the burner with a threatening sizzle. My heart jumps to my throat, and I snatch my hand back, pressing it against my stomach.Shit, that hurts.Heat throbs through my skin as tears spring to my eyes, the burn pulsing in time with my racing heartbeat. I grit my teeth, determined not to make a sound.

I’m so focused on trying to stifle my hiss of pain that I don’t realize Luciano is standing in the doorway, watching. I sense him a second too late. I whirl around, cradling my injured hand behind my back, trying to school my features into something neutral despite the agony radiating up my arm. My pulse spikes, both from the surprise of his sudden appearance and the knowledge that he’s witnessed my clumsy mistake.

“What happened?” he demands. His voice isn’t the sharp bark I expect, but there’s no softness in it either—just a flat, calm seriousness that makes my stomach twist with dread.

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