Twisted Obsession (Editing)

62- Bloodstained Empire

Athena Luciana Bianchi

It's been about a month now since Lorenzo started staying with me, and what a goddamn month it's been.

The days have blurred together in a seamless, intoxicating cycle of lust, rage, and excess. We'd wake up in a tangle of sheets, his scent still heavy in the air as we'd fall into each other's arms, hunger driving us. A kiss here, a touch there, and then—inevitably—the kind of fucking that felt like a release from some darker, unspoken tension between us. The thrill of it, the recklessness. No time for gentleness, no space for hesitation. Just raw, endless hunger.

Afterward, we'd eat, but barely, just enough to fuel the next round of chaos. Arguments would flare up next, petty words laced with venom, sharp looks exchanged, until we were at each other's throats—until, in the silence that followed, I'd feel the tension rise again. And just as the air would grow too thick to breathe, we'd collapse into each other once more. More fucking, more release. Every inch of me is addicted to madness.

The places we'd fuck became a blur—against the glass walls of the pool, water dripping from our skin like sweat, the tiles of the shower slick beneath us. The kitchen counter, cold and hard under my palms as he thrust into me, the smell of sizzling food forgotten in the heat of our bodies. The sofa, always a little too soft, leaving bruises on our skin from the frantic way we moved. And, of course, every position we could think of, pushing limits, finding new ways to tangle our bodies into something messy and savage.

And always, just when I thought I couldn't take another moment, another touch, we'd drink. To numb, to forget, to prolong the madness until our bodies felt like they belonged to the chaos. We would fuck again—harder, faster, the world around us nothing more than a blur of pleasure and destruction.

It was indulgent. It was intoxicating. It was a never-ending loop of fire and ruin, a carousel of pleasure that kept spinning no matter how much we bled, no matter how much we tore each other apart.

And as much as I hate to admit it, somewhere along the way, I started enjoying more than just the sex. I liked spending time with him—arguing with him, teasing him, the way he smirked when he knew he was getting under my skin. I liked the nights he'd pull me into the kitchen, insisting on giving me cooking lessons, watching with amusement as I struggled with even the simplest tasks. Every second with him felt electric, addictive.

Somewhere in between all the madness, he started making me happy. And although this scared me more than anything I grew to embrace it.

I stood in front of the full-length mirror, adjusting the straps of my swimsuit—a striking blend of burnt orange and deep sapphire blue, the colors bold against my sun-kissed skin. The top wrapped snugly around my chest, its delicate crisscross design accentuating the curve of my collarbones and the dip of my waist. The high-cut bottoms elongated my legs, hugging my hips in just the right way. I let my fingers trail over the fabric, a smirk tugging at my lips.

Sexy. Effortless. Perfect.

I reached for the sheer white skirt draped over the vanity, fastening it loosely around my waist. The lightweight fabric flowed with every movement, its subtle translucence teasing glimpses of my toned legs beneath. Slipping on my oversized sunglasses, I gave myself one last glance in the mirror, tilting my head slightly.

"God, I'm so stunning." I mutter with a soft laugh.

The golden afternoon light streamed through the sheer curtains of my bedroom, casting a warm glow across the sleek, modern space. The room was a masterpiece of elegance—minimalist yet opulent, with marble floors that felt cool beneath my feet, a king-sized bed draped in crisp white sheets, and floor-to-ceiling windows that opened onto a private terrace overlooking the infinity pool and the endless stretch of ocean beyond.