His sinful Obsession

Cupboard

this chapter contains mature theme. If you are uncomfortable just skip this one. 

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"Why are we even here?"
 she asked weakly, seeming to fight the drug's mind-altering influence as pleasure zinged through her.
Rafael resisted telling her the dangerous truth, choosing to distract her instead.

He exhaled a slow, hot breath over the sensitive skin beneath her ear, tongue flicking out to taste the salt of her sweat. It had the desired effect, making her shiver with pleasure, muscles loosening, inhibitions fading.

Suddenly, she released her white-knuckled grip on his hand and tugged at the tucked-in towel barely covering her luscious curves.
He thought for a torturous moment she planned to bare herself to him completely, but she stopped just short of that, leaving the damp fabric clinging precariously to the swells of her heaving breasts, one brush of his fingers away from exposing her fully. She ground her ample ass harder against his straining, denim-trapped cock, nearly making him groan aloud.

"Fuck, Frida. You're going to be the death of me,"
he muttered desperately, feverishly wrapping his arms tighter around her slim waist, fighting the primal urge to tear away that flimsy towel and ravish her sweet body right then and there. But he held back, knowing she wasn't in her right mind, not really.
He settled for teasing her with feather-light caresses, drinking in every gasp and whimper, tormenting them both until the danger passed.

He was determined he would keep his promises to protect her, to claim her, to never let her go.

But first, they had to survive the night.

She gasped, eyes wide and breathless. She heard what he muttered. 
"No... why would I do that?"
Rafael's voice dropped to a murmur, low and deliberate.
"Then what would you like to do instead?"

Frida blinked slowly, her fingers brushing over his knuckles, teasing, playful—unintentionally dangerous.
"I'd bake you a cake."
He leaned in, the corner of his mouth twitching.
"I don't like cakes."
Her voice dipped into a whisper, flirtatious and unaware of the danger she was stoking.
"Then... what do you want for dessert?"
"You."
His reply came like a growl—dark, raw, and full of something primal.

She let out a soft giggle, the sound featherlight, unaware of the ache building in him.
"You can't eat me."
"Oh, sweetheart,"
he smirked, his hand grazing her arm, sending goosebumps trailing in its wake.
"You have no idea what I'm capable of consuming."
Frida's breath hitched.

"Mmm... it's itchy."
He tensed.
"Where?"
She hesitated, biting her lip.
"Between my legs."
A storm clouded his eyes instantly.
"I swear to God, I will kill whoever fucking drugged you."

His jaw clenched as he fought the urge to touch her—to soothe her, to destroy the heat clawing at her skin—but he knew this wasn't right. Not like this.

Frida whimpered and rubbed her thighs together, the towel shifting higher, dangerously close to revealing what only he would be allowed to see. Rafael leaned in, his breath cool against her flushed shoulder, a contrast that made her shiver.

"You know..."
Her voice trembled.
"I don't even know your name."
"You do."
His voice was sharp, like a blade disguised in silk.
"No,"
she whispered.
"Tell me."
"You tell me."
"I really don't know."
She blinked, confused and flushed.
"But how do you know mine?"
"Because I always knew you, Frida. Even before you stepped into this house."
"I want to go... it's hot. I want to leave."
"We can't." His tone was firm, dangerous.
"Why?"
she whined softly, like a child teetering on the edge of a fevered dream.
"Because if anyone sees you like this—in just a towel—they'll devour you with their eyes. You'll be naked in their minds. I will gouge their eyes out, crush every bone in their body, and make them beg for death long before I grant it. No one looks at what's mine and walks away breathing."

She frowned, her voice small.
"That's a sin... Only my husband can—"
His eyes darkened further, a flicker of rage breaking through.
"And who said I'm not the one meant to sin with you?"
"But you're still a stranger..."
"No, I'm the only one who doesn't feel like one. And you're not going to beg for anyone else, Frida. Not in this life."
"I don't even know your name..."
His lips hovered dangerously close to hers.
"You want to know my name?"
"Yes... tell me..."
He smirked, slow and menacing.
"Then beg for it, mi nena."
"Tell me."