Miami’s rain is a living thing tonight, pounding the villa’s tiled roof like a god’s wrath, water streaming down glass walls until the world blurs. I’m Marina, a smuggler’s daughter who traded contraband for scars, now lying low in this gilded cage, a borrowed hideout from a life I can’t outrun. The air’s heavy, humid, my silk slip clinging to my thighs as I wander the bathhouse—a sunken oasis of steam and mosaic tiles, water lapping at the edges like a lover’s whisper. I’m Robert Greene’s Siren, my allure a shield, but beneath it, I’m raw, craving a spark to burn away the ghosts.
He’s there, emerging from the steam like a phantom—Dante, a name I overhear later, but now just a silhouette of muscle and menace. His black swim briefs cling, outlining a cock that makes my mouth dry, his skin glistening with water, ink curling over his chest like a storm. He’s the Rake, all lethal charm and unspoken threats, and when his eyes—obsidian, unyielding—find mine, it’s a hook in my gut. I’ve heard whispers of a man like him, tied to the cartel I fled, and the thought chills me, but my body’s a traitor, heat pooling between my thighs, begging for his ruin.
I stand, water dripping from my slip, the fabric translucent, my nipples hard against silk. “You’re trespassing,” I say, voice low, testing him. He steps closer, bare feet silent on wet tiles, a predator in the haze. “And you’re hiding,” he replies, his voice a rumble that vibrates through me. “From what, Marina?” My name on his lips is a violation—how does he know?—and suspense coils, sharp as a blade, but desire’s louder, drowning the fear. I don’t answer, just tilt my chin, letting the slip slide higher, daring him to break me.
He’s on me in a heartbeat, backing me into the pool’s edge, water lapping my calves, warm and silken. His hands grip my wrists, pinning them to the tiles, and his mouth claims mine—savage, wet, a kiss of salt and hunger. I bite his lip, tasting rain and defiance, my tongue warring with his as steam wraps us tight. My slip’s gone, torn away, and I’m naked, water beading on my breasts, my skin flushed under his stare. His hands roam—rough, possessive—cupping my tits, thumbs flicking my nipples until I moan, the sound swallowed by the storm.
I’m not passive; my nails rake his chest, tracing ink—a serpent coiling over his heart—down to his briefs. I tug them off, his cock springing free, thick and heavy, veins pulsing, precum slicking the tip. I stroke him, slow, feeling him throb, his growl a vibration against my throat as he bites my neck, hard enough to mark. Water splashes as he lifts me, my legs wrapping his waist, and we sink into the pool, the heat enveloping us, liquid silk against my skin. His fingers find my pussy, parting my folds, teasing my clit with slow circles until I’m gasping, hips bucking for more. “So fucking wet,” he rasps, three fingers plunging deep, curling, fucking me until I’m trembling, my moans echoing off tiles.
I need more—need him. I guide his cock, rubbing the head against my entrance, slick with water and arousal, teasing until he snarls. He thrusts in, one brutal stroke, stretching me, filling me so deep I scream, pleasure-pain sparking through every nerve. The water churns, slapping our skin as he fucks me, relentless, his hips slamming, cock hitting that spot that makes my vision blur. My tits bounce, water streaming over them, and he’s merciless—sucking a nipple, teeth grazing, his hand gripping my ass, spreading me wider. I’m clawing his back, blood mixing with water, my nails leaving crescents as I meet his thrusts, desperate, drowning in him.
It’s not just his cock driving me wild—thick, pulsing, dragging against my walls—it’s his eyes, locked on mine, seeing too much, knowing too much. His thumb finds my clit, rubbing hard, and I’m unraveling, my body tightening, pleasure coiling like a storm. “Come for me,” he orders, voice raw, and I shatter—my orgasm a tidal wave, a scream ripping free, my pussy clenching, milking him as I convulse. He’s right behind, a guttural groan as he comes, hot and thick, filling me, water swirling with our release.
We’re still, submerged to our waists, steam curling, my legs trembling around him. His hand cups my face, almost tender, but his eyes hold a secret—recognition, maybe, from a life I buried. “Who are you?” I whisper, fear spiking through the haze. He pulls away, water streaming off him, his gaze shuttered. “Leave it buried,” he says, and I’m left, dripping, reeling, wondering if he’s my hunter or my mirror. I step from the pool, the villa’s shadows swallowing me, but his touch lingers, a brand I’ll chase, even if it’s my end.