INSATIABLE CRAVINGS
Insatiable Cravings – Episode 132
Subtitle; {Loving You Is A Loosing Game}
TAGS: Age-gap, Mafia, Forbidden Love, Drama, Tragedy and Betrayal.
Settings: United Kingdom, Russia and others.
★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★
~ Genevieve ~
The door clicked shut behind us with quiet finality. It was just the two of us now—no watching eyes, no veiled threats, no pretence. Just a woman still slightly tipsy on champagne and adrenaline, and the man she loved, who looked at her as if the whole world could búrn and he’d still only see her.
The lights were dimmed—Dominic’s handiwork, no doubt. Always thinking ahead. Always living in the shadows. But tonight, those shadows felt like ours alone.
I slipped off my heels, exhaling with relief as the dull ache in my feet began to ease. My dress clung to my skin, sticky from the lingering heat of the evening. I turned just as Dominic shrugged off his coat—movements clean, efficient, but edged with weariness. His shirt was still open at the throat, revealing the slope of his collarbone and the faintest glimpse of his chest—just enough to make my teeth itch to leave a mark.
“I’m so tired,” I said softly, stepping towards him.
“Then you should sleep,” he murmured, his voice thick—weighted with exhaustion, but threaded with something far warmer beneath it.
Oh, sure. And miss one last chance to be close to him before he leaves? Absolutely not.
I reached up and threaded my fingers through his hair. It was soft, tousled from the night, still a little damp near the nape. “Thank you… for tonight.”
His hands found my waist, steadying me, pulling me close. “Don’t thank me. I’d do far worse for you.”
And I believed him. God help me—I really did.
There was a pause. Not long. But long enough to feel the shift.
His gaze dropped to my mouth, lingered there for a beat too long before rising again—filled with something unspoken, something aching. It twisted low in my belly. “Didn’t you just say you were tired?” he asked, voice half-amused.
“Hmm? Can’t seem to recall.”
For the first time all night, he smiled properly. Not one of those half-hearted ones that didn’t reach his eyes. A real one. Bright. Boyish. Devastatíng.
“Aren’t you hungry?” he asked. “You should eat.”
I smirked. He’d walked straight into it.
“I am eating.” I took a step closer, erased the last sliver of space between us and leaned in, brushing my lips to his ear. “Right now.”
I let my tongue flick against his earlobe. He gave a breathy laugh, but didn’t stop me. In fact, he leaned in—his frame relaxing under my touch.
“I’m starving,” I whispered, teeth grazing the place where his neck met his shoulder. He trembled. I smiled, proud of the reaction, and bit down—just enough to leave a memory. “Absolutely famished.”
My fingers slid to the buttons of his shirt, undoing them one by one in a torturóusly slow rhythm that had him releasing a low, helpless whine. He let me undréss him like it meant something. Like it was sacred. When the shirt finally slipped from his shoulders, he caught my wrists and held them between us, looking at me like I was everything he never thought he’d have.
My knees nearly gave out.
“I love you,” he said quietly.
Why did he say it like that?
Like a promise. Like a goodbye.
Like it might be the last time he’d ever get to.
He walked us slowly toward the bed, never looking away, his mouth brushing mine in maddéningly soft kisses—featherlight, almost reverent. I felt every inhale, every slight pause, like he was trying to memorise the shape of me.
When my back hit the mattress, he followed, his weight blanketing mine, one hand cupping my jaw, the other braced beside my head.
He kissed me like I was his anchor. Like I was the only thing keeping him here, tethered to this fragile, dangeroús life.
Clothes were shed between breaths and whispers, laughter and low sighs. There was no rush. No frantic fumbling. Just a slow, aching sort of hunger that came from knowing each other—truly knowing.
His fingertips trailed down my thigh, lingering at the curve of my hip, tracing reverently along the dips and lines of my body as though I were sacred. His mouth followed—hot, open, worshipful.
“Don’t you dare forget,” he murmured against my neck. “You, Genevieve, are the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”
“So are you,” I breathed back.
We moved together like fíre catching silk—steady, consuming, deliberate. His lips found my shoulder, my collarbone, my ribs. He kissed me like I was something precious. Fragile. Irreplaceable.
Every time his eyes met mine, there was that soft devastatión again—like he still couldn’t believe I was real. Like he was trying to brand this night into his bones.
His breathing shifted—slower now. Heavier. Like he was trying to rein it in and failing.
I kissed him—open, urgent, greedy. My tongue brushed his, and the sound he made in return unravelled something inside me.
Dominic gripped my hips tightly, grounding himself in the feel of me. I straddled him easily, knees either side of his thighs, skin sliding against skin as I rocked down with slow, deliberate intent.
His head fell back against the pillows, throat bared, lips parted in a groan. “Christ, Genevieve…”
I smiled against his jaw, mouthing kisses along its edge. “Hmm?”
“I’ll díe if you keep doing that,” he rasped.
“Maybe,” I whispered, dragging my mouth down his chest. “But what a way to go.”
He surged up to kiss me again—hungry, desperate. Our mouths clashed, breath catching, tongues tangling. His hands slid beneath my thighs, dragging me closer, urging me to move against him.
“Slow,” I murmured into his mouth.
“Then stop moving like that,” he growled.
But I didn’t stop. I moved how I wanted—slow, sensual, like I had all the time in the world. Because tonight, I wanted to remember. I wanted to memorise every tremble, every gasp, every way his body bowed beneath mine.
My hands roamed his chest, down the tense ridges of his stomach. His heart was hammering beneath my palm.
I was breathless. Trembling. So aroused it húrt in the most exquisite way. But more than that—I was his. Entirely. And he was mine.
Dominic sat up slightly, pressing a kiss to the base of my throat, lips dragging warmly against my skin.
“I love you,” he said, voice raw, hoarse with need. “God, Genevieve, I love you.”
I cupped his face and made him look at me. Held his gaze with both hands. “I love you too.”
And when he slid into me again with one long, slow thrust, I gasped—clinging to him, forehead resting against his as I tried not to fall apart right then and there.
His hands cradled my hips, guiding me with aching reverence. Our m+añs tangled in the hush of the room. Each movement was a rhythm—a song only we knew. Every thrust, a promise. Every kiss, a vow.
We kissed like we’d dié if we didn’t. Like stopping would undo us.
My fingers wound into his hair as he mouthed along my neck—biting, tasting, claiming.
“You feel like heaven,” he whispered. “You feel like mine.”
I was already shaking as I whispered back, “You are mine.”
“Yes,” he breathed, voice thick. “All of me. Always.”
And when we came, it wasn’t loud. It was breathless. A gasp. The sound of our names on each other’s lips. The weight of hands clutching skin. The collapse of everything into this one, singular moment.
After, we stayed there. Tangled. Quiet. Our breathing slow. Skin damp. Mouths brushing, not quite kissing—just being.
And it was perfect.
I pressed a kiss to his shoulder and whispered, “I won’t forget. So don’t you forget either… you’re the love of my life.”
His breath caught. And then he smiled. That soft, rare smile—the one he only ever gave to me.
“Yes, ma’am,” he murmured, burying his face in my hair.
TBC📖✍️
