The yacht sliced through the Mediterranean waves like a diamond-encrusted knife, its decks alive with the glitter of Milan's elite. My mother, Elena Rossi, the queen of luxury fashion empires, had outdone herself with this floating soiree. Crystal chandeliers swayed gently under the starlit sky, champagne flowed from fountains, and the air hummed with laughter, deals being whispered, and the faint thrum of a live jazz band. I, Welheim Vittorio Rossi—her only son, heir to the perversions that came with unlimited wealth—lounged against the railing, a glass of vintage Barolo in hand. My Italian blood ran hot, always had, courtesy of Papa's Sicilian fire mixed with Mama's calculated Roman ambition. But tonight, I was hunting.
That's when I saw her. Isabella. She stood out like a flame in a sea of ice sculptures—dark hair cascading in loose waves, olive skin glowing under the string lights, her red dress hugging curves that screamed "forbidden fruit." Mid-twenties, maybe twenty-six, with eyes like espresso shots: dark, intense, and promising a jolt. She was chatting with some hedge fund bore, her laugh polite but her body language screaming boredom. I knew her type—independent, sharp, probably here on business, maybe scouting for my mother's next acquisition. Or perhaps she was one of those journalists sniffing for scandal. Didn't matter. I wanted her. My cock twitched at the thought, that familiar pervert's itch scratching at my brain.
I straightened my tailored Armani suit, the fabric whispering against my skin, and sauntered over. The sea breeze carried her scent—jasmine and something spicy, like rebellion. "Buonasera, bella," I murmured, slipping into her conversation like a shadow. The hedge fund guy blinked, but I ignored him, focusing on her. "You look like you're drowning in tedium. Let me rescue you."
She turned, those eyes locking onto mine with a spark of challenge. "And who are you, the lifeguard?" Her voice was velvet with a hint of accent—Spanish roots, maybe? No, Italian like mine, but from the south. Sultry.
"Welheim Rossi," I said, extending a hand. "Son of the hostess. And you?"
"Isabella Moretti." She shook it firmly, her grip surprising me—strong, unyielding. "I'm here on behalf of my gallery. Your mother mentioned potential collaborations."
Ah, art world. Perfect. "Collaborations, eh? I prefer more... intimate partnerships." I leaned in, my voice dropping to that husky timbre that always worked. "Tell me, Isabella, what's a woman like you doing wasting time with spreadsheets when the night's begging for something wilder?"
She arched a brow, but I saw the flush creep up her neck. "Wilder? Like what, jumping overboard?"
I chuckled, low and throaty. "No, cara. Like dancing under the stars. Or sharing secrets in the shadows." I gestured to the dance floor, where couples swayed. "One dance. If I'm boring, you can throw me to the sharks."
She hesitated, glancing at the hedge fund guy, who muttered an excuse and slunk away. Victory. "Fine," she said, a smirk playing on her lips. "But if you step on my toes, you're done."
We moved to the floor, my hand on the small of her back—firm, possessive. The jazz melted into a slower rhythm, and I pulled her close, our bodies brushing. She was warm, pliant at first, but I felt the tension coiling in her. "You smell incredible," I whispered against her ear, my breath hot. "Like sin wrapped in silk."
She shivered. "Flattery from a Rossi? How original."
"Not flattery, truth." My fingers traced lazy circles on her back, dipping lower, testing. "I bet under that dress, you're even more exquisite. Tell me, Isabella, do you always play hard to get, or is this special for me?"
Her eyes flashed—anger? Desire? Both. "You're bold."
"I'm Italian." I spun her, pulling her back against me, my hips grinding subtly against hers. The party faded; it was just us, the sea's rhythm matching my pulse. "And I know what I want. You."
She laughed, but it was breathy. "You don't even know me."
"I know enough." My lips brushed her neck, a feather-light kiss. "I know your pulse is racing. I know you're wet just thinking about it."
She stiffened, then pushed back against me—hard. "Arrogant prick."
"Guilty." I turned her to face me, our faces inches apart. "But you like it. Admit it."
The dance ended, but we didn't stop. I led her to a quieter corner of the deck, away from prying eyes, the yacht's lights casting golden shadows. "One drink," I coaxed, pouring her champagne. Our fingers brushed, electric.
As we talked—art, travel, the bullshit of high society—I wove my web. Compliments laced with innuendo: "Your lips are made for more than sipping wine." Touches that lingered: my hand on her thigh under the table, stroking higher. She didn't pull away. Instead, her eyes darkened, her breaths quickened. I shared a "secret"—how I'd once fucked a model in the Louvre after hours, the thrill of risk. She countered with her own tale of a reckless affair in Rome, her voice husky.
By the time the moon was high, she was leaning into me, her hand on my chest. "You're dangerous, Welheim."
"Only if you let me be." I kissed her then—slow at first, tasting the champagne on her tongue, then deeper, my hands roaming her ass, pulling her against my hardening cock. She moaned into my mouth, her nails digging into my shirt.
"Take me somewhere private," she whispered, her voice urgent.
My room below deck was a suite of opulence: king-sized bed with silk sheets, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the dark sea, dim lights casting an amber glow. I barely had the door locked before she shoved me against it, her mouth crashing onto mine. What the fuck? I was the seducer, the pervert who orchestrated every moan. But Isabella... she was a storm.
She tore at my shirt, buttons flying, her hands raking down my chest. "You've been teasing me all night," she growled, her eyes wild. "Now you're mine."
I laughed, surprised but thrilled. "Feisty, bella—"
She silenced me with a bite to my lip, drawing blood. Pain shot through me, mixing with lust, my cock throbbing painfully against my pants. She pushed me toward the bed, stripping her dress in one fluid motion—revealing lace lingerie that hugged her full breasts and the curve of her hips. No bra. Her nipples were hard peaks, begging.
I reached for her, but she slapped my hand away. "No. You watch." She shoved me onto the bed, climbing on top, straddling my thighs. Her pussy ground against my bulge, wet heat seeping through the fabric. "Feel that? That's what you did to me."
"Fuck, Isabella..." I groaned, my hands instinctively grabbing her hips. She was soaked, her thong drenched.
She ripped open my belt, yanking down my pants and boxers in one go. My cock sprang free—thick, veined, already leaking precum. She licked her lips, then spat on it, her hand stroking roughly. "Big boy. But can you handle me?"
Before I could answer, she impaled herself on me—hard, fast, no preamble. I gasped, the sudden tightness engulfing me like fire. She was velvet vice, clenching around my length as she sank down, taking every inch. "Oh god," she moaned, her head thrown back, breasts bouncing.
She started riding me violently, her hips slamming down with bruising force. Each thrust sent shockwaves through me—pleasure bordering on pain. I was surprised, stunned even; I'd expected to dominate, to tease her into submission. But here she was, fucking me like a wild animal, her nails clawing my chest, leaving red trails. My skin burned where she scratched, the sting amplifying every sensation. Her pussy gripped me rhythmically, milking my cock as she rose and fell, her ass slapping against my thighs with wet, obscene smacks.
"Merda," I muttered, my Italian slipping out in the haze. My hands gripped her waist, trying to control the pace, but she batted them away, pinning my wrists above my head with surprising strength. "Isabella, slow down—"
"No," she snarled, grinding harder, her clit rubbing against my pubic bone. "You wanted this. Now take it."
Her movements were frantic, piston-like. I felt her walls flutter, the first orgasm building. She came suddenly, screaming, her body convulsing as juices gushed out, soaking my cock and balls. Squirt—hot, forceful sprays hitting my abdomen. I'd never felt anything like it; the warmth, the pressure, it drove me wild. Surprise hit me like a wave— this woman, this goddess, was unleashing on me, her body betraying a hunger deeper than mine.
But she didn't stop. "Again," she demanded, riding through the aftershocks, her pace unrelenting. Sweat glistened on her skin, her breasts heaving. I thrust up to meet her, my hips bucking involuntarily, but she controlled it all. Another climax ripped through her minutes later—tighter clenches, more squirts, drenching the sheets. My balls tightened, the build-up agonizing. Her violence was intoxicating; each slam sent jolts up my spine, my cock buried so deep I felt her cervix.
I was lost in the sensation—overwhelmed, my pervert's mind reeling. I'd always been the one in charge, the one making them beg. But her dominance flipped it; I felt exposed, vulnerable, yet harder than ever. The surprise fueled my arousal—how her body owned mine, how her squirting marked me as hers. "Cazzo, you're incredible," I panted, my voice hoarse.
She came a third time, her screams echoing, body arching as she ground down, squirting in arcs that splashed my chest. The sight—her flushed face, parted lips, the way her pussy pulsed visibly around me—pushed me over.
I exploded inside her, cum surging in thick ropes, filling her as my body tensed. Ecstasy blinded me, waves of release crashing. "Isabella... fuck!"
I collapsed, spent, my muscles jelly, breath ragged. Tiredness washed over me, the yacht's gentle rock lulling. But she... she wasn't done. She lifted off me slowly, my cum dripping from her swollen pussy, and straddled my face. "More," she whispered, her eyes gleaming. "We're just getting started."