Page 51 of Wicked Mafia Mistake
Her fingers grip the back of my neck hard enough that her nails press crescents into my skin and we hold each other in the half-dark with the rain hammering against the glass and neither of us speaks because there's nothing left to say that our bodies aren't already saying.
Her mouth finds my neck. Not tender this time. Her teeth graze my skin and her hands pull at my shirt and her hips press against mine with an urgency that burns through the tenderness and replaces it with something raw and honest and hungry.
"I don't want gentle tonight," she whispers against my throat. Her fingers yank the buttons of my shirt and I hear one pop loose and hit the hardwood with a sharp click that echoes in the quietroom. "I want to see the real you. You’ve been gentle with me from the start. I want the version of you that breaks things."
My blood heats. My hands grip her waist and tighten, my fingers pressing into the soft flesh above her hips. "Sloane."
"I mean it. You hide behind control the same way I hide behind lipstick. I just showed you everything, Massimo. Show me everything back."
I stand. Lift her with me. Set her on her feet and turn her around. My hand finds the back of her neck, my fingers closing around the warm column of her throat from behind, and I walk her forward until her palms press flat against the cool glass of the window. The rain streaks down the other side inches from her fingers, the water catching the city lights and casting rippling shadows across her bare arms.
"Hands on the glass." My voice drops into a register I don't use often, low and rough and stripped of every lawyerly cadence. "Don't move them."
She presses her palms flat. Her breath fogs the cold glass in quick bursts and her reflection stares back at her, flushed and wide-eyed and trembling, a ghost of herself suspended against the city lights.
I drag her shorts and panties down her thighs in one rough pull, the fabric catching on her hips before giving way and pooling at her ankles. She steps out of them and the cool air from the cracked window washes across her bare skin, raising goosebumps from her thighs to the small of her back. I run my palm over the curve of her ass, slow, feeling the softness and the warmth and the fine tremor running through her muscles.
Fuck. The way she arches into my hand is pure bliss.
"Tell me you want this." My mouth is against her ear, my chest pressed to her back, the heat of my body sealing against her bare skin.
"I want this." Her voice shakes. "I want you rough and honest and I want every inch of my body to feel the damage you left behind come morning."
My hand comes down on her ass. The sharp crack cuts through the quiet apartment, louder than the rain. She gasps, her fingers pressing harder against the glass, her hips jerking forward. A pink handprint blooms across her skin and I watch it form, watch the color rise beneath the warm glow of the city lights filtering through the window. I marvel at how her body processes the sting and she pushes back toward me asking for more.
"Again," she breathes.
My cock swells. I’m painfully aware of the scent of her arousal. It’s all I can do not to fuck her right now, but I want to see this ass crimson with my mark.
I give her what she asks for. My hand connects with her flesh in a sharp, deliberate rhythm, each strike followed by a slow caress that soothes the sting before the next one lands. She moans against the glass, her breath fogging and clearing and fogging again with each exhale, her back arching deeper with each impact. The sound of my palm against her skin mixes with the rain against the windows and her gasps fill the space between strikes, raw and unguarded.
"You're soaked." I slide my fingers between her thighs and feel the slick heat coating my fingers, hot and wet, dripping down herinner thigh and onto the hardwood. "This is what honesty feels like. And trust,tesoro."
She pushes back against my hand. "I know.”
Our eyes connect.
“Now stop being polite and fuck me."
Something snaps. The control I've held since the first night she walked through my door cracks open and what comes through is the man underneath, the one who hasn't let himself off the leash in years.
I spin her around. She reads my face and her eyes go wide and bright and she bolts. I let her get three steps, her bare feet slapping the hardwood, before I'm on her, my arm hooking around her waist, pulling her back against my chest. She twists and laughs and fights against my grip and the sound of her laughter in my penthouse, breathless and wild and echoing off the high ceilings, fills my heart with a profound need to keep her close.
I press her against the hallway wall, the plaster cool against her flushed back. Pin her wrists above her head with one hand. She wraps a leg around my hip and grinds against me, the wet heat of her soaking through my slacks, and I free myself from my pants and thrust into her so hard her head tips back against the wall and a cry tears from her throat that fills the hallway.
"Yes." She gasps it against my jaw, her free hand gripping my shoulder, her nails digging crescents into my skin deep enough to draw blood. "God, yes. More."
I give her more. Deep, rough strokes that rock her against the wall with each thrust, my hand gripping her thigh hard enoughto leave finger-shaped bruises. Her leg hooks over my hip, her back sliding against the plaster. She's loud and unashamed and every sound she makes feeds the hunger I've been starving for decades. Her walls clench around my cock, tight and wet and pulsing, and I bury my face in her neck and breathe her in, tasting sweat and the faint salt of dried tears on her skin.
I fuck her with everything I've been holding back.
"Look at me." I pull back far enough to see her face. Tears and flushed cheeks and swollen lips and the most honest expression I have ever seen on a human being. "I see you, Sloane. All of you. Every piece you just handed me. I see it and I'm not looking away. You’re the most beautiful person in the world to me."
She is mine. In all ways, she is mine.
I grip her ass and lift her higher against the wall. Her legs tighten around me, her heels digging into the backs of my thighs, and I drive deeper, harder, burying myself in the tight, wet heat of her until neither of us can tell where the wall ends and our bodies begin.
"When I come inside you," I growl against her mouth, "I want it to take. I want you carrying part of me when this is over."
