Again and again he plunges, each slam pushing me closer to the edge of no return.
“And I’ll still want more,” he pledges. “I’ll never get enough.”
I come undone, every inch of me pulsing, the waves of my orgasm consuming me.
I sink my nails into his shoulders, command his mouth to mine.
We kiss as the pleasure sets my chest on fire and gives my heart wings. Over and over he bucks into me, our legs knocking, my pussy throbbing.
I don’t breathe until the tide recedes. Don’t acknowledge consciousness until he stops moving and leans up on one arm to stare down at me with cocky arrogance.
“Are we done?” I tease.
He raises a brow. “I thought I made it clear we’ll never be done.” His free hand slides around my neck, holding me in a possessive grip. “Not today or tomorrow. You’re stuck with me.”
I want to be stuck.
Unequivocally. Emphatically.
His hips retreat, moving back until only the head of his cock breaches me. “This tight little pussy is mine.” He slams home, harsh and unyielding, sinking to the hilt.
My back arches with renewed pleasure, my chest rising to brush against his.
“These tits…” He pays my breasts homage. Rough, ferocious kisses. Harsh, punishing sucks. “All mine.”
He plunges harder. Unrelenting.
More.
And more.
And so much more.
“That’s not all.” His hand releases my neck, his palm sliding down my body and around my hip. “This fucking ass is mine, too.”
I shudder with the words. Pulse with the deep dig of his fingers into my meaty flesh.
I wrap my legs around his waist. Lick my lips. Fight against the burn in my nipples.
“I’m going to fuck you there, amore mio,” he promises, carnal and severe. “I’m going to stretch that perfect little ass and make it hurt so damn good.”
Oh… My… God.
I come undone again. My imagination succumbs to his filth. My pussy enjoys the ever-loving fuck out of it.
I moan with bliss. Close my eyes. Clamp my core.
“Fuck.” He pistons inside me, following me into mindlessness. “Fuck this perfect little cunt.”
I whimper. Exhausted. Tired. And entirely helpless against the shudders still wracking me.
He pumps harder, his fingers digging.
The pain is intense. The pleasure is incredible.
“Goddamn you, Layla,” he roars.
Those hips buck once. Twice. His seed fills me until finally, he crashes down upon me, deftly dragging me to my side so his weight rests into the mattress.
We stare, breathing each other’s liquor-tainted air, our bodies joined, the candlelight dancing over our skin.
I wait for morality to nip at my heels. To bite and punish and scar.
Nothing comes.
I remain shrouded in bliss, my gaze entranced by the man who owns my heart, my head free from criticism—at least for now.
I run my fingertips along the scratch marks I left on his chest. “When did you organize the candles and food?”
“This morning, while you were in the shower.” His lips curve. “But I wasn’t entirely responsible.”
I raise a questioning brow.
“I texted Bishop. He called the hotel to make arrangements.”
“Bishop?” His name leaves my mouth with incredulity.
“Yeah, Bishop.” He grabs my wrist with a gentle hand and raises my knuckles to his lips. “He’s cooperative when he wants to be.”
“And a bastard the rest of the time,” I mutter.
“Not always. He actually likes you.”
I scoff. “We’re both good at lying, Matthew, but you didn’t come close to pulling that one off.”
“No more lies, amore mio. I promise his caustic exterior is just for show. He didn’t want you getting messed up in our world. Then, when he found out you were already in the thick of it, he tried to convince me to cut you loose to save you from complications.”
“I’m still not buying it.” I inch closer, snuggling into his side, sliding my thigh between his. “But I don’t need to. I’m here for you, not him.”
“Just as long as you know he’s no threat.” He places a kiss to my forehead. “He’s all talk when it comes to you.”
I stew on his words, unsure what they mean yet unwilling to ask.
We lie there for long moments, his arm sliding around my shoulders to keep me close, my fingers drawing invisible pictures on the muscles of his chest.
My mind drifts to our earlier conversation, the revelations slowly creeping back in. “Why don’t you carry a gun?”
He stiffens. It’s only slight—the mere tweak of corded sinew. “I’ve got my reasons.”
Matty boy wants to earn his very own martyrdom status.
“Tell me one,” I urge.
Just one. Any one. Even the briefest glimpse of the unknown will tide me over until we’re both comfortable enough to discuss this further.
“Normal people don’t carry guns,” he mutters.
“But normal people don’t have a past they need to be protected from.”
He doesn’t respond. There’s only thickening silence between us.
“Didn’t people come after you?” I pull back and raise onto my elbow, needing to see his face. “I assume you would’ve been a target for anyone wanting intel on the Cappellettis.”
“Nobody came after me.” He rolls onto his back to stare at the ceiling, shutting me out.
“Nobody? Not even one person? Not an enemy or a competitor? Not even someone who felt you abandoned your position?”
His eyes harden, his nose wrinkling at my heartlessness.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I didn’t mean to say—”
“No, you’re right.” He sits, my hand falling from his chest, his back turning so I can no longer read his face. “I did abandon Lorenzo. But just like Emmanuel, I’m off-limits. Nobody would dare to touch me unless they wanted a fast-track ticket to death’s door.”
I grab at the bed coverings, dragging them to my chest in a makeshift shield against his sterility. “People always dare. Aren’t you worried about the one in a million who’s willing to cross the line?”
“No. I don’t like guns and I don’t need one. I don’t know what else to tell you.”
I cling to the covers.
The floodgates on information are going to be harder to open than I’d thought. “What about the suicide comment from Bishop? What did he mean?”
He huffs a sigh. “He was being a dick.”
“I don’t think so. He said it for a reason.”
“He’s jealous.” He pushes from the bed, gloriously naked, his ass perfectly defined. “We worked hard to build a new life. One without violence. And then you came along.”
“And I brought violence?” I follow him to my feet, standing tall at the edge of the bed. “I thought we weren’t lying to each other anymore?”
His nostrils flare. Fingers twitch.
“Matthew?”
“Jesus Christ.” He shoves a hand through his hair. “He’s pissed, okay? Pissed at me. Not you.”
“Why?”