Chapter 26 Vincenzo #2
I grab the back of his neck and pull him down into another kiss—less mouth, more war. We’re all tongue and fury and bruises, no grace left. Nothing except the burn of friction and the obscene sound of breath punching out of us every time our hips collide.
His eyes blaze as he jerks his hips forward in a series of hard, dry thrusts, cocks dragging against each other through fabric drenched in pre-cum. It’s messy, brutal, and shameless.
He dips his head, lips brushing my ear. “You gonna soak through those soft little briefs for me, whore?
Gonna ruin ‘em just from me grinding up against you?” he snarls, and his fingers grab my thighs, lifting me half an inch off the floor so he can slam me into the edge of the shelf again and grind.
I choke on a moan.
“That’s it, get it wet,” he says against my throat, dragging his teeth down my skin. “I barely touched you and you’re already twitching. You’re pathetic. Fucking perfect.”
I buck so hard I almost slide up the shelf. His hand holds me in place, his hips doing all the talking now—sharp, cruel thrusts that hit just right, grinding us together in perfect, punishing rhythm.
It’s messy and clumsy and so fucking good.
“I hate you so fucking much, Nikolaj,” I breathe.
“No matter what spills from your mouth, your cock tells the truth,” he whispers, his voice so soft it makes me want to scream. “You’ll come hating me. Isn’t that what you’re always chasing? Pain so good it makes you forget who you are?”
He bites my jaw, and I clamp my mouth shut, trying not to give him the sound he wants.
But my cock throbs, and the friction—God, the friction—is unbearable now.
I’m soaked through, and can feel how wet the front of my pants are from pre-cum, how soaked the zipper is, and how close I am.
Every grind hits just right, sending sparks up my spine.
His mouth finds my ear. “Come for your enemy, Prince. Show me how much I disgust you,” he commands.
I come hard, abs clenching, body jerking against his. It’s humiliating. Hot. Soaked. The inside of my pants goes wet and sticky and hot, and I whimper against his shoulder like I’ve been broken open from the inside.
I barely register when he follows. His hips jerk once, twice, and then he growls something in Russian against my throat, body trembling as he spills into his own pants. The breath he lets out is shaky and raw.
We don’t speak for a long time; just heavy breathing while the scent of sex and fury hangs in the air between us like fog. The library is still silent around us, books scattered on the floor like casualties.
When he finally lifts his head, there’s blood on his mouth. My blood. He licks it like it’s nothing, and he finally drops his hand from my throat, but the heat of it lingers like a collar. He takes one step back, then another, like it kills him to do so.
“You make me sick,” he whispers.
I wipe the back of my hand across my mouth and stare at the blood that smears there. Then I meet his gaze and smirk. “Feel better?”
His chest rises and falls like he’s still deciding whether to kiss me again or kill me. “No,” he says quietly, picking up his weapon. “Not at fucking all.”
He turns for the door. But the humiliation he leaves behind doesn’t go anywhere.
I stay against the shelf, legs shaking, briefs soaked, body wrecked from the inside out. His cum’s probably still warm against his skin. Mine is already cooling in my pants like a goddamn brand. I can taste blood in the corner of my mouth, and my jaw aches as if I were the one who got punched.
He made me beg with my body, even if I didn’t say the words, and then he fucking left like he won.
But no one fucking wins in this.
My hand scrapes over the bruised edge of my throat, raw from the pressure of his grip.
There’s going to be a perfect imprint of his fingers there tomorrow.
I don’t need a mirror to know—I feel it.
The phantom echo of his body against mine, cock grinding, mouth biting, words like knives between kisses.
It was never about want; it was about power. It was always about power.
And he used mine against me.
The worst part is that he knew I’d let him.
I let him fuck me without even unzipping his pants; let him take something from me with just a grind, just a growl, just the way he said my name like it wasn’t sacred anymore.
I should be angry. I am angry. But under it, buried deep and sick and molten, is a need I can’t even fucking name.
I taste it every time I swallow.
The back of my head throbs where he slammed me into the shelf, and my briefs cling to me, wet and disgusting and shameful. If I close my eyes, I can still feel the shape of him grinding down, cursing in my ear, calling me filthy while he chased his own high off the sound of mine breaking.
I should go. I should clean myself up. Walk away. Pretend none of this ever happened.
But I don’t.
Instead, I drop to the floor.
I sit there, panting and shaking, my back to the shelf and my hands still trembling where they rest on my knees. I dig my teeth into my bottom lip until I taste blood again just to remind myself who I am.
Vincenzo fucking Vieri.
Crown prince of the Five Families. The name carved into cities like scripture. I was never meant to kneel for anyone. Never meant to shake or come untouched in my pants from a fucking grind in a library aisle.
But he made me. That fucking Bratva prince with hate in his hands and revenge in his mouth. He played me. Broke me open and crawled inside like he owned the rot.
And I let him.