Chapter 4 Matteo #2
The absolute surrender in her voice snaps the final tether of my sanity.
I grip her hips securely and drag her forward until she is sitting on the very edge of the counter.
I thrust my hips violently against her. The thick, heavy seam of my denim jeans grinds directly into the soaking wet folds of her pussy.
She screams my name again, her legs locking tightly around my waist.
I thrust again. Short, brutal, simulating grinds.
Dragging my heavy erection through the rough fabric of my slacks directly over her swollen clit.
The intense pressure mimics the brutal pounding she desperately craves.
I grind my hips in a tight, fast circle, delivering maximum friction to the exact center of her heat.
"Matteo!" She claws at my broad shoulders. The heavy gold chain digs deeply into the side of her neck as I crush her against my chest.
I bury my face in the crook of her neck.
My coarse beard scrapes the delicate skin.
I open my mouth and suck a massive, dark bruise directly over her fluttering pulse point.
Branding her. Making sure every single man in my syndicate knows exactly who she belongs to the second they lay eyes on her.
I bite the tender flesh, drawing a sharp cry of pleasure from her lips.
My hips stutter, thrusting faster. The heavy ache in my balls is unbearable.
The pressure builds dangerously close to the edge.
My cock throbs violently, leaking thick streams of precum against my restrictive underwear.
The agonizing pain of blue balls radiates straight up into my abdomen.
I am dangerously close to losing control and ruining my slacks right here against her thigh.
Her inner muscles spasm violently. The sweet, slick wetness pours over my slacks.
I feel the exact moment her orgasm hits.
Her entire body locks up tight. Her back arches off the marble, her breasts thrusting forward.
The tight walls of her pussy clench and release in rapid, desperate contractions against the seam of my pants.
She cries out loudly, the sound bouncing off the stainless steel appliances and disappearing into the massive, empty penthouse.
I hold her tightly against my body while she rides the violent wave of her climax. I absorb every tremor, every shudder, every shattered gasp. I grind my hips one final time, dragging the hard ridge of my slacks against her hyper-sensitive clit just to draw out the last frantic spasm from her core.
She collapses heavily against my chest. Her chest heaves with ragged, uneven breaths. Her face buries directly into the crook of my neck. The scent of her arousal and soft perfume clings heavily to the air, obliterating the smell of the yeast and flour scattered across the island.
I am in absolute agony.
The throbbing pain in my balls is blinding.
The thick length of my erection screams for the slick, tight release of her body.
Every single feral instinct in my brain demands I push her back against the flour-covered marble, spread her pale thighs, and claim my property the way a Costa man claims his woman. Brutally. Completely. Permanently.
I force myself to step back.
The physical separation requires every ounce of willpower I possess. The cold air of the kitchen rushes forcefully between us, chilling the sweat cooling on my skin. She whimpers at the sudden loss of contact, her hands grasping empty air before falling weakly to her sides.
I reach out, my large hands surprisingly gentle as I grasp the hem of her tank top. I pull the soft fabric down, covering her beautiful, heavy tits. Hiding them from my own greedy, obsessive eyes before I lose this agonizing battle with my biology.
She remains seated on the edge of the marble island.
Her legs part slightly, her knees knocking together in the aftermath of her violent orgasm.
White flour dusts her pale thighs and smears aggressively across the front of my dark, ruined slacks.
Her brown eyes are blown out with lust and confusion.
She looks perfectly wrecked. She looks completely mine.
I reach forward and gently wipe a streak of white flour from her soft cheek. My calloused thumb brushes her cheekbone. The stark contrast between my brutal, blood-stained hands and her innocent, terrified face solidifies the obsessive vow locking into place inside my chest.
Arthur Reeves is a dead man. The Bellanti hit squad is already breathing borrowed air.
I will personally hunt down every single man involved in ordering the hit on her apartment.
I will tear their throats out with my bare hands.
I will burn their south side warehouses to ash and dump their bodies into the freezing current of the Chicago River.
No one touches my collateral. No one threatens my woman.
I will bathe this entire city in blood to keep her safe inside this kitchen.
The heavy, secure silence of the penthouse presses in on us again. The commercial refrigerators hum their steady drone. The proofing dough rests forgotten on the far counter.
My mind remains blissfully silent.
My phone buzzes sharply in my pocket. The harsh vibration breaks the heavy, feral tension hanging in the air.
I do not break eye contact with the beautiful, messy, flushed woman sitting on my counter. I reach into my slacks and pull the burner phone free. The encrypted screen flashes brightly in the dim light of the kitchen. A message from the Costa soldiers guarding the perimeter down on the street.
The hit squad did not retreat to the south side. They tracked the extraction vehicle. They are currently circling the block outside Il Corvo.
I drop the phone onto the marble counter. The device clatters loudly against the stone.
The brutal, possessive rage returns, wiping away the remnants of the agonizing lust. I step forward again, my massive chest backing her firmly against the counter.
I lean in, a rough knuckle dragging along her jawline until my face is inches from hers.
The fear returns to her eyes, bleeding through the haze of her recent climax.
"Stay exactly where you are," I command, my voice a lethal, vibrating threat aimed at the men outside my walls. "Do not move from this counter. Do not open the doors. Do not answer the secure line."
Her breath stutters against my collarbone. "Where are you going?"
"I am going to take out the trash." I turn my back on the absolute perfection of her body, striding heavily toward the reinforced steel door of the penthouse, racking the slide of my weapon.