Chapter 5 Clara
Clara
The metallic clack of the gun racking shatters the heavy air in the kitchen.
Matteo strides through the penthouse, a lethal shadow moving fast. The heavy steel door of the penthouse thuds shut behind him. The lock engages with a massive clank. The absolute finality of the sound echoes through the pristine kitchen.
My thighs are trembling. I am still sitting on the flour-dusted marble island, my clothes thoroughly wrecked, my body humming with the vicious aftershocks of the climax he just forced from me.
White powder coats my bare thighs where my sleep shorts are twisted around my hips.
The scent of toasted flour, dark rum, and the intoxicating heat of his skin clings to my clothes.
I do not move. I cannot move. For what feels like agonizing hours, the only sound is the hum of the commercial refrigerators. Then, the heavy tumblers of the front door roll back.
He walks into the kitchen.
There is no softness in him now. The domestic illusion of the midnight baker is gone. The man staring at me is the brutal underboss of the Costa family. He is the man who bought my life for a million dollars. He is the man who executed men on a city street to keep me safe.
He crosses straight to the brass farmhouse sink. He turns the heavy faucet, scrubbing dark red blood from his massive hands with brutal, silent efficiency. He dries them on a towel, shoving his gun into the waistband of his dark denim jeans.
He walks toward me. His heavy boots make no sound on the hardwood floor.
My lungs lock. I grip the edge of the cold marble counter.
The sheer size of him is staggering. He is brutally heavy, a mountain of muscle and scarred skin, the heavy ink on his left shoulder flexing with every deliberate step.
The silver hair at his temples only makes him look more distinguished, more dangerous.
He stops right between my open knees. His thick, calloused, newly clean fingers slide into my messy hair.
"The scout cars are handled," he says, his breathing heavy, his dark, brooding eyes locking onto me. "My men are clearing the block. No one is coming through that door."
He tilts my head back. His thumb strokes my jawline.
"You're shaking," he murmurs.
"You came back bathed in blood," I manage to say. "And you put people in the ground."
"I eliminated a threat." His thumb presses harder against my pulse point. "A threat against you. No one breathes in your direction without my permission. Do you understand me?"
The fierce, possessive demand in his tone makes my stomach hollow out in the best possible way.
This is insane.
I am a third-grade teacher. I grade spelling tests with scented markers. I should be terrified of the blood he just washed down the drain. I should be running for the door.
Instead, a hot, heavy pulse throbs directly between my legs. The wetness pooling in my panties is undeniable.
I tilt my chin up, refusing to break eye contact. "I understand."
A dark, feral satisfaction crosses his face. The rigid control he has been holding onto by a thread finally snaps. The restraint he showed earlier is gone. He warned me he was dangerous. He warned me he was going to consume me.
Both hands drop to my waist. He grips my hips with bruising force.
"Mine," he growls, right against my lips.
He hauls me off the counter.
A gasp tears from my throat as my feet leave the ground. I wrap my legs instinctively around his thick waist. My arms go around his neck, my fingers burying into the coarse hair at the nape of his neck. He supports my entire weight with terrifying ease, adjusting his grip to cup my heavy thighs.
He carries me out of the kitchen.
The penthouse blurs past us. Dark walls, shadows, the distant hum of the city outside the bulletproof glass. None of it matters. The only thing anchoring me to reality is the massive, solid wall of his chest against my breasts. His heart hammers against my ribs. It is a steady, violent rhythm.
He kicks the master bedroom door all the way open. It slams against the wall with a loud crack.
The room is cast in shadows. The king-sized bed dominates the space. He doesn't hesitate. He crosses the floor in three long strides and tosses me onto the mattress.
I bounce against the plush duvet. Before I can even scramble backward, he is following me down. He crawls over the edge of the bed, a massive predator stalking a very willing prey.
The contact is a live wire, grounding me to the mattress even as my blood begins to boil. He shifts his brutal weight, his heavy thigh sliding between my knees to firmly pin me in place.
"No more waiting," he says. The gravel in his voice is unapologetic. "No more dry humping in the kitchen like a goddamn teenager. I am taking you apart."
A violent thrill shoots straight down to my toes. "Then do it."
His eyes blaze. The challenge in my voice is the exact catalyst he needs.
He grabs the hem of my ruined tank top. With one swift, brutal motion, he pulls it over my head and tosses it onto the floor. My bra follows a second later. The clasp snaps under the urgent force of his fingers.
The cool air of the bedroom hits my bare skin. I arch my back slightly, suddenly hyper-aware of my curves. I am soft. I am rounded in places the magazines say I shouldn't be. Every ex-boyfriend I ever had made sure to mention it with a casual cruelty.
Matteo Costa looks at my naked chest like I am a religion he just discovered.
"Perfect," he breathes.
He drops his head. His thick, coarse beard scratches exquisitely against my collarbone. His mouth opens over my left breast. The hot, wet heat of his tongue swirls directly over the sensitive peak.
A sharp moan rips from my throat. My fingers tangle in his dark hair, gripping the strands tightly. He sucks hard, pulling the sensitive flesh into his mouth, his teeth grazing the peak with agonizing precision. He moves to the right, giving it the exact same worship.
His massive hands trace the shape of my body. He isn't trying to make me smaller. He spans the width of my hips, his thumbs pressing into the soft indentation of my waist, his palms covering the swell of my stomach. He squeezes my curves with a dark, territorial possessiveness.
"Every inch of this," he mutters against my skin. "Mine."
He moves down my body. His heavy hands grip the waistband of my sleep shorts and my soaked panties at the same time. He drags them down my legs in one aggressive pull. He tosses the clothes over his shoulder.
I am naked beneath him.
He shifts backward, kneeling between my spread legs. He takes a long, agonizing moment to look at me. His gaze tracks from my flushed face, down my full breasts, over the soft curve of my stomach, settling directly on the wetness gleaming between my thighs.
The hunger in his dark eyes is feral. There is no civilization left in this room.
"Matteo," I whisper. The sound is a desperate plea.
He leans forward. His hands grip the backs of my thighs, lifting my hips off the mattress and pulling me closer to the edge of the bed until I am exposed to his mouth.
"Open for me," he commands.
I let my knees fall wider apart. I am at his mercy. The underboss of the Costa family, a man who terrifies an entire city, is kneeling between my legs like I am the only thing that matters.
He lowers his face. His hot breath fans across my aching wetness.
His tongue strokes directly over my clit in one long, agonizing swipe.
My hips buck violently off the mattress. A scream tears from my lips. My hands fly down to grip the heavy muscles of his shoulders, my nails digging into his skin.
He doesn't stop. He dives in.
His tongue is relentless. He laps at my slick, gathering the excessive wetness and using it to coat every sensitive nerve of my clit.
He sucks the swollen nub into his mouth, applying a firm, pulling pressure that sends stars bursting behind my eyelids.
Two of his thick fingers slide directly into my soaking pussy.
He drives his fingers to the hilt, stretching my tight passage until I am sobbing with the sheer, overwhelming size of him.
"You taste like mine," he murmurs against my slickness, his voice a vibrating hum that sends shockwaves through my pelvis.
He increases the speed. His fingers thrust deeper, hitting a slick peak inside me that makes my entire body lock up. His tongue flicks over my clit in rapid, merciless strokes. The friction is a blazing fire. The orgasm builds with terrifying speed, a tidal wave rising up to drown me.
"Matteo, I'm close, I'm—"
"Give it to me," he demands. He bites down gently on the sensitive flesh right above my clit. "Shatter for me, Clara."
I break.
The climax rips through me with the force of a hurricane.
I scream his name, my hips thrashing wildly against his face.
My inner walls clench violently around his fingers, squeezing the thick digits in a desperate rhythm.
My body shakes uncontrollably, liquid heat pouring out of me as I ride the agonizingly intense crest of the orgasm.
He takes every drop. He swallows my moans, his tongue continuing to lap at my sensitive flesh until the very last aftershock fades away.
I am limp. My chest heaves. Sweat slicks my forehead.
He pulls his fingers out with a wet, obscene sound that echoes in the quiet room. He crawls up my body, his massive frame covering mine. He settles his weight over me, bracing himself on his forearms so he doesn't crush me.
He kisses me. His mouth tastes like my arousal. The intimacy of it is staggering. He slips his tongue past my lips, claiming my mouth with the same possessive dominance he just used on my body.
I kiss him back wildly. I want him closer. I need him inside me.
I reach down, my hands scrambling blindly between our bodies. I hit the thick leather of his belt. I yank at the buckle, my fingers clumsy with desperation.
"Impatient," he growls, pulling back. A dark, arrogant smirk plays on his lips.
"You started this," I shoot back, my sassy teacher voice wrecked by lust. "Finish it. Unless the big bad mafia boss doesn't know how to undo his own pants."
His eyes darken to pitch black. The smirk vanishes.
He sits back on his heels. His hands go to his belt. He rips the leather buckle open. He pops the button of his jeans and shoves them down his powerful thighs, taking his dark boxer briefs with them. He kicks his boots off without looking, kicking his clothes off the edge of the bed.
He is naked.
My mouth goes dry.
He is magnificent. His body is a map of violence and pure power. Thick, coarse dark hair covers his broad chest and trails down the center of his flat stomach in a V, disappearing perfectly into the dark hair surrounding his thick, heavy cock.
It is brutally large. Iron-hard and weeping with a bead of precum that catches the low light of the bedroom. I shouldn't be staring, but I can't look away. My biological response is complete. I am soaked, my body screaming for him to fill the void.
"Clara," he growls, his voice a lethal vibration in the room as he settles between my spread legs. "Look at me."
I look up. His eyes are pitch black. Possessive. Predator.
"You are mine."
He doesn't wait for an answer. He grips my hips, tilting my pelvis up, and drives his massive cock into me, burying it to the hilt in one single, devastating thrust.