Chapter 4 #2
My thumbs hook the delicate lace. I push the fabric up. Her breasts spill free. Heavy. Perfect. The nipples are tight, hard peaks begging for friction.
I cover them with my hands. I squeeze the soft flesh. The weight of her tits fills my palms. I roll the tight nipples between my thumbs and forefingers.
She cries out. Her back arches off the server rack. She pushes her chest into my hands.
I drop my head. I take one tight peak into my mouth. I suck hard. I pull the sensitive flesh deep between my lips, swirling my tongue over the agonizingly tight nub.
"God," she whimpers. Her fingers drag across my close-cropped hair. She scrapes her nails against my scalp. She holds me to her chest. "Don't stop. Please."
I shift to the other breast. I bite the nipple gently. I soothe it with the wet heat of my mouth. I drag my open mouth down the center of her chest, mapping the valley between her breasts, leaving a trail of hot saliva on her skin.
The need to bury myself inside her is a physical violence in my blood. I want to rip the denim off her body. I want to spread her thighs and drive my cock so deep into her pussy she forgets the name of every other man who ever existed.
But I cannot.
Taking her here, covered in dust, fueled by the adrenaline of a death trap, is not enough. When I claim her, it will be absolute. It will be the total restructuring of her reality. She needs to understand that I am not a temporary shelter. I am the permanent fortress.
Restraint. The word is tearing me apart.
My hands drop from her breasts to the waistband of her jeans.
I grind my hips forward.
The rigid ridge of my cock presses directly against her center through the layers of denim. The friction is a blinding flash of heat.
Imani whimpers. Her hips rock forward instinctively. She grinds her pussy against my hardened erection.
A low, animal sound tears out of my throat. My jaw locks. The veins in my neck bulge against the strain. I spread my stance, trapping her between my thighs.
I grip her hips. I force her to hold still. Then I thrust my hips forward. A slow, agonizingly deliberate grind of denim against denim.
She gasps. Her head falls back against the metal rack. Her eyes squeeze shut.
I roll my hips. I drag the thick, aching length of my cock directly over the seam of her jeans. The pressure hits the cluster of nerves at her center.
"Vincenzo," she sobs. Her hands grip my shoulders. Her nails dig into the black cotton.
"You like that?" I bite the shell of her ear. I grind my hips again. Harder. Steeper. "You like the way I feel against you?"
"Yes." The word is a broken sob. "Please."
"You are so wet," I murmur. The scent of her arousal is overwhelming. The musky fragrance of slick, hot pussy saturates the space between us. It is driving me past the wire. "I can smell how ready you are. I can smell my woman flooding for me. Fanculo."
I slide my hand down her stomach. I pop the metal button of her jeans. The zipper slides down with a loud, metallic rasp.
I slip my hand past the denim. My fingers slide past the damp lace of her panties.
She is dripping. The slick, hot wetness coats her folds. The heat is scalding.
I find her clit.
The swollen, ultra-sensitive nub is drenched in her slick. I press my thumb against it.
Imani screams into my mouth as I capture her lips again. The sound shudders over my tongue. Her hips buck violently off the metal rack.
I stroke her. Two fingers parting the wet, slick folds. My thumb rubbing slow, agonizing circles over her clit. The friction is relentless. I coat her own wetness over the swollen peak. I drag my fingers down, testing the tight entrance of her pussy, tracing the slick rim.
The urge to shove my fingers inside and stretch those walls is blinding. The urge to replace my fingers with my cock is absolute torture.
I do not breach her.
I keep my touch focused on the outside. I rub her clit. I press the pad of my thumb against the rigid little pearl and shake my hand fast against it.
"Ah!" She thrashes against me. Her hands fly to my wrist. She tries to push my hand harder against her center. "Please. I need it. I need you inside."
"Not yet." I kiss her jaw. I bite the side of her neck. "You belong to me. This belongs to me. I am going to break you apart from the outside first."
I increase the pressure. I rub my thumb in rapid, slick circles. The wetness coats my entire hand. Every twitch of my fingers sends a violent shudder through her body.
I press my hips flush against hers. I pin her in place with my body weight. The heavy, aching mass of my cock grinds against her stomach while my hand works between her legs.
Her breathing fractures. The staccato gasps echo in the vault. Her amber and musk scent flare hotter, thicker, the scent of an approaching climax.
"Let go for me," I demand. I pinch her swollen clit between my thumb and forefinger. I roll the slick flesh gently.
She breaks open.
Her entire body goes rigid. A raw, piercing cry rips out of her throat.
Her clit pulses violently under my thumb.
The rhythmic spasms shudder through her hips and thighs.
Hot, sweet wetness floods over my hand. She sobs, her head falling forward to rest against my shoulder.
"Dio mio," I breathe into her hair. The closest thing to prayer I have left.
I hold her. I keep my arm clamped around her waist. I let her ride the violent waves of the orgasm. Her legs shake so badly she cannot support her own weight. I hold her up. I will always hold her up.
The spasms slowly subside. Her breathing remains ragged. The sweat cools on her skin in the freezing air of the vault.
My hand withdraws slowly, fingers coated in her slick. The scent of her climax is branded into my skin. I pull the delicate lace of her panties up. I pull the zipper of her jeans up. I fasten the metal button.
I pull the flannel shirt down, covering her bare stomach. Covering her breasts.
A soft, lingering kiss to her forehead.
The agony in my groin is severe. The blue-ball ache radiates up into my stomach.
It is a necessary torment. I have claimed her space, her scent, the sounds she makes when she breaks.
I have taken her body apart in my hands.
The final claiming will happen when the walls of this vault are no longer trapping us.
She leans heavily against my chest. Her hands rest flat against my chest, right over the frantic hammering of my heart against my ribs.
"You didn't finish," she whispers. Her voice is thick. Dazed.
"I am a patient man." I wrap my arms fully around her. I bury my face in her hair. The soft amber scent is a fortress. The noise is gone. The static is dead. "I should wait until we are out of this vault to bury myself inside you."
She goes still. My confession settles between us. The eight-year exile from touch. The reality that she is the only frequency I can tolerate.
Then she tips her head back, looking up at me. The dark eyes are wide, searching my face. Searching the grey-green eyes that usually offer nothing but dead air and death. She finds the absolute devotion burning in the center of the ice.
Her hand reaches up and cups my cheek.
The touch does not burn.
"Okay," she breathes. The single word lands like surrender. She is not fighting the claim. She is not flinching from the obsession.
I turn my head and press a kiss into her palm. The vault is still sealed. The Bellanti ghost-signatory servers sit dark and silent, the power still cut. The four feet of reinforced steel still separates us from the Chicago sky.
But I am no longer trapped in the dark. I have found my signal. And I am never letting her go.