Chapter 10 #2
Her body bows off the table. A ragged, tearing scream rips from her throat.
Her inner walls spasm violently around my fingers, clamping down on me as her orgasm crashes through her.
Her thighs tremble without control. Copious amounts of sweet, warm slick flood over my knuckles, running down my hand and dripping onto the floor.
I keep sucking. I keep pumping. I ride out her entire climax, forcing her to endure every agonizing second of pleasure.
When she finally collapses back onto the wood, her chest heaving and her eyes glazed, I slowly pull my fingers out.
I drag my tongue over her lips one last time, savoring the last of her release.
I stand up.
The fabric over my groin has become unbearable.
My cock is a throbbing, aching rod of steel.
I rip my belt open and shove everything down in one impatient motion.
I shove my tactical pants and boxers down just enough to free myself.
The gold watch at my wrist and the cross pendant at my throat stay. Those don't come off for anything.
I am fully erect, the head already weeping clear precum. The cool air of the War Room hits my heated flesh, but it does nothing to cool the raging inferno in my blood.
My hands grab Imani by the hips and drag her fully to the edge of the table. I step between her legs. The tip of my cock brushes against her slick, swollen folds. The brief contact sends a jolt of electricity straight up my spine.
I lock my hands on her hips, my thumbs digging hard into her hip bones. I lean down, pressing my lips directly against her ear.
"You belong to me," I whisper. "Every breath. Every heartbeat. You are mine."
"Yours," she breathes back, her nails sinking into my biceps.
I pull back, aligning the head of my cock with her slick entrance. She is already drenched and open from my mouth, but I do not ease in. The possessive monster inside me refuses to wait another second.
I thrust forward, driving my hips hard against the table.
I drive in to the root and split her open.
Her incredibly tight walls strain around my girth.
The friction is madness. The wet, scalding heat of her pussy swallows me whole.
I push deep, burying myself to the root in one brutal, uninterrupted motion.
My pubic bone slams against hers with a loud, wet smack.
Imani's head throws back. A loud moan tears out of her throat. Her internal muscles clamp down around my cock in a desperate, clinging grip.
Porca puttana.
My vision edges with black. The raw physical sensation of being fully encased in her heat threatens to rip my remaining sanity to shreds. She is so tight. So incredibly wet. The pressure is brutal, agonizing, punishing in the best way.
I pull almost all the way out, the slick walls dragging against the sensitive head of my cock, before driving back in with brutal force.
Smack.
Our bodies collide. The sound of flesh slapping flesh echoes off the steel door, cutting through the low hum of the servers.
I establish a ruthless, primal rhythm. I pull back and slam forward.
Over and over. My hips snap with violent, piston-like precision.
This is not tenderness. It is claiming, raw and total.
I reforge the broken pieces of my existence inside her burning heat.
Every thrust is a declaration. Every driving impact is a territorial marker.
"Vincenzo!" she screams, her head tossing side to side on the hard wood.
Her legs wrap around my waist. Her heels lock together at the small of my back, pulling me even deeper into her core. I bend my knees, adjusting my angle. I hit a spot deep inside her that makes her entire body jerk.
I target that spot. I hammer into it relentlessly.
Her breasts bounce with every violent thrust. Her skin is flushed red, glowing in the pale blue light of the monitors.
The heavy amber and musk scent of her arousal fills the War Room, overpowering the ozone and copper smell of the electronics.
She is a chaotic, vibrant, living signal overwriting the dead static of my past.
I slide one hand up her stomach, over her ribs, and wrap my fingers around her throat.
I do not squeeze hard enough to choke her, just enough to feel the warm, trembling weight of her in my palm.
Her breath catches under my touch—a soft, stuttering inhale that hits straight into my bones. The grounding sensation fuels my drive.
My other hand grips her thigh, holding her open for my assault.
"Stay with me," I demand, my voice a guttural bark.
Imani forces her eyes open. Her dark eyes lock onto mine. They are wild, blown wide with lust and surrender. She is looking straight at the monster in me—the killer, the ghost, the man capable of burning a city to the ground. And she does not look away. She does not flinch from any of it.
"I'm right here," she gasps out, her hips rolling up to meet my thrusts, taking me deeper. "I'm not going anywhere."
The words snap the final thread holding my climax at bay.
I increase my speed to a blinding, furious pace. The wet, sloppy sounds of our bodies crashing together fill the sterile room. I grind my hips deep, rubbing my pelvic bone against her swollen clit with every downward strike.
Her inner walls begin to violently spasm. The tight, clenching contractions grip my cock in a vise.
"I'm coming," she cries out, her nails digging bloody half-moons into my shoulders. "Vincenzo, I'm coming!"
Her orgasm rips through her. Her body arches off the table. A high, keening wail tears from her throat, a sound of devastating pleasure. The contractions of her pussy are incredibly powerful, wringing every ounce of control from my body.
With a roar—"Cazzo"—I drive my cock to the hilt. I lock my hips against hers. The pressure explodes.
I come inside her.
Hot, thick jets of my release erupt deep inside her.
The pleasure is catastrophic. It drains the tension, the trauma, the eight years of silent agony straight out of my marrow.
I pump my essence into her, filling her, marking her from the inside out.
My balls draw up tight, emptying as I claim her in the most primal, biological way possible.
My lungs heave, dragging in great, ragged lungfuls of air. My muscles tremble with exhaustion and adrenaline. I slump forward, bracing my hands flat on the mahogany on either side of her head, palms locked to the wood. I lower my mouth to the warm hollow of her throat.
The scent of her sweat, her musk, and our combined sex is the only thing keeping me conscious. The cross pendant at my throat swings down and rests in the hollow between her breasts. I press my palm flat between her breasts, feeling her heart slam against it—claiming the territory of her breath.
Imani's arms wrap tightly around my back. She holds me with fierce, unyielding strength. Her hands smooth over my sweat-slicked skin, tracing the dark lines of my tattoos. Her fingers thread into the short hair at the nape of my neck.
I hold still, staying buried deep inside her, my softening cock still seated in her heat. I refuse to break the connection.
The low, steady hum of the servers bleeds back into my awareness. The blue light of the monitors casts long shadows across the walls. On the screens surrounding us, the reality of the Costa-Bellanti war continues to unfold in endless streams of data.
The perimeter feeds show my brothers moving in the yard. The intel channels chatter with intercepted threats. The fragments we pulled from the vault—the access logs I can’t yet bring myself to finish tracing—sit encrypted on the drive three feet away.
The world outside this steel door is a nightmare of violence and treason. It will require blood. It will require the monster I have kept caged.
But right now, in this sealed War Room, surrounded by the glow of the monitors, none of that matters. I lift my head. I look down at the woman lying underneath me. Her skin is flushed. Her lips are bruised. The proof of me is still warm inside her.
She reaches up. Her thumb traces the gold chain at my throat, resting against the cross pendant. Her dark, depthless eyes are clear, holding no regret, no fear.
I pull out slowly. The wet, slipping sound echoes loudly. A thick trail of my release mixed with her slick slides down her thigh. I catch it with a clean cloth from the side drawer before it can reach the tactical table. It is a messy, beautiful display of my ownership.
Then I reach down for the discarded flannel and settle it over her shoulders, covering her bare skin, covering her bare skin, cocooning her in the scent of my ozone and linen.
I lift her off the table, cradling her against my chest. Her legs wrap naturally around my waist. She tucks her head beneath my chin.
I cross the War Room to the steel gear locker bolted against the far wall. I pull out a pair of soft black leggings and a folded pair of wool socks from the spare-kit drawer—generic compound stock, close enough to her size to get her covered. I press them into her hands.
"For when we go back up," I murmur against her temple. "My family meets you covered. Only I see you bare."
Her mouth curves against my throat. She slides off my chest just long enough to step into the leggings and pull the socks over her bare feet.
The fabric hugs her thighs under the heavy hem of the flannel.
The shirt still pools over the rest of her—warm with my scent—but the bare skin is gone.
When I lift her back against me, my cross pendant brushes her sternum, cold against warm skin.
I lift her back into my arms.
I carry her to the leather chair in front of the main server console, keeping her covered in my flannel before I sit with her on my lap.
I tap a key and the primary tactical screen wakes. The glowing grid of the city of Chicago reflects in the black glass of the dormant monitors.
The breach sits like a loaded gun in the data stream. The Bellanti forces are massing on the South Side. The war is moving toward our gates. I will have to face Matteo. I will have to face Dante. And someday I will have to look the source of this rot in the eyes and make him answer for it.
I tighten my grip on Imani's waist. She shifts against me, her soft warmth radiating into my chest, her breath steadying against my ribs in a slow, even pull.
I am no longer the boy who went silent in that hallway the night they died. I am a lethal weapon, fully online, anchored to the signal sitting in my lap. I will hunt down the rot inside our walls and tear it out piece by piece.
Anyone who reaches for her will lose the hand and everything attached to it.
The data is damning. Now I need the proof that makes it undeniable.