Chapter 15 Loriana #2
“And if I don’t surrender?”
“Then I’ll keep you right here until you do.” His smile is pure predator—sharp, knowing, absolutely devastating. “But we both know that won’t take very long, don’t we?”
The challenge in his voice, the absolute confidence that he can break down my defenses, should infuriate me. Instead, it sends heat pooling between my thighs and makes something dark and needy unfurl in my chest.
“You’re awfully sure of yourself.”
“I’m sure of us.” He leans closer, until there’s no space left between us, until every inch of my body is aligned with his. “I’m sure that despite all your protests, you want exactly what I’m offering.”
“Which is what, exactly? Marriage to a man who thinks he can order me around like one of his employees?”
“Marriage to a man who will kill anyone who threatens you.” His voice hardens with lethal promise. “Marriage to a man who will give you everything you’ve ever wanted and things you haven’t even dreamed of yet.”
“And all I have to do is give up my freedom.”
“All you have to do is stop fighting what we both know is inevitable.” His hands frame my face, forcing me to meet his intense gaze. “You’re carrying my child, stellina. You’re under my protection. You’re sleeping in my bed. The only thing left is making it official.”
“Maybe I don’t want it to be official.”
“Liar.” The accusation is soft, intimate, cutting through my defenses like a blade. “You want the security I offer. You want the certainty of belonging to someone strong enough to protect you. You want to know that no one will ever hurt you again.”
He’s right, and I hate him for it. Hate that he can see through my protests to the woman underneath who’s tired of fighting alone, tired of being afraid, tired of pretending she doesn’t crave exactly the kind of protection he’s offering.
“That doesn’t mean I want to be owned.”
“Owned?” His laugh is dark honey, rich and intoxicating. “Is that what you think this is? Ownership?”
“Isn’t it?”
“This is partnership, stellina. The most dangerous kind.” His thumb strokes across my lower lip, and I have to fight not to part my lips for him. “The kind where we’re both equally fucked if we lose each other.”
Understanding crashes over me, awakening something ravenous and raw in my chest—terrifying in its intensity, intoxicating in its power. Part of me has already been claimed by him, lost without my permission.
I should shove him away, should scream at him to stop, but my body betrays me completely. This dangerous, devastating man has become my only constant in a world gone mad. He’s become inevitable—like breathing, like blood through my veins, like something essential I never knew I needed.
Something shifts in his expression as he sees my surrender, and then he’s on me—his mouth claiming mine with a ferocity that sets my blood on fire. Nothing like the careful tenderness he showed me that first night.
This is a hungry claim, the desperation of two people who’ve been dancing around each other for too long.
His hands tug my jeans loose, then he turns me around, bending me across his desk like the prey he’s been stalking.
His fingers find my center with unerring certainty, slipping beneath fabric to stroke into slick heat.
“God, stellina,” he murmurs against my ear. “You’re so ready for me.”
My body arches toward him, demanding more, demanding everything. He moves behind me, pulling my jeans and panties down in one smooth motion, then spreading my thighs with solid hands that never fail to make me feel impossibly delicate.
I hear him undo his belt, feel the brush of fabric as his pants drop, feel the heat of his naked length pressing against me. The slight hesitation before he slides into me almost seems like respect—a silent request for permission that makes something dark and possessive stir in my chest.
I don’t say anything. But I also don’t pull away.
I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of showing him how much I want him, but I also don’t want him to stop.
Fuck. I need this. Need him.
Need him to destroy me, to remind me why I’m here, to shake something loose inside me.
He slides into me in one smooth thrust, and I cry out at the feel of him moving inside me. One hand remains on my waist, fingers gripping me like a lifeline, while the other braces against the desk next to mine.
Then he starts to move.
Slow. Certain. Consuming.
He’s thorough. In everything he does. And everything he does is unapologetic, demanding, overwhelming.
He pounds into me, hard, punctuating each thrust with possessive words whispered in Italian. Against me, below me, inside me, I’m completely his. There is nothing I can do to stop him, nothing I can offer to release me from this prison of sensation he’s created.
He was right—the second time is better than the first, my muscles remembering his size, adjusting to the way he’s carving new space for himself deep inside me, claiming me in a way that won’t ever be erased.
I lift up on my arms, driving myself backward against him, meeting his rhythm and wordlessly begging for more.
This brutal, primal claiming is the only thing that makes sense right now.
If this is ownership, I don’t want freedom.
Because this is absolutely divine.
Friction builds between us, his breath coming in ragged gasps, and I can feel him start to tighten behind me, preparing for release.
But the pounding pressure building inside me demands satisfaction first. His fingers sink deeper into my skin, and his grip tightens in a way that promises bruises tomorrow, a branding that will mark me as his for days after this moment has passed.
That does it.
My body gives itself over to him, clenching around him, muscles quivering like a convulsion as I scream his name into the polished wood of his massive desk. A moment later, he grips me even tighter, grunting his satisfaction as he shudders inside me, pulsing as he comes in slick heat.
We remain still for a few moments, just breathing, his weight heavy and welcome against my back. Then he steps away, and I feel suddenly cold, suddenly lost. I can hear the jingle of his belt as he pulls his pants back into place.
He hasn’t spoken a word, and a tiny fragment of that anger I felt earlier tries to rouse itself. Anger that he could be so casual about fucking me, anger that I wanted it so badly. Anger that a kiss, a look, a whisper from him can reduce me to this.
Then I feel his hands on me, first hitching my jeans and underwear up over my hips, then smoothing across the fabric covering my waist, thumbs rubbing the place that cradles our child.
“The wedding will be in two weeks,” he says quietly, his voice carrying the weight of absolute authority.
“Two weeks?” I try to sit up, but his palm flat on my back keeps me trapped against his desk. “That’s not enough time—”
“It’s more than enough time.” His tone brooks no argument. “Father Respicio will perform the ceremony, and I’ve already started making arrangements.”
“You’ve already—” I struggle against his hold, but he’s immovable. “You can’t just plan my wedding without me!”
“I can, and I have.” His voice hardens, all business now despite our intimacy. “This isn’t negotiable, stellina. Our child needs legitimacy, and you need my name before you start showing.”
“Before I start showing?” The clinical way he discusses my pregnancy makes something cold settle in my stomach. “Like I’m some kind of scandal to be managed?”
“You’re a woman who’s carrying my heir.” He slides his hand up the plane of my spine to tangle in my hair.
He tugs my head back, and the arch of my neck in this position feels dangerously vulnerable, like an animal exposing their softest parts for slaughter.
“You’ll wear my ring and my name, and you’ll serve our child better by staying protected and healthy here than working at Crimson until your ankles swell and your back aches. ”
“Simeone—”
“Two weeks, Loriana.” His voice is final, absolute. “That’s how long you have to get used to the idea of being my wife.”
“And what if I do not want to?” My defiance is belied by the way I shiver under his touch.
His fingers tighten in my hair, and the subtle pain sends warmth pooling back between my legs despite the ruthless way he took me just moments ago. “I know you don’t want to threaten the life growing inside you. You’re too honorable for that.”
He leans closer, fingers still anchored in my hair as he presses a surprisingly tender kiss against my temple. “Don’t make me force your hand, stellina.”
I’m his now. Completely, irrevocably his.
The game is already over—I’m just deciding whether to tip my king with dignity or make him chase me around the board until checkmate.