Chapter Thirty-five
Serena
As Lorenzo’s car pulls into the driveway, my thighs are trembling from the relentless teasing he’s been subjecting me to the entire way here.
His hand has been between my legs since we left the club, slow, precise, deliberate, fingertips circling my clit like he owns me, like it’s his only purpose to make me beg.
And Gosh, I did. I begged. Whimpered. Panted his name like a prayer.
But every time I got close, every time I felt that delicious pressure building, he pulled away. Again and again.
Now the brakes screech and the car jerks to a stop in front of his house.
I’m flushed, needy, and dizzy from being edged to insanity.
My top is haphazardly tugged above my bra, my panties long discarded, somewhere in the footwell, or maybe he pocketed them just to drive me crazier.
His fingers are glistening from where they ruined me, and he looks utterly unbothered. Relaxed. Cocky.
Fuck him. And Gosh, I want to.
He sits there for a second, turning the engine off, his jaw clenched so tight I swear I can see the tension radiating off him.
His face is cut and bruised from whatever hell he went through earlier, yet somehow, it only makes him hotter.
Like a predator who walked away from the fight bloodied but victorious. Dangerous. Dominant. Mine.
I remember what Ian said. That he’s dangerous. That he’s in deep with the mafia. A killer. A criminal. A man I should run from. But standing here, with my body trembling from the orgasm he refused to give me, I’ve never wanted anyone more in my entire life.
He opens my door like a gentleman, but there’s nothing soft in the way he pulls me out. He doesn’t say a word. Just takes my hand and walks us inside with purpose. I stumble beside him, barely able to walk straight with how wrecked I am.
The house is quiet. Bianca is off for the next couple of days, and the dogs are away for training. We’re completely alone. And when the door shuts behind us, the silence is so thick it crackles with tension.
I’m still soaked. My thighs are sticky. Every step I take without my panties feels like torture, each whisper of cool air a reminder of how exposed and desperate I am.
My skin is hypersensitive. My core clenches with every breath.
I swear I can still feel the ghost of his fingers on me, still aching for more.
We step into the kitchen, and instead of pouncing on me like I hoped, Lorenzo heads to the fridge, opening it casually, like we didn’t just spend the last twenty minutes driving while he fingered me into madness.
What the hell?
I lean against the counter, trying not to shake, watching him from behind as he grabs a bottle of water and takes a long, slow drink. The muscles in his back flex beneath his shirt. His jeans hang sinfully low on his hips. My mouth waters. My pussy throbs.
And I think I’m freaking ovulating.
His silence kills me. His teasing kills me. My whole body is screaming his name and he’s pretending like he doesn’t hear it.
I take a shaky breath. “Lorenzo…”
He doesn’t answer. Just closes the fridge door and turns to face me, leaning back against it, eyes dragging lazily down my body, like he’s already imagining all the filthy things he’s going to do to me. My stomach tightens. My nipples harden under my bra.
I take a step toward him, trying to close the distance. My voice comes out breathless, needy. “Please.”
His eyes darken instantly. And finally, finally, he smirks.
“You’re still not using the right title,” he says, voice rough, deep, a low purr that drips with threat and promise. “You called me a friend.”
I bite my lip. “I didn’t mean—”
“Shut up,” he interrupts, pushing off the fridge and walking toward me with that controlled, dominant stride. “You don’t get to beg and lie in the same breath, princess.”
I open my mouth to argue, but I never get the chance.
“Are you hungry?” His voice is low and rough, dragging along the air like smoke. He leans lazily against the kitchen counter, bruised knuckles resting beside him, a fresh cut along his jawline that only makes him look more dangerous, more devastatingly gorgeous.
“Yes,” I breathe out, but I’m not talking about food.
The music floats through the house like silk “Often” by The Weeknd wrapping around us with sinful promise, every beat vibrating through my skin. Of course this song is playing. He probably has a playlist for when he’s thinking about ruining me, even when he’s not home.
His gaze drags over me like heat. I feel scorched, stripped bare even though I’m still half dressed.
His eyes stop at my chest, and slowly, teasingly, I trail my fingers up over my breasts, my breath hitching as I pinch one nipple, then the other.
I slide my top off like it’s nothing, because it is nothing compared to the way his eyes devour me.
I leave the skirt on. No panties. They’re probably still lost somewhere in the backseat of his car, along with my sanity.
Three days without him, and my body is on edge. I can’t breathe without thinking about the last time he touched me. The way he pulled back just before I came in the car… It was torture. And now, every nerve in me is pulsing, hungry, aching.
I close the space between us.
His shirt, stained with dried blood, stretched over hard muscle, has to go.
I lift it up, my palms grazing over his abs, and his breath hitches.
His whole body tightens as I trace the lines inked into his skin.
His tattoos. His scars. His story. My fingers press kisses onto every one of them before my mouth follows.
His hand wraps around the back of my neck, firm but not forceful, just enough to make my pulse throb faster. I want to please him. I want him to need me the way I need him, like oxygen, like fire.
I undo his belt with trembling fingers, proud of the way his cock is already hard beneath his briefs. He hisses when I run my hand over him, and it sends a ripple of power down my spine.
“Let me take care of this,” I whisper, breathless, eyes locked on his.
He steps out of his jeans, and when I pull down his boxer briefs, his cock springs free, thick, heavy, perfect. My lips part. My mouth waters. Desire coils low in my belly, hot and deep.
“I’ve never done this before,” I admit softly, vulnerable but not afraid.
His hand tilts my chin up. His eyes are darker than I’ve ever seen them.
“Suck my cock, Serena,” he says, voice gravel and thunder. “Nice and slow. Let me see those pretty lips wrapped around me.”
My heart pounds. His thumb brushes over my mouth, and I kiss it, sucking him in gently as I hold his gaze. He groans low and deep, a sound I feel between my thighs.
I lick the crown, tasting him, letting my tongue tease him with slow strokes as I wrap my hand around his base. He's so big I can barely fit him in one hand. My mouth stretches to take him in, inch by inch. I move slow, deliberate, swirling my tongue as I go.
“Fuck, princess…” he growls, fingers tightening in my hair.
His praise makes me bolder.
My eyes water as I try to take more of him, my jaw aching from the effort. He strokes my cheek with his thumb, tender even in the tension.
“Breathe through your nose,” he murmurs. “That’s it… deeper.”
He doesn’t force. He guides. And I want to give him everything.
Tears slip down my cheeks, mixing with the heat between us. Mascara smeared, lips swollen, I’m a mess for him, and he loves it. His voice drops again, rough and wrecked.
“That’s it. Choke on it for me, baby.”
The ache in my core is unbearable. I clench my thighs, desperate for friction, for release. He’s not touching me there, but I’m already close.
He brushes my cheek again, lifting my chin, and I see the pride in his eyes, the possession. I’ve never felt so desired, so utterly owned. And I like it. No, I crave it.
“Such a good girl,” he says, breathless.
And I melt under the praise.
His grip in my hair tightens, guiding me with firm control, and I feel every slow, deliberate thrust of his body as he moves against my mouth.
My jaw aches, my cheeks are flushed, and my breath trembles through my nose.
I’m a mess, tears gathering at the corners of my eyes, heat pulsing between my thighs, my lips stretched wide as I try to take more of him, deeper, just to hear him groan again.
“You take my cock so well,” he growls, voice like gravel wrapped in silk, and it sends a tremor down my spine.
His other hand caresses my cheek as if he’s grounding me, balancing out the force with tenderness.
I’ve never felt this, the way he unravels me, the way he watches like he owns me, like I belong to him in this exact moment.
His hips move with more urgency now, and I feel him pulse.
His low moan vibrates through his chest as he pulls back just enough to look down at me.
“Eyes on me,” he commands, and I obey without thinking, without blinking.
My throat tightens and I almost forget how to breathe as warmth floods over my tongue.
His fingers stroke my face gently as I take it, all of it, until he stills and exhales like I just saved his life.
“Fuck, Serena.”
Before I can even blink, he lifts me effortlessly, like I weigh nothing, like I’m something precious, something his.
He sets me down on the cold marble of the kitchen table, and the contrast of the surface with my feverish skin makes me shiver.
I watch him, his tall frame, muscles taut beneath skin marked by tattoos and half-healed bruises.
His shirt is gone, his pants abandoned somewhere on the floor, and he looks like sin carved into a man.
And Gosh, I missed him.
Three days without him and it felt like withdrawal. Now, having him here, raw and real in front of me, the ache inside me is unbearable.