Chapter 6 Dominic #2
I shift her off my lap, gently laying her back against the pillows.
She looks up at me, entirely exposed, her body a pale, beautiful canvas against the dark sheets.
I kneel over her, my large frame casting a heavy shadow, completely enveloping her space.
I don't want her to see the room. I don't want her to see the reinforced doors or the tactical gear in the corner. I only want her to see me.
I lean down, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to the pulse point jumping frantically at the base of her throat. I feel the rapid thump-thump-thump of her heart against my lips. I drag my mouth lower, kissing the slope of her collarbone, then the heavy curve of her breast.
Sienna's hands tangle in my hair, gripping tight. "Dominic," she breathes, her back arching off the mattress.
I take her nipple into my mouth, swirling my tongue over the tight, pink peak before sucking deeply.
She cries out, a sweet, high-pitched sound that goes straight to my blood.
I draw hard, scraping my teeth lightly over the sensitive flesh, my hand moving down to cup her other breast, kneading the soft weight.
She is so responsive, her body yielding to my every touch, melting under my complete control.
I trail kisses down the center of her torso, my tongue tracing the faint line past her navel.
I part her thighs, my hands gripping her knees and pushing them wide.
I settle between her legs. The scent of sex and cedar and sweat hangs between us like a confession, thick and undeniable in the sealed quiet of the suite. I breathe it in.
"Look at me," I command softly.
Sienna's heavy lids flutter open, her chest heaving. She meets my gaze.
"I am going to worship you," I tell her, my voice a dark promise in the quiet room. "I am going to make you forget every single second of your life before I walked into it."
I lower my head, my mouth settling directly over her pussy. She tastes of salt and slick, warm honey. I trace her pussy lips with the flat of my tongue, slow and deliberate, before finding her swollen, hard clit at the top. I draw it into my mouth and suck gently.
Sienna screams my name, her hips bucking off the bed.
My heavy hands clamp down on her thighs, holding her firmly in place as I continue to devour her.
I use my tongue relentlessly, lapping at her, drinking her wetness, sliding two fingers deep inside her tight, slick pussy.
She is so wet, so incredibly responsive.
My fingers stretch her, mimicking the thick, heavy thrusts of my cock, curling upward to hit the sensitive bundle of nerves deep inside her.
"Please," she sobs, her hands gripping the sheets beside her head, her knuckles turning white. "Dominic, please. I can't. It's too much."
"It's not enough," I murmur against her wet flesh, my breath sending a fresh shudder through her limbs. "Give it to me, Sienna. Shatter for me."
I increase the pressure, my tongue flickering rapidly over her clit while my fingers pump in and out of her dripping pussy. The tension in her body coils tighter and tighter, like a drawn bowstring. She thrashes beneath my hold, her breath coming in ragged, shallow gasps, until finally, she breaks.
A violent orgasm rips through her. Her internal walls clamp down hard around my fingers, squeezing and pulsing with terrifying strength. She cries out, a prolonged, keening wail that I swallow as I drag my body up the length of the bed and capture her mouth.
I taste her on my own tongue. I kiss her deeply, passionately, as the aftershocks of her climax rock her small frame. Her arms wrap around my neck, clinging to me as if I am the only solid thing in a collapsing universe. And I am. For her, I will be the immovable object.
While she is still trembling, completely undone and pliable, I reach down and grip my own aching cock. I position the thick, blunt head at her soaking pussy.
I pull back just enough to look into her eyes. The hazel is completely blown out, replaced by dark, hazy submission. "You're mine," I tell her. It isn't a question. It isn't a statement. It is a biological fact.
"Yours," she breathes, her lips parted, her chest heaving against mine.
I push my hips forward, burying myself inside her tight, scalding heat in one slow, agonizingly deep thrust. The friction is unreal.
She stretches around my girth, her body accommodating my size perfectly.
The sensation of her wet, contracting walls gripping my cock nearly pushes me over the edge instantly.
I throw my head back, a harsh, guttural groan tearing from my throat, the muscles in my neck straining.
I withdraw slowly, dragging the thick ridge of my cock along her sensitive internal walls, before sinking back down to the hilt.
Sienna's nails dig into my back, scoring the skin over my shoulders.
She wraps her long, pale legs around my waist, crossing her ankles behind me, locking me deep inside her.
The intimacy of the hold, the physical absolute of being completely buried inside the woman I am obsessed with, fractures the last remaining piece of my rusted, twenty-year-old armor.
I begin to move. Slow, deliberate, punishingly deep thrusts.
With every forward drive, the rhythmic crack of my hips meeting hers echoes off the reinforced glass—a heavy, insistent beat in the sealed dark.
I watch her face. I watch the way her lips part on a silent gasp every time I bottom out inside her.
I watch the way her brow furrows in pure, overwhelming pleasure. I memorize every micro-expression.
"Dominic," she gasps, her head tossing back against the pillows. "Harder. Please."
Her plea snaps my control. The slow, worshipful pace shatters, replaced by a desperate, pounding rhythm.
I hook my hands under her knees, pulling her thighs wider, opening her completely to my assault.
I drive into her with the brutal, heavy force of a piston, my hips snapping forward, burying myself so deep I feel it in my own chest.
She takes every inch of me, her body arching up to meet my violent thrusts.
The friction is blinding. The heat of her tight pussy, the slick sounds of our bodies, the whimpers falling from her lips—it drives me to absolute madness.
I lean down, biting the curve of her neck, my teeth sinking into the soft flesh right over her pulse point.
I want to mark her. I want every man in this city to see the purple heat of my handprints on her thighs and the bite marks on her neck, and know that her body is my sovereign territory.
Touching her isn't just a crime; it's a death sentence carried out in real-time.
"Sienna," I roar against her skin, the heavy, building pressure in my cock reaching a critical mass.
"Dom," she screams, her body going entirely rigid beneath me. Her internal walls spasm, milking my cock with crushing force.
Her climax drags me directly over the edge.
I slam my hips forward, burying myself to the root as I erupt inside her.
I empty my seed deep inside her pussy with a violence that shakes my entire frame, hot, thick pulses flooding her, claiming her from the inside out.
I hold myself deep inside her, my chest heaving, my muscles trembling from the exertion.
We stay perfectly still for a long time.
The only sounds in the room are the harsh, jagged rasps of our breathing and the frantic pounding of my heart against her ribs.
I don't move my weight off her. I need the pressure.
I need the absolute certainty that she is beneath me, safe and trapped in my arms.
Eventually, her hands smooth down my back, her fingers gently tracing the heavy musculature of my spine. "You're heavy," she whispers, though there is no complaint in her tone.
I reluctantly shift to the side, withdrawing with a slow, wet slide that I feel in my own chest—the loss of her warmth a physical subtraction.
I pull her with me so we are facing each other, my arm securely wrapped around her waist, my thigh thrown over her legs to pin her to the mattress.
I reach down, pressing my fingers gently to the slick, swollen wetness.
"I need to clean you," I murmur, my voice low and completely stripped of its usual commanding edge.
She blinks lazily. "You don't have to."
"I want to."
I pull myself out of bed, the cold air hitting my sweat-sheened skin.
I walk into the massive, marble-lined en suite bathroom.
The stark white of the stone contrasts violently with the dark mood in the bedroom.
I turn on the brass faucet, waiting for the water to run hot.
I take a thick, white washcloth, soaking it in the steaming water, then wring it out.
When I walk back into the bedroom, Sienna is watching me.
Her eyes track the heavy scars across my torso—the knife wound from a street fight in Pine Valley, the bullet graze on my left shoulder.
She looks at my body not with fear, but with a quiet, profound understanding.
She knows what I am. She knows what I do. And she is still in my bed.
I sit on the edge of the mattress and gently pull her toward me. I part her thighs. She flushes deeply, her hands coming up to cover her face, but I gently pull her wrists away.
"Never hide from me," I tell her softly.
I press the hot, damp cloth to her swollen pussy.
She hisses at the heat, her internal walls twitching.
I wipe away the slick mixture of my cum and her own arousal, cleaning her with a meticulous, possessive reverence.
I want her clean so I can mark her again tomorrow.
I clean the wetness from her inner thighs, moving slowly, taking in the bruises already deepening there—finger-shaped, deliberate, mine—making sure she is entirely comfortable.
When I am finished, I toss the cloth onto the floor and slide back into the bed, pulling the heavy charcoal sheets up over us.
I gather her into my chest, her back pressed against my front, pulling her tightly against my body.
I wrap my arm around her torso, my large hand splayed wide over her flat stomach.
Sienna settles instantly, her breathing evening out as exhaustion pulls her back under. I press my lips to the crown of her head, smelling the peonies and the warm, lingering scent of her skin beneath mine.
My heart beats a steady, powerful rhythm against her spine. My lungs expand fully, drawing in deep, effortless breaths.
I stare into the darkness of the room, the amber city light catching the edges of the ballistic glass.
Down the hall, Matteo's boots move against the hardwood in the kitchen—a restless, rhythmic pace I recognize.
He left his penthouse to manage the war from here, but he is still baking.
The faint, earthy scent of yeast and toasted flour drifts under the sealed door: his bread, made in the middle of the night without fail, the one ritual the brooding underboss keeps like a prayer.
I hear him pause by the corridor once, then continue.
He registered it—the shift in the air of this building, the fact that his cousin and Don has recalibrated every priority around a woman who smells of flowers. He didn't knock. He won't. Not tonight.
Santi said nothing when I passed him in the hallway earlier. He simply looked at me once—a single, unhurried glance that moved from my face to the closed bedroom door and back. He catalogued it all. He suspected what it meant long before I admitted it to myself. He always does.
Tomorrow, I will gather my brothers and my cousins. Tomorrow, I will structure the destruction of the Bellanti empire. I will hunt them down one by one, and I will rip their legacy to shreds.
Before today, I was doing it for revenge.
I was doing it for the ghosts of my parents, for the empty graves in Pine Valley.
For twenty years, I called that purpose.
It was dormancy dressed as devotion—a man standing perfectly still, calling it patience, when really he has simply forgotten what he was fighting toward.
But holding the warm, breathing weight of Sienna Marchetti against my chest, the parameters of the war have shifted.
She woke the predator I'd put to sleep. I am no longer fighting for the dead.
I am fighting for her. I will scorch the earth and drown Chicago in blood to ensure that no threat ever reaches this brownstone.
She is mine. And I will not let anything breathe that threatens what is mine.