Chapter 8 Dominic #3
I lift her. She gasps against my mouth as I grip her thighs, boosting her up onto the cold marble edge of the double vanity.
Her legs instantly wrap around my waist, pulling me tight against her.
Through the thick wool of my trousers, I can feel the immediate heat of her, the slick dampness already gathering at her pussy.
I break the kiss, panting, resting my forehead against hers. "I need to look at you."
She nods, her eyes dark with a heavy, primal lust that mirrors my own.
I step back just an inch, my gaze dropping down her body.
The pale, flawless skin of her throat, the heavy weight of her breasts, the tight, pink peaks of her nipples pulled taut in the cool air of the bathroom.
Down to the soft curve of her stomach, to the apex of her thighs where she is wet and shining, her pussy swollen and slick for me.
The air between us is thick with the scent of her arousal—warm and unmistakably wanting—cutting through the cool marble and bourbon-threaded air of the bathroom. I breathe it in like a man who has been starving.
I reach down, unbuckling my belt with violent efficiency.
The heavy leather slides through the loops, hitting the floor with a metallic clatter.
I tear open the button of my trousers, pushing the zipper down.
I am painfully hard, the thick, heavy length of my erection aching against the constraint of my tailored briefs.
I free myself, my cock jutting out, thick and weeping with precum.
Sienna's gaze locks as she looks at me. She reaches out, her small fingers wrapping around my girth.
My vision goes white. My knees nearly buckle.
The sensation of her soft, warm hand on the brutal, pulsing heat of my flesh is a sensory overload.
"Christ, Sienna," I grit out, my jaw locked.
I grab her wrist gently but firmly, pulling her hand away before I lose the last shred of my control. "Let me."
I step into the V of her thighs. I slide my hands under her ass, lifting her slightly on the cold marble to angle her hips perfectly to mine. I lean forward, burying my face in the crook of her neck, breathing in the scent of her skin, the remnants of the shea and lavender cream I bought for her.
I press the broad, blunt head of my cock against her slick, swollen pussy. She whimpers, her nails digging into the broad span of my shoulders through my shirt.
"Look at me," I command softly.
She opens her eyes. They are dilated, heavy with need.
"I am right here," I tell her, holding her gaze. I want her anchored. I want her to know exactly who is claiming her, not as a captive, but as a queen. "I am not hiding anything from you. I am yours."
I push my hips forward.
The slide of her body taking mine is the most exquisite agony I have ever known.
She is incredibly tight, her internal walls clenching around me, scalding hot and slick with her own wetness.
I groan—a heavy, feral sound—as I sink in, centimeter by centimeter, stretching her, filling her completely.
When my hips finally meet the cradle of her thighs, I stop, burying my face in her shoulder as a full-body tremor wrecks me.
"Dominic," she gasps, her back arching, pressing her breasts against my chest.
"I know," I breathe, kissing the sensitive skin beneath her ear. "I know, tesoro."
I begin to move. Slow. Deliberate. I pull back until only the head remains inside her, feeling the exact moment she whines at the loss of friction, and then I drive deep, seating myself fully against her. She cries out, a beautiful, high-pitched sound that goes straight to my marrow.
I establish a grueling, heavy rhythm. Each thrust is a physical declaration. I slide my hands up to cup her breasts, rolling her stiff nipples between my thumbs. She arches into my touch, her legs tightening around my waist, her heels digging into my lower back to anchor me even deeper.
The physical mechanics of it are overwhelming.
Each time I drive in, the sound of my body slamming into hers ricochets off the marble tile—wet, percussive, absolutely obscene—the sound of a man who has stopped pretending he has any restraint left.
I drive my cock into her with the intent to bruise, to leave the internal ghost of my girth stretched against her walls long after I've withdrawn.
The heat radiating between us is a furnace.
I watch her face, watching the pleasure take hold of her features.
Her head falls back, her mouth open, short, panting breaths escaping her.
I shift my grip, moving one hand down between our bodies. I find her swollen clit and press my thumb against it with firm, rhythmic pressure, working it in tight circles as I continue to drive into her.
Sienna shatters instantly.
She screams my name, a full, unrestricted sound, as her orgasm rips through her. Her internal walls clamp down on my cock with crushing force, milking every drop of control out of my system. The violent contraction of her muscles is the trigger.
"Mine," I roar, the word tearing from my throat as I drive into her one final, brutal time. Hot, thick pulses of my seed flood her pussy—a devastating, blinding release that empties twenty years of tension from my bones in a single, catastrophic moment.
I collapse forward, resting my full weight against her, burying my face in the soft crook of her neck.
I am breathing like a man who just ran ten miles.
She holds me, her arms wrapped tight around my shoulders, her hands tangled in my silver hair.
She is stroking my head, a gentle, soothing motion that brings a bizarre, stinging pressure to the back of my eyes.
We stay like that for a long time. The bathroom is thick with the scent of sex and sweat, layered over the cold marble and the faint ghost of her shea and lavender cream.
When my legs are steady enough to hold my weight, I pull back.
I carefully withdraw from her—a slow, wet separation that makes her exhale a soft, involuntary sound.
I immediately pull her flush against my chest, keeping one hand pressed to the small of her back.
I reach for a clean towel from the rack, wet it under the warm water, and gently clean her thighs, wiping away the slick mix of my seed and her wetness. I am meticulous. I am worshipful.
I dry her, then lift her off the vanity. She wraps her arms around my neck, resting her head on my chest as I carry her out of the bathroom and back into the dark bedroom.
I lay her down in the center of the massive bed, pulling the black duvet over her bare body. I strip off the rest of my clothes, dropping my shirt and trousers to the floor, and slide into the bed beside her.
She immediately curls into my side, resting her hand flat against my chest, right over the heavy, rhythmic thud of my heart. I wrap my arm around her waist, pulling her flush against my side, anchoring her to me.
I stare up at the dark ceiling.
I sent my brothers to burn a building down for her tonight. I showed her the lengths of my obsession, and she accepted it because I directed the violence at her pain. I earned her trust back with blood and fire—and it cost me two good men.
But as I feel her breathing even out against my ribs, a cold, sobering reality settles over me.
She thinks she knows the worst of me now. She thinks the violence of the mafia is my greatest sin. She doesn't know the truth. She doesn't know that my vengeance against the Bellantis isn't a righteous crusade. It is a poison. And twenty years ago, that poison made me do something unforgivable.
I used my own flesh and blood. I sold my sister to a butcher to secure a tactical alliance. I destroyed Lucia's life for this war, the very same war I am now fighting to protect Sienna from.
If I want Sienna to truly be mine—if I want this connection to survive the firestorm that is coming to Chicago—I cannot let her build her love on a half-truth. I have to give her the weapon that could destroy me. I have to tell her what I did to Lucia.
I press a kiss to the top of Sienna's copper hair, closing my eyes. Tomorrow, I will confess my greatest shame. And I will pray to a God I haven't spoken to in twenty years that she doesn't run.