Chapter 39
Chapter Thirty-Nine
RICCI
Istraighten, and I can’t help it. My eyes go once again to the bruise — that ugly, dark mark on her upper arm. New fury surges through me. I hate him. I can feel the acid of my hate in my bones. Mario.
That worthless piece of shit dared to put his hands on her.
On what’s mine. The thought makes my jaw lock tight, my hands tremble with the need to wrap them around his throat and squeeze until there’s nothing left in his useless eyes.
The rage coils tighter, but I force it down, lock it away.
I refuse to hurt her. She has suffered enough in Salvatore’s undeserving hands.
I don’t show her the hate I feel.
Right now she’s looking at me with those wide green eyes, still flushed and trembling from her orgasm. And she’s hungry for more.
And seeing her like this — completely open, completely vulnerable, every inch of her beautiful body spread out on my kitchen counter — makes my desire for her twist into something even more primal.
She belongs to me now.
Every bit of her. The soft curve of her breasts, the smooth plane of her stomach, the delicate skin that still carries the faint red marks from my mouth. She’s mine. And Mario crossed a line so big it feels like he reached into my chest and tried to rip out the only thing that has ever mattered.
I make myself gentle, gentler than I’ve ever been with anyone in my life.
My hands stay soft on her waist as I step back and undo my belt.
The leather whispers as I pull it free, the buckle clinking quietly.
I unzip my pants, push them down along with my briefs, and my cock springs out, impossibly swollen with how badly I want her.
I stroke myself once, slow and firm, my eyes never leaving hers.
She pushes up from the waist, watching me, her breath coming fast and shallow.
Then she leans forward and kisses me.
It’s not soft. It’s hungry. The hunger I feel in my gut. Her hands slide up to my shoulders, fingers digging in as her tongue meets mine. I groan into her mouth, tasting her, tasting the faint sweetness of the ice cream still lingering on her tongue.
Her legs wrap around my waist like they were made to be there. She’s so light, so warm, so fucking perfect against me. Her eyes are dark, pupils blown wide with need, lips parted and swollen from our kiss.
I line myself up and press the thick head of my cock against her slick entrance.
She’s so wet and so hot. Her arousal coats me instantly as I start to push inside her, but her pussy is as tight as a fist, and her body resists for a heartbeat before yielding and enveloping me in velvet heat that makes my jaw clench.
She cries out. A sharp, broken sound that shoots straight to my balls and makes them draw up tight.
I am obsessed by how tight she still is, how perfectly she grips every inch of me, like her body was made for mine and mine alone.
The feeling is unreal. Hot. Wet. So fucking good it makes my vision blur for a second, and my hips jerk involuntarily, pushing even deeper.
I let her adjust to my size, my forehead pressed to hers so I can feel every shaky breath she takes. My hands grip her hips, holding her steady on the counter while I breathe through the overwhelming urge to slam into her, to fuck her hard and fast and erase every trace of today.
I try to stay in control. I really do.
Then she grabs my ass with both hands, nails digging into my skin, and cries out against my mouth.
“Harder,” she gasps, her voice raw and trembling with need. “Ricci… please… harder.”
And my control snaps completely.
A low, guttural groan tears from my throat as I slam into her.
Hard and fast, hips snapping forward with every ounce of hunger I’ve been holding back.
The sound of our bodies coming together fills the kitchen: wet, dirty, obscene slaps of skin on skin that echo off the marble.
She moans and clings to me. Her heels dig into my back as I drive balls-deep inside her again and again.
I can’t slow down. Not now. Every thrust is punishing, possessive, like I’m trying to brand myself onto her, to erase every mark Mario ever left, to claim every inch of her so thoroughly no one else will ever dare touch her again.
But then something shifts.
I don’t need to prove that she is mine. She is mine.
The hard pounding bleeds into something deeper, something hotter.
I slow down and let myself feel every single second.
My strokes become deep and deliberate, dragging against every sensitive spot inside her until she whimpers helplessly into my mouth.
I kiss her again. Our tongues glide together in lazy, filthy strokes while I grind my hips in slow circles, letting her feel every thick inch of me.
She trembles in my arms, and I can tell by the way her walls flutter around my cock that she’s already close again.
Her fingers dig helplessly into my shoulders, my back, my ass — anywhere she can reach, like she can’t get me close enough.
Her hands grab my ass again and pull me deeper as she starts to come. Her body clenches around me, her pussy pulsing hard and sweet as a broken cry spills from her lips. The feeling of her milking my cock is exquisite.
It pushes me right over the edge with her.
I bury myself as deep as I can go and come hard, groaning her name against her mouth.
I spill hot and thick inside her. Wave after wave crashes through me, blinding and intense.
I keep thrusting through it all, deep, grinding strokes that draw out every last pulse for both of us.
Until we’re both gasping, trembling, completely spent.
I don’t pull out. Not yet.
I just hold her, my arms wrapping tight around her, our bodies slick with sweat and juices. She feels so small and perfect in my arms. And so completely mine.
And for the first time in my life, I feel something I don’t ever remember feeling before.
Peace.
Even with the rage still simmering underneath, even with the cold knowledge that I’m going to destroy Mario for what he did… right now, with her in my arms, breathing against my neck, her heart beating against mine, I feel at peace.