Chapter 4 #2
Catalina screams into my shoulder. Her hips buck forward, grinding her center instinctively against the rigid steel of my cock.
The friction punches a flash of white through my skull.
The ache in my balls is a physical torment.
Precum leaks from the tip of my cock, slicking the inside of my boxers.
I'm straining against my jeans, desperate to tear the fabric away, desperate to bury myself inside her dripping wet pussy and claim her so deeply she never remembers a life before this room.
But I can't. Not yet.
The tease is a necessary agony. If I take her now, unhinged, she'll confuse this with her family's brutality.
She needs to know the difference. She needs to understand that my violence is reserved for the world, not for her.
For her, my restraint is the ultimate proof of devotion. I will burn alive before I hurt her.
"You're so fucking beautiful." I bury my face in her cleavage, breathing her in. I flick my tongue over the swell of her breast. "Too good for this damp fucking hole."
"Then take me out of it." Her hands slide down my back, gripping the muscles. Her hips roll against mine. A slow, agonizing grind. The seam of her jeans rubs directly against the pulsing head of my cock.
"I will." I lift my head, capturing her lips in another bruising kiss. "When the sun comes up. When I've gotten you in front of Dominic with your intel intact, and not before."
"They'll try anyway." She kisses me back, her tongue hot and seeking.
"Let them try."
I grip the back of her thighs, hauling her closer to the edge of the crate. Her legs wrap around my waist, locking me tight against her center. The positioning is flawless. Every breath she takes, every shift of her hips, drags her clit against the denim ridge of my erection.
She throws her head back. Her moans echo off the brick.
"Costa," she whines, her fingernails digging into my scalp. "God, please."
I slide my right hand down from her heavy tits, tracing the soft curve of her stomach.
I reach the waistband of her jeans. I slip my hand between our bodies, cupping the soft mound of her sex over the denim.
She is soaked. I can smell the slick, intoxicating scent of her wetness.
The honey is turning dark, rich, and purely sexual.
I press the heel of my palm hard against her clit.
Catalina shatters. Her body goes rigid. She cries out, a loud, unabashed scream that bounces off the brick ceiling.
I grind the heel of my hand against her, applying brutal, unrelenting pressure.
Through the layers of clothing, the friction is agonizing for both of us.
My own cock throbs, begging for release.
Begging to be inside her. I clench my jaw, fighting the primal urge to rip her pants down and sink to the hilt inside her.
"Grind against me." My voice is unrecognizable. A guttural snarl of pure need. "Do it."
She obeys. She rocks her hips forward, chasing the pressure of my hand and the solid wall of my erection. The friction is a slow, methodical torture. Every thrust of her hips forces a breathless moan past her lips.
"You like that, Catalina?" I taunt her, my thumb pressing harder over the seam of her jeans, rubbing directly over her swollen nub. "You like the enemy touching you?"
"Shut up," she pants, her eyes squeezed shut. "Just shut up and do it."
Defiant to the bitter end. It makes me harder, unhinged enough that I can barely see straight.
"You talk too much." I replace my hand with my hips. I drive my pelvis forward, thrusting hard against her center. The denim creates a wicked, biting friction.
She gasps, her eyes flying open. Her brown depths are glazed over with lust. Her chest heaves, her exposed breasts bouncing with every thrust of my hips.
I set a brutal rhythm. Pulling back, then driving my weight forward, grinding my cock against her wet, sensitive core. Dry humping her into oblivion. Her legs squeeze tighter around my waist, trapping me in the sweet, torturous friction.
"Fabio!" She screams my name. Her hands drop to my hips, trying to pull me even closer, trying to bridge the impossible gap the clothing creates. "Please. I need... it's too much. It's not enough."
"It's all you get." I grind harder. "Until you say it out loud."
"You." She's sobbing now, overwhelmed by all of it—the tunnel, the roaring space heater, the enemy enforcer currently ruining her for any other man. "I belong to you."
The verbal surrender snaps the last shred of my control. I thrust my hips forward with devastating force, pinning her against the wooden crate.
Catalina's back arches off the wood. Her toes curl in her boots.
A shuddering climax rips through her body.
She screams into the empty, echoing tunnel, the sound vibrating off the iron doors.
Her thighs clamp around my waist, her hips jerking against the seam of her jeans, pulsing against my rock-hard cock.
The force of her orgasm drags a painful groan from my chest.
She collapses forward, a boneless, exhausted weight against my frame. Her forehead rests against my collarbone. She is panting, her breath hot and damp against my skin.
I am vibrating. The adrenaline and the denied lust course through my veins like battery acid.
My cock is a throbbing, painful length of iron trapped in my jeans.
My balls ache with the desperate need to empty my seed deep inside her womb.
The urge to flip her on her back, tear the denim away, and sink into her is a roar inside my skull.
I close my eyes. I slam the door on it.
Restraint, agonizing.
I wrap my large arms tightly around her trembling back, pulling her soft, curved body flush against my chest, offering her the shelter of my frame. I bury my face in her dark hair and breathe her in.
"You're mine," I whisper against her temple, a solemn, unbroken vow. "You're safe."
Catalina doesn't fire back. No retort. No mapping the room. She just turns her face into my neck and breathes.
The heavy silence of the speakeasy tunnel settles around us, broken only by the hum of the space heater and the ragged sound of our breathing. The cold creeps back in, but neither of us shivers. The heat radiating between us is enough to burn down the city.
I fix the clasp of her bra with clumsy, trembling fingers. Then I pull her shirt down, carefully covering her. Rebuilding her armor before the world demands it again.
I step back, breaking the physical connection. The sudden absence of her body against mine is a physical trauma. Cold air rushes in to fill the space where she just was.
"Get some sleep." My voice is rough, stripped of its usual commanding volume. "I'll take the first watch."
Catalina looks up at me from the crate. Her eyes are clouded with exhaustion and lingering arousal. Her lips are swollen, bruised a deep pink from how hard we just kissed. She looks like a woman who has just been claimed.
"Where are you going to sleep?" she asks, her voice barely above a whisper.
"I don't sleep." I turn my back to her, facing the iron door. I cross my arms over my chest, planting my boots on the stone. "Not when the enemy is outside."
And not when the only thing keeping my sanity tethered to this earth is sitting ten feet behind me.
The war is coming. The Bellantis will hunt her.
My family will question her. The blood feud will demand a toll.
But right now, in this subterranean stone room, none of that matters.
I'll stand in front of this door until the stone crumbles to dust. I'll become the very thing they made me and use every ounce of it to keep her safe.
Because Catalina Bellanti is no longer a defector.
She is my ruin. And I am ready to fall.