Chapter 2 #2
It isn't chaste. He pulls me in, one hand cupping the back of my neck, fingers threading through my hair tight enough to sting, while his other hand slides up my thigh, leaving a trail of fire on my bare skin.
His tongue invades my mouth with the arrogance of someone who knows exactly how wet I'm becoming.
I surrender completely, my thighs parting involuntarily as I let myself be consumed.
He pulls back, breathing hard, and says, “Come home with me.”
It’s not a question. It’s less a command than an inevitable next scene.
I should say no. I ought to giggle, turn away, or promise him later—play the game. But I am so tired of games. I want, for once, to be wanted enough that hesitation is a waste of the world’s time.
“Yes,” I whisper.
He grins, and the flash of joy is pure boyish triumph.
By now, the hostess, the bartender, and the elderly couple near the door have all noticed us, but I don’t care.
I feel like I’m floating. As Alessio helps me from the booth, his hand slides down my back and pauses for a brief, respectful moment at the base of my spine, as if to remind me what’s coming.
The limousine has been idling the entire time we’ve been inside. The driver jumps out to open the door, but Alessio waves him off, guiding me through the doorway himself.
Inside, it’s dark and cool and, once the doors click shut, satisfyingly private.
He doesn’t hesitate.
His mouth claims mine with savage possession before the car even merges into traffic.
His tongue invades, demanding entry, tasting every corner as his fingers dig into my hips with bruising need.
The careful restraint from dinner has shattered; this is raw, animal hunger.
I dissolve against him, whimpering as my body surrenders its last defenses.
He drags me onto his lap with a growl, my dress bunching around my waist. His hands slide up my bare thighs, thumbs pressing into the sensitive flesh where leg meets hip. I gasp, trembling with want as he tears the pins from my hair, sending waves cascading over my shoulders.
"I need to taste all of you," he rasps, voice thick with desperation. "Now."
His mouth blazes down my throat, teeth scraping my thundering pulse as he hooks his fingers into the delicate lace of my panties and drags them down my thighs. The cool leather against my exposed flesh makes me shiver as he drops to the floor of the limousine.
He seizes my knees, spreading them open, and for one terror-thrilling moment I worry what the driver might see—but Alessio’s body is a rampart between me and the world.
With my panties bunched at my ankles, the dress twisted up, and the heat of his mouth hovering, I feel so on display I could rip in two.
He presses my thigh to the cool seatback, anchoring me as his free hand snakes up, thumb skimming deliberate, criminal circles into the crease between my thigh and mound.
I try to clutch his shoulders, but the angle is awkward; I settle for burying my hand in the thick black casing of his hair just as his lips part and seal over my pussy.
He is gentle for all of five seconds, mouthing me in soft, coaxing laps that make me squirm closer, then he stops pretending.
His tongue splits me, demanding, drinking in the liquid proof of my need.
I stifle a cry, one leg kicking out. He pins that, too, and drives deeper, his nose brushing my clit, the bristly abrasion of his beard making me dizzy.
Alessio does not make the mistake of teasing.
He swallows me as if I am both appetizer and final course, tongue flicking up and down my slick folds, then finding the little bud at the apex and torturing it in slow, relentless circles until my hips buck wildly against his mouth.
The world collapses to a tiny, shaking radius: his mouth, my cunt, the limousine’s obscene silence.
I dig my knuckles into the armrest, desperate for something to anchor me to this world.
There is a moment—midway through—when I am aware that I could stop him.
That if I said so, he would halt, look up, and let me snap the boundaries back into place.
I almost try it, for the sake of science, to see how far the respect stretches, but even the concept makes me laugh. I want to see how far he can take it.
“Alessio,” I gasp, because it feels wrong not to say his name during something this blasphemous. “Please.”
He looks up, wet-mouthed, his eyes gone feral. “You’re so fucking beautiful, Lucia.” His voice scrapes like gravel against velvet.“I wanted this the second I saw you. Let me have it. Give me everything.”
And I do. I arch my hips into his face, writhing shamelessly as he sucks my clit into his mouth and tongues it like he’s baptizing me.
Lightning stutters behind my eyelids, and I let the pleasure punch me into temporary madness.
Alessio’s hands have circled my thighs, holding me open, and when I try to close around him, he tightens his grip.
When I come, it’s a full-body event. I shriek—not a word, not a name, just the animal sound of someone destroyed and healed simultaneously. He doesn’t let up, working me through the aftershocks until my body is a shaking, melted thing.
He only climbs up from the floor when I’ve collapsed entirely, then slides in beside me and licks his lips like he’s sampled the rarest wine. His face is flushed, beard glistening, eyes lit with proprietary satisfaction. My panties are lost somewhere around my ankle.
“Next time,” he says, as he cradles my limp body into his. “Next time you scream it loud enough, the whole block hears.”
I want to blush, but instead I grin. I don’t think I’ve ever grinned like this after sex before—like I’ve survived a trial by fire and come out untouchable.
“It would take a lot more champagne for that,” I say, but he just tilts my chin up and kisses me. The taste of myself on his tongue is shocking and a little disgusting, and ten times more erotic in the aftermath.
He tucks my hair behind my ear, hand uncharacteristically tender. “You have no idea what you do to me,” he murmurs, as if confessing a weakness. “If you leave me now, I’ll go mad with wanting.”
I shake my head, unsure if he’s joking or if this is the part where he confesses to locking me in his basement. “You really think I’m going anywhere after that performance?”
He laughs, but there’s a slouch in his shoulders, a momentary collapse of the command he wears like a suit of armor. “Good,” he says. “You shouldn’t. I’d come after you.”
The car pulls up to his building, a glass monolith overlooking the Hudson River, the kind of place you have to sign an NDA before visiting.
The driver is gone before we even step onto the curb, and Alessio hustles me through the lobby so quickly I only catch flashes: a security desk with three men behind it, the glint of metal under one jacket, a marble elevator that swallows us whole.
In the calm silence, I’m suddenly aware of my ruined hair, the flush of my cheeks, the places where Alessio’s teeth have left marks only I will know until I look in a mirror.
He stares straight ahead until the doors close, and then pins me against the wall with his body, legs spreading mine with practiced ease.
The shaved glass walls offer a 360-degree view of Manhattan’s skyline, a panorama of civilization blurred by fog and distance. I could be anyone, anywhere.
He peels the rest of my dress up and over my body, leaving me in nothing but heels and the jewelry I never take off. He looks at me like he’s trying to memorize a crime scene. “You’re trembling,” he says.
“It’s cold,” I lie, though I can feel the heat radiating off both of us.
He presses my back to the wall and kisses me again, a little slower this time, as if mapping the boundaries of his new possession.
His hands cup my ass, lift me so my hips are level with his, and even through slacks and wool I can feel the brutal pressure of his cock.
I want it inside me with a desperation that curls my toes.
“I should take you to my bed,” he says, “but I can’t wait.” His tone is almost apologetic.
He spreads my legs around his waist and grinds against me, the roughness of his pants catching my swollen clit. I am shameless, riding his hips until the fabric soaks through, and when the elevator dings at the penthouse, I am seconds from exploding again.
He carries me through a private foyer, keycards us into a world of steel and glass and Persian rugs, but it’s all a blur—my legs wrapped around him, his hand cupping the nape of my neck like a delicate treasure he’s both afraid and determined to break.
The door closes behind us, and for a moment, he pauses, chest heaving, looking at me as if memorizing one last detail before he devours it.
“Do you want this?” he asks, a thread of vulnerability weaving through the bass note of command.
“Yes,” I say, and I mean it in the marrow of my bones.
He sets me down and strips away his jacket, tie, and shirt, never breaking my gaze.
The body beneath is a study in contrasts: a latticework of scars across the ribcage, the softness of skin over hard planes, a trail of dark hair leading down to the dark, heavy cock jutting against his abdomen.
He is as beautiful as a cathedral and twice as dangerous.
He bends to kiss me again, this time slow enough that I feel every tiny shift of pressure—tongue, teeth, lips—until my body is molten.
He lifts me onto a massive dining table, shoving aside a crystal vase so that petals scatter over the wood.
My legs are pried open, and he kneels, worshipping me a second time.
This time, there is no urgency—only the infinite patience of a man who plans to own every part of me.
His tongue traces deliberate patterns, each lick sending electricity through my thighs.
When I think I can't take more, his fingers slide inside, curling to find that spot that makes me arch off the table.
His mouth never leaves me, sucking and savoring until I'm convulsing, sobbing his name.
When he finally stands, all restraint vanishes; he flips me onto my stomach, drags my hips to the edge, and thrusts once—thick, brutal, and deep—while his fingers circle my clit with devastating precision.
The force of it almost knocks the air out of me.
He grips my waist with bruising fingers, pounding into me so hard the table skids inches across the polished floor.
"This tight pussy is mine now," he growls, his voice dark and possessive.
"All mine." The sounds between us are obscene—wet, rhythmic, animal.
"I'm going to fill you up," he pants against my ear, "and then fuck you again while you're dripping with me.
" He buries his face in the curve of my neck, teeth breaking skin as he stifles a groan.
"Won't stop until I see my cum sliding down those perfect thighs.
" For a moment, we hang there, suspended over the abyss, neither of us willing to let go.
After, he lifts me down, cradling me as if I am breakable, and carries me naked to a bedroom the size of my entire apartment.
But instead of lying me down, he follows me onto the mattress, his weight pressing me into silk sheets.
"Not done with you," he whispers, voice ragged as he slides inside me again—slower this time, each thrust deliberate.
His eyes never leave mine, something desperate in them now.
"You're fucking perfect," he breathes against my mouth, fingers threading through mine above my head.
"Need to have you. All to myself. Always.
" I arch beneath him as he claims me again, both of us trembling when sleep finally drags us under.
I wake before dawn. The city is a grid of jeweled lights, the river a dark artery beneath the window. I am warm and safe, but the gravity of him is still heavy—arm across my waist, face buried in my hair.
For a moment, I want to cry for reasons I can’t explain. Instead, I untangle myself, slip out of the sheets, and pad to the bathroom. In the mirror, I see the wildness he left in me—hair tangled, eyes swollen, marks on my neck like a secret language. I touch my mouth, stunned at how alive I look.
When I slip back under the sheets, he’s still there—his features softened, almost boyish in the early light, vulnerable in a way I never expected. My heart pounds as I reach for my phone and type the name he whispered last night: Alessio Morrone.
The screen floods with articles and mugshots. The Don of the Morrones crime family. A man who commands fear and loyalty in equal measure. My blood runs cold. I bolt upright, scrambling for my ruined dress and discarded shoes. Every second I stay feels like a trap.
“Lucy…” His low voice drifts from the pillows. Panic flares through me.
I throw my thin shawl around my shaking shoulders, stomp into my heels, and head for the door. Halfway down the hall, he’s there—calm, his eyes dark with something I can’t name. He reaches for me, gentle but impossible to refuse.
Tears burn behind my eyes. “Please,” I choke out.
He brushes a tear from my cheek. “Go,” he says softly. “For now.” His grip loosens, and he steps aside.
“My car will take you home,” he adds, voice husky.
I swallow, purse and phone in hand, and slip past him into the hallway. The door clicks shut behind me, but his words follow: “This isn’t the end, Lucia. Now that I’ve tasted you… It never will be.”
My heart pounds as I walk away. He’s right. This story, our story, is only just beginning.