Chapter 5 #2
I obey him. The orgasm hits me like a downed power line, all white heat and no warning.
My walls clench violently around his thrusting fingers.
My hips jerk forward, grinding my clit against his mouth.
He takes every drop of my release, swallowing my moans, riding out the violent spasms wracking my body.
When my legs finally give out, he catches me. He stands up smoothly, hauling me into his arms. He carries me two steps and lays me down on top of his discarded tactical jacket on the concrete floor. The ballistic nylon is rough, but it protects my bare skin from the freezing stone.
He stands over me. He looks down at my flushed, exposed body. The possessive obsession in his eyes is terrifying and beautiful.
"My turn," I say, my voice shredded.
He reaches for his belt. He rips it open. He drops to one knee, unlaces his combat boots in two sharp pulls, kicks them aside, then shoves the heavy fabric of his tactical pants and his boxer briefs down his muscular thighs.
My breath stalls in my throat. He is huge.
His cock is thick and rigid, jutting straight out from his body, pulsing with the erratic thrum of his heartbeat.
Veins map the rigid length of it. A bead of clear precum glistens at the blunt head.
He is fully, painfully aroused. The sight of him makes my mouth go dry.
He drops to his knees between my spread legs. He crawls over me, one scarred hand fisting the tactical jacket beside my head, the other spanning my ribs. His broad chest hovers inches above mine. The gold cross pendant hanging from his chain brushes against my breastbone.
"I have wanted this for eight years," he says, his voice a low rasp. "Not the act. The being able to stand it. I didn't know it would be you. But it was always going to be you."
He reaches down and grips his thick cock. He guides the blunt, slick head to my opening. He rubs the slickness of his precum against my swollen clit, making me gasp and arch my hips. I want him inside me. I want the agonizing emptiness filled.
"Give it to me," I demand, digging my nails into his back.
He pushes forward. The head of his cock breaches my entrance. So thick I whimper as he stretches me open. My walls are drenched, primed and ready, but his sheer size demands a slow, agonizing entry.
He groans, a deep, rumbling sound that vibrates in his chest. His eyes squeeze shut.
The muscles in his neck bunch tight. He pushes deeper, sinking into my tight, wet heat.
Inch by agonizing inch, he fills me. My body stretches to accommodate his massive girth.
The sensation is overwhelming. The shape of him registers, the hard, rigid length of his arousal claiming every inch of me from the inside.
His hips drive forward, burying himself to the absolute hilt. Our bodies meet flush, the contact punching the breath out of me.
Then he freezes, staying buried inside me, his hand braced flat to the tactical jacket beside my head, palm anchored against the ballistic nylon. He is breathing hard, taking shallow, ragged pulls of air.
"Cazzo," he breathes out. "Imani. You feel so fucking good. So tight."
"Move," I whisper, wrapping my legs around his waist, locking my ankles behind his lower back to trap him where I want him.
He pulls back. The friction of his thick cock sliding against my sensitive walls sends a shockwave of raw pleasure through my system. Then he thrusts forward, slamming back to the hilt.
A sharp cry leaves my lips. He sets a brutal, unrelenting pace.
He does not make love. He claims. He brands.
He drives into me with the desperation of a man marking his territory.
Every thrust is a declaration. Every slam of his hips is a promise.
It feels like he is binding me to him for good, in the dark, freezing bowels of a mafia vault.
"Mine," he snarls with every thrust. "My woman. My signal."
"Yes," I sob, tossing my head back against the tactical jacket.
The angle is perfect. His thick shaft rubs directly against my swollen clit with every deep plunge.
My walls clench around him, milking the rigid length of his cock.
Italian rips out of him low and broken, cazzo, sei mia, dannazione, the words scraping out of his throat with his control fraying at the edges.
The power of his movements pushes me across the floor.
I grip his shoulders, hanging on for the ride.
The slap of our skin echoes like gunshots in the empty room.
Sweat beads on his forehead and drips onto my chest. His salt-and-pepper hair is damp at the temples, sweat-darkened and disordered.
He is a beautiful, violent storm, and I am the only person allowed inside it.
His hand cups my jaw, his thumb dragging up the line of my throat from collarbone to ear. His voice drops into a dangerous, gravelly register.
I force my eyes open. I meet his intense, chaotic stare. The dead radio frequency is gone. There is only raging fire left.
"I am never letting you go," he promises, his hips snapping forward, driving so deep I feel him at the very end of me. "You belong to me now. You are mine, all the way down."
The words trigger something primal inside me.
The final wall of my own hesitation crumbles.
My ex took my money, but Vincenzo is giving me himself—his protection, his fury, his entire damaged soul.
I accept the trade. I accept the danger.
I accept the mafia war waiting for us outside this steel door.
"I'm yours," I scream as the orgasm hits me.
It is a violent, blinding explosion. My vision whites out. My internal walls bear down, clamping viciously around his thick cock. I milk him with spasming contractions, pulling the climax straight out of him.
He roars my name. The sound is primal, possessive, and triumphant.
He drives his hips forward one final, brutal time and holds himself to the hilt.
His entire massive frame goes rigid. I feel the hot pulse of his release spilling deep inside me.
He fills me with his release, groaning as the tension finally bleeds out of his muscles.
He collapses on top of me. His broad, sweat-slicked chest crushes my breasts. He buries his face in the crook of my neck, inhaling my scent like it is the only oxygen left in the room. His heart hammers wildly against my ribcage, a frantic, chaotic rhythm that matches my own.
We lie there in the freezing dark, tangled together on a bed of tactical gear. The irony is not lost on me. I came down here to migrate servers and walk away with a paycheck. Instead, I am walking away with a lethal mafia enforcer chained to my soul.
He slowly rolls off me, but he refuses to sever the connection. He pulls me flush against his side, wrapping one ink-dark, muscled arm around my waist. He drags the tactical jacket up over both of us, trapping our shared body heat beneath the rugged fabric.
The cold of the Underground bank vault returns, pressing in close.
The reality of our situation begins to creep back into the edges of my mind.
The oxygen purge is stalled, but the four-foot reinforced steel door is still sealed tight.
We are still sealed in, surrounded by the Bellanti ghost-signatory servers and the billions they used to route, cut off from the outside world.
I trace the bold black cross on his chest with my index finger. "So," I say, my voice soft in the quiet room. "You just broke a streak of absolute isolation."
"Yes." His fingers stroke up and down my bare spine.
"Are you going to regret it when we eventually have to figure out how to get out of here and deal with the heavily armed men who are probably coming to kill us?”
Vincenzo tilts my chin up. His eyes are clear now. The calculation is back, but it is no longer cold. It is focused on my survival.
"I don't regret a single step that brought you to me," he says smoothly. "And anyone who tries to take you away from me is going to die."
He says it with the casual certainty of a man observing the weather. It is a terrifying, absolute truth.
I rest my head against his chest, listening to the steady, powerful thrum of his heart. My ex-boyfriend taught me that trust is a liability. Vincenzo Costa is teaching me to put it in someone worth the risk.
And for the first time since everything fell apart, I feel completely safe.
"Okay," I whisper, closing my eyes. "Let them come."
We have a little time. The vault is sealed, the servers are dark and powered down, and somewhere above us, the Bellantis already know something went wrong. We rest in the dark, gathering our strength.
When we finally get out of this vault, the Costa-Bellanti war will be waiting for us. But they have no idea what is coming for them. They think Vincenzo Costa is just a ghost. They are about to learn that ghosts can come home with someone to protect.