CHAPTER 6 #2
He drags his free hand down the center of my back, his rough palm catching on the delicate, ruined silk.
He bunches the fabric upward in a fist, yanking it high and exposing the backs of my bare thighs to the freezing bunker air before his burning heat immediately replaces it.
He pulls my hips flush against his. There is absolutely no mistaking the hard, thick evidence of his arousal straining through his heavy tactical trousers, pressing directly into my stomach.
"Feel that, Fiorella?" he taunts, his grip on my hair tightening. "You wanted a reaction. You got one."
I lean into him, refusing to break character. My hands slide down from his broad chest, tracing the hard lines of his waist. I arch my back, pressing my chest flush into his tactical vest, trying to overload his senses while my fingers dance blindly, searching for the metal clip.
"You're so tense, Angelo," I whisper, my voice breathless. "Let go. Just for a second."
The sound of our synchronized, heavy breathing fills the cell. The scratchy lace of my bra digs into my skin under the pressure of his chest. There. I feel the cold metal of the clip. One more inch.
Angelo’s hand slides smoothly under the bunched hem of my slip.
His thick fingers map the sensitive, shivering skin of my inner thigh.
He moves with a slow, agonizing deliberation that is equal parts a caress and a physical threat.
He ducks his head and nips hard at my earlobe, his teeth grazing the skin just hard enough to border on actual pain.
"Your skin is jumping." His breath is hot against my ear. "Tell me to stop, Princess. I want to hear you say it."
I can't tell him to stop. I have to stay exactly where I am. I have to get that knife.
He reaches the edge of my lace panties, his fingers hooking effortlessly into the thin waistband.
He pulls me even closer, completely eliminating the space between us as his thumb begins to slowly, methodically stroke the soft swell of my hip.
His hand on the back of my neck tightens, forcing me to look him dead in the eyes while my pulse throbs violently against his palm.
"Your heart is racing. You’re a terrible liar," he murmurs, his dark, dilated pupils swallowing the room. "You’re enjoying this. The fear, the filth... it suits you."
He’s wrong. I don't enjoy this. I can't enjoy this. He slaughtered my people.
My head falls back against his arm as his hand shifts, beginning to explore my center right through the damp lace of my underwear.
The physical sensation is a violent, humiliating betrayal.
My body responds instantly with a slick, heavy heat that I cannot hide from him.
I grip his shoulders, my perfectly manicured nails digging desperately into the tough fabric of his vest as my knees threaten to buckle.
"Angelo... please..." I gasp out. "Don't. Don't look at me like that."
A low, predatory growl rumbles in the back of his throat. The knife. Focus on the knife. It’s right under my thumb.
He applies firm, rhythmic pressure, his eyes never leaving my face.
He is dissecting me in real-time, watching every single flicker of reluctant pleasure and burning shame that crosses my features.
He knows he’s winning the psychological war.
He slides a single, calloused finger entirely beneath the lace, finding me slick and ready.
A sharp, high-pitched moan tears out of my throat before I can bite it back.
"Look at you. A Silvestri princess, coming for an Ferraro dog," he sneers, though his touch remains agonizingly perfect. "Your body doesn't know how to lie, Fiorella."
I am losing myself in him. I have to do it now.
Caught in the overwhelming, forced peak of my own arousal, I lunge my right hand down. My fingers slam against his hip, closing tightly around the cold, textured metal hilt of the folding knife. The serrated edge of the pocket clip digs sharply into my palm.
"Now!" I hiss, adrenaline ripping through my veins and clearing the fog of lust in a violent flash. "I've got you, you bastard."
Before I can even rip the blade free from his belt, Angelo’s hand moves.
It’s viper-fast. Blinding. He catches my wrist in a vice-like, bone-crushing grip, his fingers digging into my radius and ulna until I cry out in actual agony.
He twists my arm sharply backward, instantly neutralizing my leverage and forcing my fingers to spasm and drop the weapon.
"Did you think I was that easy, Fiorella?" His voice drops an octave, the dark amusement completely gone. "Did you think I couldn't feel those shaking fucking fingers?"
The sudden absence of his intimate touch leaves me breathless and freezing as he shifts instantly from lover back into a combat-ready enforcer. He was waiting for it the entire time.
He shoves me backward. Hard. I hit the concrete wall with a force that violently knocks the wind out of my lungs.
Before I can even gasp for air, he steps into my space and pins both of my wrists high above my head against the stone, his massive body weight caging me in so completely I can’t move a single fucking muscle.
He presses his thick forearm against my throat—not hard enough to crush my windpipe, but enough to ground me in the absolute reality of his dominance.
"Stupid girl," he spits, his chest heaving against mine. "You think a few tears and a bit of lace can buy my life?"
I can't breathe. The impact of the stone against my shoulder blades is jarring, but it’s nothing compared to the crushing weight of his presence.
He leans in closer, his face so near that our noses brush.
He looks down at my parted mouth, then back up to my amber eyes.
His expression shifts back into pure, dark amusement.
He intentionally grinds his heavy hips forward, pressing his erection against my center, brutally reminding me of the slick, wrecked state he just left me in.
He leans forward and drags his tongue up my cheek, licking away the stray tear I faked earlier. The gesture is wildly dominant, stripping away whatever pride I have left.
"You’re still wet for me," he whispers against my skin. "Even now, while you're trying to figure out how to kill me, your body is begging for more."
I hate him. I hate him more than I've ever hated anything on this earth.
He releases my left wrist, only to drop his hand and grab my jaw in a bruising grip. He forces my head turn, making me look at the plastic water bottle he dropped on the floor. He squeezes my face until my lips part, his eyes clinical as he surveys my absolute defeat.
"You're a terrible actress, Fiorella Silvestri," he says smoothly. "But you're a very good whore. Maybe you should stick to what you're naturally gifted at."
The insult slaps me harder than his hand ever could. He steps back abruptly. The sudden, total loss of his body heat makes me shiver violently, my skin prickling in the cold, damp air. He looks down at me with utter, bored disdain. Like a toy that just ran out of batteries.
He adjusts his tactical belt, making a very deliberate point of patting the black handle of the knife I tried to steal.
"You want the knife? You’ll have to do better than that." He turns his back on me. "Next time, don't shake so much."
He reaches down, picks up the water bottle by the neck, and walks over to the small, rusty metal table at the far end of the cell.
He sets it down with a solid 'thunk', intentionally leaving it far out of my immediate reach.
A final, petty, brutal act of dominance to punish me for my audacity.
He wipes his large hands down the sides of his cargo pants, as if physically cleaning the touch of my skin off himself.
"Thirst is a good teacher," he says, not looking back. "Think about your mistakes while you wait for the dark."
Angelo walks out into the hallway and pulls the heavy steel door shut behind him. It closes with a resounding, final clang. The deadbolts slide home sequentially, sealing me back into the tomb. The outer hallway light switches off, plunging the space around the door cracks into absolute black.
I don't walk over to the cot. I just collapse exactly where I stand, my back sliding down the rough concrete wall until my bare thighs hit the floor.
I pull my knees tightly to my chest and hide my face in my arms. My entire body is violently trembling from the adrenaline crash, the freezing temperature, and the residual, aching arousal still pulsing between my legs.
"Bastardo..." I choke out to the empty room. "I will kill you. I swear to God, I will kill you."
But the threat feels empty in the dark. The worst part isn't that he caught me. The worst part is that he was completely right. My body didn't lie. Fuck him.