CHAPTER 12 #3
The physical shock of it rips a loud cry out of my throat, my back arching off the cold steel.
He is massive, stretching me open and filling me so completely it borders on tearing.
It doesn't feel like sex; it feels like a vicious claim on my soul.
My fingernails dig into his shoulders and I drag them down, carving four long, white lines directly down the center of his scarred back.
"Stronzo..." I hiss, completely overwhelmed by the fullness.
"Zitta," he grunts. "You’re taking all of me."
He instantly slams his large, calloused hand flat over my mouth, suffocating my second cry before it leaves my lips.
The kill squad could literally be directly above us in the tunnels.
The sheer risk of being heard injects a jagged, borderline psychotic spike of adrenaline straight into my veins.
His palm smells like gunpowder and old sweat.
I stare up into his wide, dark eyes, and in a momentary lapse of sanity, I stick my tongue out and drag it wetly across the center of his palm.
"Quiet, principessa," he warns, his eyes narrowing as he feels my tongue. "Or they'll hear exactly how much you like this."
I let out a muffled groan against his skin. He starts moving.
It’s frantic, punishing, and completely devoid of anything resembling romance.
He uses me like an anchor to tether himself to reality, his hips snapping forward in brutal, driving thrusts that slam my back against the steel door over and over again.
Bang. Bang. Bang. The rhythmic thud of the door shaking in its frame mixes with the wet slapping of our bodies.
My silk slip bunches up around my waist, totally ruined, serving no purpose other than giving his rough hands something to grip as he plows into me.
"Faster," I beg against his palm, the words hot and muffled.
"I'll give you everything I have left," he grinds out, sweat dripping from his forehead directly onto my collarbone.
I hook my arms tighter around his neck and pull myself up, burying my face into the crook of his shoulder.
I open my mouth and bite down hard on the thick meat of his trapezius muscle, needing the sharp spike of pain to match the insane, building friction between my legs.
I dig my heels directly into the small of his back, locking him as deep inside me as anatomically possible.
"Mark me," I whisper harshly into his skin. "Make sure they know."
"They'll see my name on your skin for weeks."
He pulls his hand away from my mouth and grips my jaw, tilting my head back roughly.
He wants to watch my face shatter. His thrusts shift—shorter, harder, faster.
He’s pounding into my cervix with a relentless accuracy that sends blinding white shocks of pleasure straight up my spine.
A single, hot tear escapes the corner of my eye, tracking slowly through the dirt on my cheek.
"Now, Fiorella," he demands, his voice trembling. "Give it to me now."
"Angelo... Dio..."
I completely shatter around him. My internal muscles clamp down hard, pulsing in a violent, spasming rhythm that drains every ounce of strength from my limbs.
I bury my face back into his neck to muffle my own scream, my entire body convulsing as the tension of the bunker, the fear, and the decade of lies finally snaps.
I lock my fingers into his hair, pulling so hard several strands literally snap loose in my grip.
"Oh god..." I sob out, the orgasm hitting like a physical blow.
"I've got you. I've got you," he chants, his hips still grinding ruthlessly into mine.
Angelo lets out a low, guttural grunt that vibrates completely through my chest. He drives forward one last time, pinning me flat against the door, and his entire body goes rigid as iron.
He spills deep inside me, a hot, heavy flood that makes my toes curl in the air.
He holds me suspended there against the metal, his forehead dropping heavily against mine.
We’re both gasping for oxygen in the dim red light, our chests heaving in sync.
His fingers twitch, slowly uncurling from my jaw, and he brushes them lightly against my sweaty temple. It’s a jarringly soft touch from a man whose hands only know how to break things.
"You’re alive," he breathes, his voice wrecked. "You hear me? You’re alive."
"Because of you."
He doesn't pull out. He stays buried deep inside me, his heavy, muscular frame pressing me into the freezing steel.
I let my head fall against his shoulder, closing my eyes, absolutely drained of everything.
My legs are trembling violently, my muscles screaming from holding myself up around his waist, but I refuse to let go.
"Don't let go," I whisper into the damp skin of his neck.
"Never," he murmurs, his arms tightening around my waist. "I’m never letting them have you back."
My back is freezing against the bunker door.
The concrete floor is still covered in dirt and abandoned tactical gear.
The air filtration system kicks back on with a loud, mechanical hum, blowing stale air directly onto my bare legs.
Nothing is fixed. My brother is still hunting me, and I’m currently attached to a mass murderer in a subterranean hole.
The reality of it hits me flat in the chest, completely devoid of any romantic filter.
I guess I’m an accessory to my own kidnapping now.