CHAPTER 15 #2
My restraint just fucking snaps. I can't do this slow burn bullshit anymore.
I grab both of her wrists, my thumbs digging hard into the delicate bones, leaving faint white marks that the water instantly washes over.
I shove her backward. She hits the wet tiles with a thud, and I pin her wrists above her head, crushing my entire body weight against hers.
The water pours over my shoulders, splashing into her face.
"You think this makes us equal?" I ask, my face inches from hers.
"I think it makes us both animals."
I capture her mouth. It’s not a kiss; it’s a collision.
My teeth scrape her bottom lip hard enough to draw blood.
The metallic, copper taste mixes with the adrenaline spiking in my veins.
My free hand slides down her slick, wet flank, gripping her hip with enough bruising force to leave fingerprints by morning.
I tangle my fingers deep into her soaking hair, pulling her head back to expose the long line of her throat to the spray of the shower.
"Say my name," I demand, my mouth trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down her jaw. "Not 'Ferraro.' My name."
"Angelo..." she gasps, her chest heaving against mine.
Hearing my name fall out of her mouth makes the whole revenge plot feel entirely hollow.
The obsession is absolute. Alessio is dead to me right now; there is only her.
Fiorella rips one of her hands out of my grip.
She reaches down between our bodies, her fingers finding my cock, slick and hard under the running water.
She wraps her hand around me, guiding me directly toward her slit.
Her amber eyes are wide, unblinking, staring straight into my oil-slick gaze.
She digs her nails deep into my shoulder to anchor herself.
"Now," she orders, her voice shaking. "Before they find us."
"You're going to be the death of me, puttana."
I grip her thighs and lift her. Her legs wrap instinctively around my waist, locking tight.
I line myself up and enter her in one brutal, deep thrust. The impact knocks the air entirely out of her lungs.
She lets out a choked sound, her head falling back against the tiles.
There is zero gentleness here. The rhythm is fast, desperate, raw friction.
Her heels dig into the small of my back, urging me to push deeper, to split her in half.
"Is this what you wanted?" I grit out, my hips slamming against hers, the soapy water making everything slick and precarious.
"More..." she moans, her voice echoing off the tile. "Bastardo... more."
I lean forward, pressing my forehead against hers.
Our breath mingles in the heavy steam. I’m driving up into her with savage intensity, my hands gripping under her thighs to keep her pinned against the wall.
A drop of water hangs from the tip of my nose, hanging there for a second before it drops right onto her parted lips.
"You're mine," I tell her, the vibration of my voice rumbling deep in my chest. "You hear me? Not his. Mine."
"Then prove it."
She arches her throat, her eyes fluttering shut as the pleasure starts to bottleneck.
She isn't observing anymore; she is matching my violent rhythm, her body a taut, vibrating wire of need. She bites down hard on her own wet shoulder to keep from screaming too loudly. The sound of her teeth clicking, the relentless heat of the water, the total airless enclosure of the stall—it’s driving me feral.
"Don't stop," she begs, her voice breaking.
"I couldn't if I wanted to."
The tempo increases. It’s a frantic, desperate scramble to hit the edge before the bunker door blows open.
My grip on her hips is iron-tight, my knuckles entirely white.
I’m blind to the concrete, blind to the threat outside.
I only feel the tight, wet clenching of her body wrapping around my cock.
I shove her slightly to the side to avoid the direct spray of the showerhead, needing to see her face clearly.
"Look at me when you break," I order.
"I'm... right here..." she stammers, her eyes flying open, glazed and unfocused.
A violent climax rips through her. She shudders, crying out as the internal muscles spasm around me.
She clings to the back of my neck, her short nails dragging down my nape, drawing hot lines of blood.
I follow her over the edge less than a second later.
A guttural groan tears out of my throat as I spill into her, my entire body locking up, rigid as stone.
She buries her face into the crook of my neck, her hot, frantic breath a sharp contrast to the water that’s rapidly starting to cool down.
"Don't let me go," she whispers fiercely.
"Never."
We stay pinned to the wall for several minutes.
The hot water runs out, the pipes spitting lukewarm, then freezing cold spray over our bodies.
I don't move. My head is bowed against her wet shoulder, my chest heaving, fighting to get oxygen back into my lungs.
Slowly, the ticking clock in my head starts up again.
The reality of the scouts, the woods, the kill order—it all crashes back down, a physical ache settling into my bones.
I reach up with a trembling finger and brush a wet strand of dark hair out of her eye.
"We have to go. Now."
"I know."
I let her legs slide down my waist, her bare feet hitting the flooded floor with a wet slap.
I step out of the stall, grabbing a rough, gray towel off the rack.
I turn back and start drying her off. My movements are efficient but completely possessive, like a guy tending to his own fresh wounds.
I run the scratchy towel over her shoulders, down her arms, lingering for a second on the dark bruise blooming along her jawline.
I dry it with a quiet tenderness that shocks the shit out of me.
"Get dressed," I tell her, tossing the towel over her head. "Use the thermal layers."
She pulls the towel down, looking at my hands. "You’re shaking, Angelo."
I ignore it. I’m not shaking from the cold water; I’m shaking from the sheer fucking adrenaline of having her.
We dress in the cramped bathroom, our elbows bumping, brushing past each other.
The fake normalcy from the kitchen is gone.
Every touch now is deliberate. We’re accomplices.
I pull my shirt over my head, and she steps right into my space, reaching out to button the top of my shirt. Her fingers are completely steady now.
"We aren't coming back here, are we?" she asks quietly.
I grab my heavy rig, the cold weight of the plates settling onto my shoulders as I buckle it. "This place is dead. We have to be the ghosts now."
We step back out into the main room. I grab the tactical jacket off the cot and hand it to her, pulling the heavy canvas collar up around her neck.
The Silvestri princess is gone. I look at her in the dim light of the bunker, and all I see is a woman with nothing left to lose but the man standing in front of her.
I reach down and tap the hard handle of my combat knife, a final, mindless gear check.
I walk over to the breaker box on the wall.
"Move fast. Stay low," I tell her.
"I'm right behind you."
I grab the heavy plastic switch and yank it down. The hum of the generator dies instantly. The lights cut out, dropping the bunker into pitch-black nothingness. It’s dark, and it smells like ozone and wet concrete. I grab the handle of the iron door and pull.