ALESSIO
Four days later….
The ugly vase by the couch is still there.
Evidence that Beccs took my ultimatum last night to heart and moved the last of her things in.
I told her it's either her packing up the last of her shit, or me.
We compromised—I've been doing that a lot lately with her—and went to her apartment yesterday.
I still can't believe she lived in that shithole.
I'm convinced the vase is her little passive-aggressive way of getting a point across.
Either way, it's an eyesore if I've ever seen one.
The thing looks like somebody lost a fight with a pottery wheel and decided to display the evidence.
I give it another week. Maybe two. Then it's going to suffer an unfortunate accident. A tragic collision with gravity. Possibly multiple times.
Behind me, drawers slide open and shut. Beccs is unpacking. Or what passes for unpacking when ninety percent of her stuff has already migrated into my penthouse over the last days.
A shirt here. A pair of shoes there. Hair products multiplying in my bathroom like rabbits. A coffee mug magically appearing in my kitchen—Viva Las Vegas—of all things. Then another. Then somehow half my closet belongs to her.
Now she's opening the last box from her apartment in our bedroom.
There simply wasn't another option. Not while El Recaudador is still breathing.
Who has been strangely quiet. At least with me.
Most of his attention seems focused on Gabe and Damiano lately.
Which is fine. The less attention on Beccs, the better.
Not that I'm taking chances. She still has Olivere attached to her whenever I'm not around. The giant Frenchman has become her personal shadow. She complains about it daily. Olivere ignores her daily. A system that seems to be working for everyone involved.
Mostly.
A drawer slams. I glance toward the bedroom. No sign of her. Perfect. I grab her phone from the kitchen island. The little menace has left it unattended.
Again.
Amateur mistake.
My thumb slides across the screen. Her passcode is better now. Still not good enough. I open my contact information. And immediately scowl.
Definitely Not Your Boyfriend
I knew she'd changed it again. I just hadn't realized she'd escalated. The halo emoji is an act of war. I stare at it. Then change it. Definitely Your Boyfriend
Much better. Accurate. Screw that fake relationship bullshit. That wasn't true in the beginning, and it's definitely not true now. Then I pull out my own phone.
Grease Monkey is gone.
Again.
This time she's changed herself to: Panty Distributor
I pinch the bridge of my nose. Jesus Christ. The woman is thirty percent chaos and seventy percent bad ideas. I change it back. Grease Monkey.
As God intended.
She returns to the kitchen just as I set her phone down, looking perfectly innocent. I lean back against the island like I've been there the whole time. Her arm snakes around my waist as she steals a piece of bacon straight off my plate without asking.
"Stop stealing my bacon," I growl, but there's no real heat in it.
"You stole my panties," she fires back, popping the stolen strip into her mouth with a wicked little smirk.
"Those are unrelated crimes."
"According to whom?”
"The Geneva Convention."
She laughs, bright and sharp, and the sound does dangerous things to my chest. God, I love having her around.
Especially like this, wearing nothing but one of my shirts, the hem reaching down to the middle of her thighs.
Her hair is still messy from sleep, and she has that thoroughly fucked look about her that makes me want to do it again.
Do her again. Most of all, I love how completely at home she is in my space.
She has a serious panty problem, though. Not that I mind. I've collected quite a few of them.
I grab her by the waist and pull her onto my lap, her thighs straddling me. She lets out a surprised little gasp that turns into a moan when I kiss her senseless, tongue sliding deep, claiming every inch of her mouth like I own it. Because I do.
"Fuck, I love you in my shirt," I growl against her lips, my hands sliding up her bare thighs under the fabric. "Nothing underneath. Just how I like you."
She rocks against me. "You're insatiable."
"Only for you, mia piccola diavoletta."
I shove the shirt up to her waist and slide two thick fingers through her slick folds, teasing her swollen clit before pushing them deep inside her without warning. Beccs gasps sharply as her head falls back, exposing the elegant line of her throat.
I watch her face like it's the only thing in the world, the way her lips part on a silent cry, the flutter of her lashes, the flush that spreads across her cheeks and down her chest as I curl my fingers and stroke that perfect spot inside her.
"Look at you," I rasp, pumping my fingers slow and deep, savoring every wet, filthy sound. "So fucking pretty when you're taking my fingers. Your pussy's dripping down my hand, baby. You love this, don't you?"
"Yes…" she whimpers, hips rolling greedily against my hand, chasing every thrust.
I add a third finger, stretching her wider, fucking her with them while my thumb circles her clit in tight, relentless strokes. Her breathing turns ragged. I can't look away from her face, the desperate little sounds she makes, the way her brows pull together right before she breaks.
"Come for me," I demand. "Let me watch you fall apart on my fingers like a good girl."
She shatters with a broken cry, her walls clamp down hard around my fingers, pulsing and fluttering.
Her face—flushed, eyes half-lidded, lips parted on a silent scream—is the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.
I keep stroking her through it, drawing it out until she's trembling and whimpering, thighs shaking around my wrist.
Only then do I pull my fingers out, bring them to my mouth, and lick them clean while she watches with dark, lust-drunk eyes.
"Delicious," I growl.
I loosen my sweatpants and grip her hips, line my cock up, and pull her down hard onto me in one smooth thrust, burying myself to the hilt inside her tight, pulsing heat.
"Ride me," I rasp. "Take every inch of this cock, Beccs. Show me how much you need it."
She braces her hands on my chest and starts moving, still in the throes of the aftermath of her climax.
Her eyes are still hazed, and she begins moving slowly and deeply at first, grinding down on me, then faster, as she finds the rhythm and as her own body calls for another orgasm.
She rolls her hips in that perfect, filthy rhythm that drives me insane.
Her tits bounce under my shirt with every movement, hard nipples pressing against the material, begging.
I rip the shirt off her completely, tossing it aside so I can see all of her.
"That's it, baby," I groan, gripping her ass hard, guiding her faster. "Fuck yourself on me. This tight little pussy was made for my cock. Feel how deep I am? How full you are of me?"
She moans my name like a prayer, riding me harder. I thrust up to meet her, slamming into her. The wet slap of skin on skin is filling the kitchen obscenely, the best kind of music to my ears. Fuck.
Her breasts are perfect, full, heavy, and high, bouncing with every roll of her hips.
The soft, pale skin flushes pink with arousal, her dark nipples tight and begging for attention.
They're more than a handful, soft and firm at the same time, swaying hypnotically as she rides me.
The sight makes my mouth water and my cock throbs inside her.
I reach up and grab them roughly, filling my hands with her soft flesh, kneading them hard enough to leave marks. I squeeze and mold them, my thumbs brush over her stiff nipples before I pinch and roll them between my fingers.
"These perfect fucking tits," I growl, in a voice rough with raw hunger. "Look at them bouncing for me while you ride my cock. So full. So soft. Made for my hands. Made for my mouth."
Beccs whimpers, arching her back to push them harder into my palms. I lean forward and suck one aching nipple into my mouth, biting down just enough to make her cry out, then soothing it with my tongue while I continue kneading the other breast.
"Mine," I rasp against her wet skin, sucking harder. "These tits are mine. Every inch of you is mine."
I switch to the other nipple, biting and licking while my hands keep groping and squeezing her breasts, feeling their perfect weight, their warmth, the way they fill my palms so beautifully.
She clenches around my cock, riding me faster, as her moans turn into desperate cries.
"That's it," I growl, thrusting up harder. "Ride me while I play with what's mine. You love it when I use these pretty tits, don't you? My greedy girl."
I pinch both nipples at the same time, rolling them firmly between my fingers as I slam up into her. Her walls flutter wildly around me.
"Come again," I demand viciously. "Come all over my cock while I play with your nipples. Let me feel you milk me, Beccs."
She shatters with a broken scream of my name, and her pussy clamps down like a vise as she comes hard. The sight of her tits bouncing while she falls apart pushes me over the edge. I bury myself deep and come with a guttural groan, filling her in thick, hot pulses, marking her from the inside.
We stay locked together, breathing hard, our foreheads pressed together, then I kiss her slow and deep, tasting her, claiming her all over again.
This woman is going to be the death of me. And I've never been happier about it.
We barely have time to shower and get dressed before her phone starts vibrating across her vanity.
"It's Charly," she reads his name off the screen.
"Take it."
I don't even pretend I'm not listening. At this point, she'd probably be more suspicious if I wasn't. I still haven't met the guy. Which is probably for the best. Valentina's background check convinced me he's clean, but that doesn't mean I have to like him.