Chapter 45
Lucio
T he second I hang up the phone, I see red. I fucking told her. No contact. No trying to reach me. No doing stupid, reckless shit that would get her caught.
And what does she do? She calls me.
She just made herself a moving fucking target.
I shove my gun into my waistband, my mind already calculating the best way to move without getting followed.
They’re already watching me. Waiting for me to make a mistake.
I grab my phone, set it on the counter, and leave it there. Let them track it. Let them think I’m still in New York, pacing in my fucking apartment, trying to figure out what to do.
By the time they realize I’m gone, I’ll already have her.
The drive to New Hampshire is long—too long—and every fucking mile only makes my anger sharper.
By the time I pull up to the house, I’m pissed. I step out, slam the door behind me, and stalk up to the front entrance. I push inside without knocking, because I don’t need permission.
She’s standing in the middle of the living room. Waiting for me. Her eyes widen slightly, but she doesn’t look surprised. She knew I was coming. She fucking knew I’d drop everything to come get her.
And that only makes the fury boiling in my blood burn hotter.
“What the fuck were you thinking?” I demand, my voice low, sharp.
She crosses her arms, defiant, but I see the way her fingers tremble. “I needed to talk to you.”
“So you thought using a phone that wasn’t yours was a good idea? Do you have any idea who could’ve been tracking it?”
She glares. “I’ve been locked in this house for days, Lucio. No answers, no nothing. You left me here.”
“To keep you safe!” I snap, stepping closer.
She doesn’t back down.
“Safe?” Her voice cracks. “You mean forgotten.”
Something inside me twists, ugly and painful. I should’ve come sooner. I should’ve?—
No. She doesn’t get to make me feel guilty for this. Not when she’s the reason everything went to hell in the first place.
I step closer, close enough that she has to tilt her head to look at me. “You don’t get to pull that shit, Princess. You put yourself into this mess. You’re the reason my family is hunting you.”
Her jaw tightens, her lips parting like she wants to argue, but nothing comes out. Because she knows I’m right. She lied. She broke my trust. And I still came for her.
My hands twitch at my sides, the frustration clawing at me, the tension between us crackling like a live wire.
I shouldn’t want her. I shouldn’t still need her this fucking badly. But I do. Like a fucking drug I can’t quit.
I reach out, grip her chin between my fingers, tilting her face up to mine. “You made your choice. Now you’re dealing with the fucking consequences.”
Her breath catches, and she looks at me with so much anger, so much hurt, so much fucking fire that it makes me lose it.
I crash my mouth against hers. She gasps, her body tensing before she gives in, melting against me, her hands grabbing at my shirt.
I bite her lip; she moans. As I press her back against the wall, my hands slide under her shirt, the heat of her skin seeping into my palms, and I feel the way she trembles under my touch. She tries to speak, but I don’t let her.
I don’t want words. I want her.
I tear her shirt over her head like it’s offended me—fabric ripping down the seams, baring her flushed skin and lace-covered tits.
My breath is already ragged, and I haven’t even tasted her yet.
I grab her by the thighs, fingers digging in hard, and lift her up like she weighs nothing.
She gasps, clutching my shoulders, eyes wide and pupils blown.
Her legs wrap around me instinctively—needy, desperate.
The soft press of her heat against my abdomen punches a low growl from my chest. I grind up into her, teasing the damp heat between her thighs, dragging slow friction against her center.
Her body arches, her breath stutters, and the tremble in her thighs is like a live wire sparking between us.
“Already soaked for me?” I murmur, dragging my mouth down her throat over the frantic flutter of her pulse. “I haven’t even touched you yet.”
I press her against the wall again, pinning her there with my body, and reach between us.
I push the flimsy fabric of her panties aside—she’s dripping.
Her folds are glossy, swollen, the pink flushed and needy.
I slide two fingers through her slit, not inside yet, just stroking the slick mess she’s already made for me.
She bucks. I press harder, circling her clit with my thumb, slow and firm, until her legs twitch around my waist.
“Fuck,” she breathes. “Please?—”
“Oh, now you beg?” I thrust two fingers inside her.
Her cunt grips me instantly, walls fluttering around my knuckles like her body’s trying to drag me deeper.
She throws her head back and moans—raw and obscene—and I feel that sound in my spine.
I pump my fingers in and out, knuckle-deep, slow at first, letting her feel the stretch, the slick slide of her own arousal coating her thighs.
She’s fucking drenched. It drips onto my palm, strings between her folds and my skin when I pull back just to slam them in again.
“God—fuck, that?—”
“Listen to yourself,” I whisper, curling my fingers up.
I find that spot inside her, the one that makes her body lock up and twitch. I grind my palm against her clit as I fuck her with my fingers, working her open, stretching her wide.
She writhes, moaning helplessly, hips bucking into my hand.
“I want you to come on my fingers,” I tell her. “I want to feel you squeeze them when you break.”
Her cunt spasms at that. Fucking clenches around me like it’s trying to drag me in to the wrist. She’s close—so close she can’t speak. Her head lolls, mouth open, thighs trembling.
“Come for me,” I growl against her ear, thrusting harder, deeper. “Let me feel how wet you can really get.”
And she does. Her whole-body jolts—hips bucking, cunt clenching down so tight on my fingers I groan. Her moan rips free from her throat like it hurts to hold it back. She breaks open on my hand, thighs shaking, pussy leaking all over my palm and wrist, soaking me.
I don’t stop. I fuck her through it, dragging every last twitch from her body, until she whimpers and gasps and collapses against the wall, boneless.
And then I drop to my knees.
Her legs are still shaking when I pull them over my shoulders, spreading her open. I tear the ruined panties off completely, shredded lace fluttering to the floor like ash.
Her cunt is right there. Wet. Red. Gleaming.
Mine.
I don’t tease. I dive in. My tongue drags up through her folds, slow and greedy, collecting everything she gave me.
I lick her like I’m starving, like her pussy is the only thing that will ever satisfy me.
I flatten my tongue and lap at her clit, then circle it, then flick it hard and fast until she jolts.
Her fingers claw at my scalp, pulling me in closer, riding my face.
She’s moaning again—loud, wanton, broken.
I wrap my arms under her thighs and pull her tighter against my mouth, tongue fucking into her, tasting the sweetness and salt, the tang of her orgasm still coating her. I thrust my tongue deep, then switch to sucking her clit—hard enough to make her scream.
“Fuck, fuck, I’m—” Her voice shatters.
I slide two fingers back into her, curling them perfectly as I suck her clit like I’m trying to pull her soul out through it. Her walls pulse around me. Her hips jerk up, grinding against my face, and I let her. I let her use me.
She comes again. Harder this time. Her thighs clamp around my head, her back arches off the wall, her cunt gushes—slick and hot, soaking my chin, my tongue, my fingers still buried inside her. She sobs my name as she unravels, as she spasms, as her body goes limp in my hands.
I kiss her cunt one last time, slow and reverent, like a fucking benediction, then drag my tongue up her slit and suck gently on her clit until her whole body trembles like aftershocks.
Then I rise. Her eyes are glazed, her lips parted, cheeks wet with tears she doesn’t even know she’s shed.
She looks ruined. Holy. Possessed.
I press my mouth to hers and let her taste herself on my tongue.
“You’re not done,” I whisper against her lips, unbuckling my belt. “I haven’t even started.”
I spin her around and bend her over the back of the couch. Her ass curves up, perfect and red from my grip. Her cunt’s still twitching, dripping down her thighs. She spreads for me without being told, head low, ass high, ready to take whatever I give.
I line up and press the head of my cock to her entrance.
She shudders. “Do it.”
“You don’t want sweet?”
“No.” Her voice breaks. “I want you.”
I thrust in with one brutal stroke. She screams—half pain, half relief. The piercing drags through her like a live wire, scraping that spot that makes her legs buckle. I grip her hips hard, hold her steady, and slam into her again.
“You feel that?” I grunt, fucking her deep and fast. “Feel how the metal makes it worse? Makes it better?”
She can’t even speak. Just nods, moaning—each thrust punching another sound from her throat. The living room fills with the slap of skin, her wetness, the brutal rhythm of it.
“I fucking hate you,” she sobs.
I slam into her harder.
“I love you,” I growl. “That’s the worst part.”
She sobs again—and I feel her clench. So tight. So close.
But I don’t let her come. I grip her hair and pull her back until her spine arches. Her mouth falls open.
“You don’t get to come,” I hiss into her ear, my cock driving deeper, grinding the piercing against her sweet spot with every thrust. “Not until you say it.”
She fights it. I feel her body rebel—hips trying to jerk, walls spasming—but she holds it, barely.
I spank her. Once. Twice. Her whole body jolts.
“Say it.”
“I love you,” she chokes.
I fuck her harder.
“I fucking love you.”
Then I let go. “Now.”