Her lips part on a surprised gasp. I plunge my tongue into her mouth. Tasting her. Claiming her. She tastes like adrenaline and sugar.
She stiffens for a split second before her hands slide up from my chest to wrap around my neck. Her fingers tangle in my short, dark hair. She pulls me closer. The resistance shatters. She kisses me back with the same desperate, furious energy.
The kiss is a brutal exchange of territory, my teeth grazing her lip before my tongue forces its way inside. I angle my head, deepening the invasion. I want to devour her. I want to crawl inside her skin and stay there.
I press my body flush against hers. The solid wall of my chest against the soft, yielding curves of her breasts.
My wide build traps her against the vintage, peeling wallpaper. My watch catches the moonlight, pressing cold metal against her warm neck as I frame her jaw with one hand.
My need surges, trapped against the denim. I press it directly into the soft notch between her thighs.
She whimpers into my mouth. The sound is a drug. I need more.
I grind my hips forward. The friction of denim against the thin cotton of my shirt, against the black lace beneath.
"Dante," she moans against my lips.
"Say it again." I tear my mouth away from hers and drag my teeth down the column of her neck. The skin is hot. Tastes like salt and cumin. "Say my name."
"Dante." Her back arches. She presses her hips back into mine. Seeking the friction. Demanding it.
My control snaps. The professional distance is gone. There is only the need.
I drop my hands to her thighs. Luscious curves. I grip the backs of her legs and lift.
She wraps her legs around my waist instinctively. The oversized shirt bunches up around her waist, exposing her lower half. The tiny scrap of black lace.
I groan, a guttural sound that vibrates in my chest. The visual of her exposed, wrapped around me in this decaying, abandoned hotel. The contrast of her vibrant, living heat against the rotting velvet and dust.
I slam her back against the wall. Hard enough to rattle the cracked mirror.
"Mine," I snarl.
I press my hardened cock directly against her wetness through the layers of our clothes. The pressure is shattering. I rotate my hips, grinding the ridge of my arousal against her swollen folds.
She cries out. Her fingernails bite into my shoulders.
"Please," she gasps, her head falling back against the wall. Exposing the long, elegant line of her throat.
I attack it. Sucking, biting, laving the skin. Marking her. Leaving bruises that will tell the world she belongs to a Costa.
The slide of her wet silk against my denim is a blazing inferno. I thrust my hips forward, dragging my denim-clad cock against the wet heat of her pussy. The dampness seeps through the lace, soaking into my jeans.
She’s drenched, her pussy creaming as it prepares for the intrusion of my weight.
The scent of her arousal mixes with the sweet orange and cumin. It drives the urge inside me into a fever.
I reach down between our bodies. My large, calloused hand covers her sex. The heat radiates through the thin fabric of her panties.
I press the heel of my palm against her clit. Firm, relentless pressure.
She bucks against my hand. A ragged scream tears from her throat.
"Shh," I say against her lips, swallowing her cries. "Let me take care of you. Let me."
I rub my palm in tight circles over the sensitive nub. Grinding the fabric against her swollen flesh.
She is a mess of trembling limbs and desperate whimpers. Her legs tighten around my waist, locking me in place. Her heels dig into the small of my back.
