My tongue traces a hot, wet path up her thigh. She tastes like sweet musk and sheer desire. Her wetness is an intoxicatingperfume. The scent drives me insane. I reach up, my large thumbs parting her slick folds.
She is dripping for me. Glistening in the dim light. Ready.
I drop my mouth over her clit.
Gemma screams. The sound tears through the silent compound suite. It echoes off the reinforced walls. I swallow the scream, sucking the swollen, sensitive flesh into my mouth. I swirl my tongue over the tight bud, applying a brutal, unrelenting suction.
Her hips buck off the mattress. She tries to writhe away from the intense pleasure.
I clamp my hands down on her thighs, pinning her in place. She cannot escape. I will not let her run from this. I will give her everything.
I flick my tongue rapidly, mercilessly working her clit. Her hands twist into the expensive compound sheets, gripping the fabric in her fists. Her chest heaves. Her gorgeous tits bounce with every frantic movement of her hips.
"Dante! Please!" she begs.
"Take it," I command, my voice a dark, rough vibration against her wetness.
I slide two fingers inside her slick pussy.
The heat is staggering. The tightness is perfection. Her wetness coats my knuckles, acting as a slick, natural lube as I pump my fingers in and out of her tight walls. She clenches violently around the intrusion.
I match the thrust of my fingers to the relentless lashing of my tongue.
Gemma thrashes. Her head whips side to side on the pillows. Her breathing is a series of broken, desperate sobs. The food truck owner from the South Side, the woman who stared down a Bellanti drive-by, is at my mercy. I am unraveling her.
"I'm close," she cries out, her nails digging into my scarred shoulders. "Dante, I can't?—"
"Spill for me."
I bite down lightly on the hood of her clit while burying my fingers to the hilt.
Gemma shatters.
Her body bows off the bed, a beautiful, violent arc of pure release. Her vaginal walls spasm around my fingers, clenching with terrifying force. Hot slick gushes over my hand. She screams my name, a broken, beautiful sound that brands my soul permanently.
I stay exactly where I am, riding out the aftershocks of her climax. I swallow every drop of her sweet release. I lap up the slick coating her thighs, cleaning her.
When her hips finally drop back to the mattress, she is a panting, shivering mess.
I drag my frame back up her body. The friction of my chest hair against her sensitive skin draws another ragged moan from her lips. I settle my weight over her, covering her.
My own arousal is a brutal, agonizing ache. The front of my jeans is a torture chamber. My cock is an angry rod of steel, begging to be buried inside her.
Gemma opens her eyes. They are dazed, swimming with heat.
Her hands slide down my chest, bypassing the scarred tissue, heading straight for my waistband. She fumbles with the metal button of my denim.
"My turn," she whispers, a tiny spark of her trademark sass returning.
"No." I capture her wrists in one hand, pinning them above her head. "You don't get to work tonight. You just take."
With my free hand, I rip the button open. I shove the denim and my boxers down my thighs, kicking them off the bed in one violent motion.
My cock springs free, violently fully erect. A bead of precum glistens at the blunt tip. The cool air of the suite hits the heated skin, making the veins throb. I am naked. The monster is fully exposed.
I settle between her thighs again. The head of my cock rests right at the slick opening of her pussy.
Gemma stares up at me. Her chest rises and falls rapidly. The sassy bravado is stripped away. Her gaze tracks over the raw, unhinged obsession in my expression, taking in the feral protector who slaughtered four men in a dark hotel hallway, currently begging for entry into her body.
