“Touch me. More. I need?—”
I kiss her hard to swallow whatever she was going to say then slide my hand down her stomach to the waistband of her sleep shorts. She lifts her hips to help me, and I pull them down along with her underwear, leaving her completely bare on my kitchen counter.
The sight of her like this, spread out and wanting and mine, makes my control crack even further.
I slide two fingers inside her and she cries out, her head falling back and exposing the long line of her throat. She’s already wet, already ready, and the knowledge that she wants this as badly as I do makes me feel savage.
I work with my hand, curling my fingers to hit that spot that makes her whole body jerk. She’s gasping now, grinding against my hand, chasing the pleasure I’m giving her.
“Look at me,” I command.
Her eyes snap open, blurry and dark with want.
“I want to watch you fall apart.”
I add a third finger and she cries out, her nails digging into my shoulders hard enough to draw blood. I can feel her getting closer, can feel the way her body starts to tense and tremble.
Then I pull back completely.
Her eyes go wide with shock and frustration. “What—no, don’t stop?—”
“You come on my cock or not at all.”
The demand makes her pupils dilate even further. She reaches for my pants with shaking hands, but I catch her wrists and lift them over her head, her breasts arching closer to me.
“No. I do this.”
I free myself from my pants with one hand, the other gripping both her wrists still above her head. For a second we just stare at each other, both breathing hard, both knowing we’re about to cross a line we can’t uncross.
“Last chance,” I say, even though I’m not sure I could actually stop now if she asked.
“Stop giving me chances and just?—”
I enter her in one hard thrust and we both groan at the sensation. The perfect fit. The overwhelming rightness of it hits me hard.
For a second neither of us moves. Just feel. Just exist in this moment where nothing else matters except this connection between us. Then she shifts her hips and that’s all it takes.
I pull back and drive in again, harder this time. She gasps and I guide her arms around my neck, letting her hold on as I set a rhythm that’s claiming and demanding and everything I’ve been holding back for two weeks.
This isn’t gentle. Isn’t sweet or careful or any of the things it probably should be.
This is six years of frustration and longing and rage pouring out in the most primal way possible. This is marking her as mine. This is making sure she understands exactly who she belongs to now.
She meets me thrust for thrust, her nails raking down my back hard enough to draw blood. The slight pain only drives me harder, makes me want to push her further.
I grab her hips and adjust the angle, going deeper, and she screams my name.
“Shh,” I murmur against her ear. “You’ll wake our son.”
The reminder of Luca sleeping upstairs should probably make us stop. Should make us think about what we’re doing.
Instead it just makes me more possessive. More determined to claim every part of her.
“Mine,” I growl against her neck. “Say it.”
“Yours,” she gasps out. “God, Dante, I’m yours.”
Hearing those words in her voice pushes me right to the edge.
