His hands move to the button of my jeans. He rips them open and pulls the denim down my hips, dragging my soaked panties with them. I kick the clothes away. I stand naked in front of him, shivering from the cold, but burning from the fire he lit inside my blood.
He looks at my pussy. The slickness of my arousal coats my thighs, gleaming in the dull yellow backup glow.
"Soaked," he murmurs, his voice dropping an octave. "All for me."
"Only for you."
He leans forward. He presses his mouth directly against my wetness.
A high, broken sound escapes me. His tongue parts my swollen lips and finds my clit with unerring, devastating accuracy. He does not hesitate. He does not ask. He just takes. He laps at my slickness, drinking me in like I am the only sustenance he will ever need. His hands grip the backs of my thighs, holding me in place, forcing my legs wider.
I writhe against his mouth. The sensory overload is staggering. The rough scrape of his stubble against my sensitive inner thighs. The wet, hot slide of his tongue over my clit. The cold air of the vault biting my skin. The scent of ozone and copper mixing with my own musky arousal.
He sucks my clit into his mouth and applies steady, rhythmic suction. His tongue lashes against the sensitive nub. Two of his fingers slide up and push inside my drenched pussy.
I scream his name. The sound ricochets off the metal server racks. He thrusts his fingers deep into my walls, stretching me, mimicking the rhythm of his mouth. My body bows like a taut bowstring. I am on the edge again. The climax he gave me earlier was just a tremor. This is a full tectonic shift.
"Come for me, Imani," he orders against my slick flesh. "Let me have it."
I obey him. The orgasm hits me like a downed power line, all white heat and no warning. My walls clench violently around his thrusting fingers. My hips jerk forward, grinding my clit against his mouth. He takes every drop of my release, swallowing my moans, riding out the violent spasms wracking my body.
When my legs finally give out, he catches me. He stands up smoothly, hauling me into his arms. He carries me two stepsand lays me down on top of his discarded tactical jacket on the concrete floor. The ballistic nylon is rough, but it protects my bare skin from the freezing stone.
He stands over me. He looks down at my flushed, exposed body. The possessive obsession in his eyes is terrifying and beautiful.
"My turn," I say, my voice shredded.
He reaches for his belt. He rips it open. He drops to one knee, unlaces his combat boots in two sharp pulls, kicks them aside, then shoves the heavy fabric of his tactical pants and his boxer briefs down his muscular thighs.
My breath stalls in my throat. He is huge. His cock is thick and rigid, jutting straight out from his body, pulsing with the erratic thrum of his heartbeat. Veins map the rigid length of it. A bead of clear precum glistens at the blunt head. He is fully, painfully aroused. The sight of him makes my mouth go dry.
He drops to his knees between my spread legs. He crawls over me, one scarred hand fisting the tactical jacket beside my head, the other spanning my ribs. His broad chest hovers inches above mine. The gold cross pendant hanging from his chain brushes against my breastbone.
"I have wanted this for eight years," he says, his voice a low rasp. "Not the act. The being able to stand it. I didn't know it would be you. But it was always going to be you."
He reaches down and grips his thick cock. He guides the blunt, slick head to my opening. He rubs the slickness of his precum against my swollen clit, making me gasp and arch my hips. I want him inside me. I want the agonizing emptiness filled.
"Give it to me," I demand, digging my nails into his back.
He pushes forward. The head of his cock breaches my entrance. So thick I whimper as he stretches me open. My wallsare drenched, primed and ready, but his sheer size demands a slow, agonizing entry.
He groans, a deep, rumbling sound that vibrates in his chest. His eyes squeeze shut. The muscles in his neck bunch tight. He pushes deeper, sinking into my tight, wet heat. Inch by agonizing inch, he fills me. My body stretches to accommodate his massive girth. The sensation is overwhelming. The shape of him registers, the hard, rigid length of his arousal claiming every inch of me from the inside.
His hips drive forward, burying himself to the absolute hilt. Our bodies meet flush, the contact punching the breath out of me.
Then he freezes, staying buried inside me, his hand braced flat to the tactical jacket beside my head, palm anchored against the ballistic nylon. He is breathing hard, taking shallow, ragged pulls of air.
"Cazzo," he breathes out. "Imani. You feel so fucking good. So tight."
"Move," I whisper, wrapping my legs around his waist, locking my ankles behind his lower back to trap him where I want him.
He pulls back. The friction of his thick cock sliding against my sensitive walls sends a shockwave of raw pleasure through my system. Then he thrusts forward, slamming back to the hilt.
A sharp cry leaves my lips. He sets a brutal, unrelenting pace. He does not make love. He claims. He brands. He drives into me with the desperation of a man marking his territory. Every thrust is a declaration. Every slam of his hips is a promise. It feels like he is binding me to him for good, in the dark, freezing bowels of a mafia vault.
"Mine," he snarls with every thrust. "My woman. My signal."
"Yes," I sob, tossing my head back against the tactical jacket.
