I drag my eyes from the slope of her shoulders down to the swell of her bare breasts. Already free. Already mine. The dark pink nipples are tightly beaded, straining against the cool air of the War Room.
I groan, a low, animal sound from deep in my chest. I drop my head. My mouth opens over her right tit. I take the entire peak into my mouth. I suck hard.
Imani cries out. Her spine arches backward over the mahogany table. Her hands fist in my short dark hair, nails scraping my scalp. I drag my teeth lightly over the sensitive nub, grazing the nerve endings before soothing the sting with a wet swirl of my tongue.
The taste of her skin is an addiction. It is salt and honey and warm musk. I move to the other breast, giving it the same ruthless attention. I suck, bite, and lick, pulling whimpers from her throat that ring louder than the hum of the servers.
My hands slide down her sides, tracing the inward curve of her waist before gripping the flaring width of her hips. I squeeze hard, leaving the imprint of my fingers on her flesh. I want to mark her, to bruise her, to leave undeniable evidence on her body that she is irrevocably claimed by Vincenzo Costa.
I pull back just enough to look at her. Her lips are swollen and wet from my kiss. Her eyes are heavy with lust. Her chest heaves.
"The button," I command.
Imani's hands drop to the waistband of her jeans. Her fingers tremble, but she does not hesitate. She pops the metal button. She slides the zipper down.
I grab the denim at her hips and pull the jeans down, taking her black panties with them. I kick the pile of fabric away.
She is naked, sitting on the edge of the tactical table in the center of the Costa family's most secure room. Dozens of screens display the active war outside these walls. Live feeds of the perimeter guards. Satellite imagery of the South Side docks. Data streams of Bellanti communications. The world is burning, and none of it reaches me. The only thing that matters is the woman spread open in front of me.
I step between her thighs. I push her knees wide apart, opening her up to my gaze.
Her pussy is beautiful. Plump, pink lips glistening with her own slick. The scent of her arousal hits my nose, a dark musk that short-circuits my brain. She is dripping wet. A clear drop of slick gathers at the bottom of her slit, catching the blue light of a monitor before falling onto the polished mahogany wood.
I drop to my knees.
The hard concrete floor bites into my kneecaps. I grip the backs of her thighs, pulling her to the edge of the table until her pussy lines up with my mouth.
"Vincenzo," she gasps, her fingers digging into my shoulders.
The warning in her tone is ignored. I lean forward. I press my face into her wetness.
My tongue drags up the center of her slit. The taste of her explodes across my senses. She tastes like pure, unfiltered sin. Tangy, dark, and intoxicating. I lap at her slick, drinking her in like a man dying of thirst. My tongue parts her lips, finding the tight, sensitive clit tucked at the top.
I latch my lips around the sensitive bundle of nerves and suck.
Imani screams. Her hands grip my hair, pulling fiercely. Her thighs clamp down on my head, trapping me against her core. I do not fight her hold. I welcome it. I use the leverage to press my face deeper into her crotch. I flick my tongue rapidly over her clit, creating a relentless, localized friction.
She thrashes on the table. The mahogany groans under her shifting weight. Her heels kick out, scraping against the metal legs of the table. "God, please. Please."
I slide two fingers into her slick heat. Her walls are incredibly tight, clenching around me. I push deep, knuckle-deep, stretching her open from the inside while my mouth continues its ruthless assault on the outside.
I curl my fingers upward, finding the swollen ridge of flesh inside her. I pump my fingers in and out in a rapid, brutal rhythm.
She breaks apart around me.
Her body bows off the table. A ragged, tearing scream rips from her throat. Her inner walls spasm violently around my fingers, clamping down on me as her orgasm crashes through her. Her thighs tremble without control. Copious amounts of sweet, warm slick flood over my knuckles, running down my hand and dripping onto the floor.
I keep sucking. I keep pumping. I ride out her entire climax, forcing her to endure every agonizing second of pleasure. Whenshe finally collapses back onto the wood, her chest heaving and her eyes glazed, I slowly pull my fingers out. I drag my tongue over her lips one last time, savoring the last of her release.
I stand up.
The fabric over my groin has become unbearable. My cock is a throbbing, aching rod of steel. I rip my belt open and shove everything down in one impatient motion. I shove my tactical pants and boxers down just enough to free myself. The gold watch at my wrist and the cross pendant at my throat stay. Those don't come off for anything.
I am fully erect, the head already weeping clear precum. The cool air of the War Room hits my heated flesh, but it does nothing to cool the raging inferno in my blood.
My hands grab Imani by the hips and drag her fully to the edge of the table. I step between her legs. The tip of my cock brushes against her slick, swollen folds. The brief contact sends a jolt of electricity straight up my spine.
I lock my hands on her hips, my thumbs digging hard into her hip bones. I lean down, pressing my lips directly against her ear.
