“Trust me, sweetheart. I will.”
Then his mouth is on me, and coherent thought becomes impossible.
His tongue finds exactly the right spot. Exactly the right rhythm. I’m gasping within seconds, fingers twisting into his hair, pulling him closer even as some part of me wants to push him away.
I don’t push him away.
I hold on. Let him take me apart. Let the pressure build until I’m shaking, until I’m right there, until?—
He stops.
“Say please.”
Bastard.
“I hate you.”
“Say it anyway.”
“Please.” The word tears out of me. “Please, Raffaele?—”
He rewards me immediately.
I shatter within seconds. The orgasm rips through me, and I hear myself cry out—his name, or something like it—my body arching off the bed, his hands holding my hips in place while he works me through it.
When I come back to myself, he’s watching me with that satisfaction in his eyes, like he just proved something.
I hate how much I don’t hate any of this.
I’m still trembling from the aftershocks when he flips me over.
No warning. No pause. One moment I’m on my back, boneless and spent, and the next I’m on my knees facing the window, his hand pressing between my shoulder blades, pushing me down until my cheek rests against the cool glass.
So much for gentle.
The city sprawls beneath us. A million lights. A million lives. People walking home, hailing cabs, living their ordinary existences with no idea what’s happening forty-five floors above them.
No idea that I’m pressed against the window of a penthouse, naked and willing, about to let a criminal fuck me senseless.
His hand slides up my spine before wrapping around my throat from behind.
Not squeezing. Just holding. A reminder of who’s in charge.
“Look at it.”
Then he’s pushing inside me.
One thrust. Deep. Filling me completely.
I cry out—the sound muffled against the glass—and my hands scrabble for purchase on the smooth surface. There’s nothing to hold onto. Nothing to ground me except his grip on my throat and the relentless pressure of him moving.
He sets a pace that’s nothing like before. No patience now. No teasing. Just raw, driving need.
“Everyone down there.” His voice is rough against my ear. “They have no fucking idea who really runs this city.”
He pulls out. Slams back in. I moan loud enough that I’d be embarrassed if I could think straight.
“Not Vincenzo. Not the Morenos. Not any of those assholes at the gala tonight.”
