I reach for the oil and quickly cover her back and perfect ass. Then I replace said oil with the candle, holding it over her back as I begin to thrust.
The first drop of wax lands between her shoulder blades just as I slam into her, and she shrieks, her pussy clenching around me so tightly it’s almost painful.
“Oh, my… fuck. Yes, yes.” Her arms give out, her face pressing against the table as her ass stays raised for me to use. “More, more, more!”
I establish a brutal rhythm, each thrust pushing her further up the table, each drop of wax making her clench and spasm around my cock. The sight of her like this—covered in my marks, stuffed full of my cock, begging for more—pushes me dangerously close to the edge.
“Touch yourself,” I order, continuing to fuck her while dribbling wax down the curve of her spine. “Make yourself come on my cock.”
One hand snakes beneath her body, finding her clit. I can feel her fingers moving against it, can feel how it makes her inner walls flutter and grip me tighter. Her moans get higher, more desperate with each thrust.
“I’m gonna come,” she warns, voice muffled against the table. “Fuck, I’m gonna come so hard on your cock, Matteo, please don’t stop, please—”
“Look at me,” I growl, and somehow she manages to turn her head, her eyes locking with mine over her shoulder. “I want to see your face when you fall apart.”
The eye contact is what does it. She comes with a scream that echoes off the walls of the empty club, her pussy clamping down on my cock in rhythmic pulses that drag me right over the edge with her.
My own orgasm hits like a fucking explosion, white-hot and all-consuming. I drive into her one last time, as deep as I can go, growling her name as I empty myself inside her. My vision blurs at the edges, pleasure so intense it borders on pain ripping through me.
For endless seconds, there’s nothing but this—her body and mine, joined and pulsing, suspended in perfect ecstasy.
When reality reassembles itself, I find her collapsed on the table, trembling, and gasping for breath. I’m still buried inside her, my weight pressing her down, both of us slick with sweat and her decorated with cooling wax.
“Holy shit,” she manages, voice completely wrecked. “That was… fuck, I don’t even have words.”
I press a kiss to her shoulder, tasting salt and a hint of wax. “Are you okay?”
She laughs, the sound vibrating through both of our bodies. “In the best possible way.” She turns her head, seeking my mouth for a clumsy, exhausted kiss. “Love you, Firestarter.”
“Love you too, Little Thief,” I murmur against her lips.
Eventually, I pull out of Raven’s cunt and help her sit up so she’s facing me. She winces slightly as dried wax cracks and peels from her skin. Her eyes are still glazed, lips swollen from biting them, hair a wild pink mess around her shoulders.
I can’t help but stare at her—this chaotic, beautiful woman who somehow survived both a psychopath’s revenge plot and me. She catches me looking and grins, that familiar mischievous spark returning to her expression despite the obvious exhaustion in every line of her body.
“Take a picture, it’ll last longer,” she teases, picking at a piece of wax stuck to her collarbone.
“Don’t tempt me.” I reach for my phone on the nearby table, and she laughs, swatting at my hand.
“If you take nudes of me covered in dried wax and looking like I just survived a sexorcism, I will actually murder you. Especially if my ass isn’t front and center to make up for it.”
“You look fucking perfect.” I pull her closer, not caring about the wax flakes now sticking to my own skin. “Besides, I’ve already seen what you look like trying to drown me. It’s hot.”
She rolls her eyes, but snuggles into my side, anyway. We sit in comfortable silence for a few minutes, her fingers tracing patterns through the dried wax.
“So,” she finally says, her tone shifting to something more serious. “I talked to Holston today about coming back to work.”
Even though I already knew that, I tense slightly. “Yeah? What did the asshole say?”
“First of all, he’s not an asshole. He’s been really understanding about my family emergency.” She makes air quotes with her fingers. “And second, he’s giving me a promotion.”
This catches me off guard. “A promotion?”
“Assistant Director of Strategic Communications.” She sits up straighter, pride evident in her voice. “More money and more responsibility. I’ll be handling all the major accounts now.”
Something possessive and uncomfortable twists in my gut at the thought of her diving back into work, back into a world where I can’t always be there to watch over her. I know it’s fucking irrational—Salvador Greco is dead, his vendetta buried with him—but the fear lingers.
“That’s good,” I force myself to say, meaning it despite my reservations. “You deserve it.”
