He lifts me by the hips — reflexive, powerful.
The motion steals the breath from my lungs. His hands grip my thighs like he already knows my body. He hoists me up without effort, pinning me higher against the wall, heat and strength locking me in place.
A gasp tears out of me.
My legs wrap around him before I can stop myself.
Instinct.Need.Panic.Desire.All tangled together in something I can’t control.
The moment my ankles lock behind his back, Santino inhales sharply—like the contact is a sin he feels all the way in his bones.
“I can’t stay away from you,” he confesses.
His voice breaks on the words. Breaks. And for a split second, the world stutters. This isn’t just lust or adrenaline or fear. This is something deeper. Darker. Something he’s been fighting since the moment I walked into his church.
“You already proved that,” I whisper.
My lips brush his ear as I say it. I feel the shiver rip through him, violent and unguarded, the way his hands tighten on my hips like he’s seconds from losing whatever control he pretended to have.
The night air is thick with the scent of damp stone and something darker—metal, sweat, the musk of violence still clinging to the alley like a second skin. My back hits the brick wall with a rough thud, the cold seeping through the thin fabric of my dress, but I barely register the sting. All I feel is him—Santino, pressed against me, his body a furnace against my skin. His suit is still immaculate, even after the fight, even after the way he moved like a shadow given teeth, tearing through that gang member like he was nothing. Like he was mine to destroy.
His breath is hot against my throat, his lips tracing a path down the curve of my neck, and I shudder—not from fear, but from the way his mouth burns where it touches. A gasp slips out of me, broken and raw, before I can stop it. His teeth graze my pulse point, just enough to make me arch into him, and I hate how my body betrays me. How it wants this. How it’s been starving for it.
“Santino—” His name is a warning, a plea, a surrender all at once. My fingers dig into his back. I should push him away. I should run. But my legs are already locked onto him, my thighs shifting restlessly against his hips. The alley is too narrow, too dark, the only light coming from the sickly yellow glow of a rusted lantern further down the path. It casts his face in sharp angles—his jaw clenched, his dark eyes burning into mine like he’s memorizing the shape of my surrender.
His mouth crashes into mine, and it’s not a kiss—it’s a claim. Violent. Desperate. His lips are firm, demanding, his tongue sweeping in with a growl that vibrates against my teeth. I moan into him, the sound swallowed by the way he devours me, like he’s been starving for this for years. Like he’s been waiting. My back scrapes against the brick as he pins me harder, his hands gripping my hips, fingers digging in until I know there’ll be bruises tomorrow. The thought sends a fresh wave of heat pooling between my thighs.
I kiss him back just as fiercely, my nails raking down the back of his neck, tangling in the short, dark hair at his nape. The salt of his sweat is on my tongue, the taste of him — something his—filling my senses. His facial hair scrapes against my chin, rough and delicious, and I whimper when his teeth sink into my bottom lip, just enough to sting. Just enough to make me ache.
His hands slide up, palms rough through the thin silk of my dress, and when his thumbs brush the sides of my breasts, I jolt, a broken sound tearing from my throat. My nipples are already hard, straining against the fabric, and the way his fingers tease them—flicking, rolling—has my hips jerking forward, seeking friction. Seeking him.
“Fuck,” he growls against my mouth, his voice a dark, hungry thing. His hips rock into mine, and I feel him—hard, thick, the ridge of his cock pressing against my stomach through his slacks. My legs still around his waist on instinct, my dress riding up, the cool air hitting my bare thighs. The skirt bunches at my hips, the fabric straining, and I don’t care if it tears. I don’t care if the whole fucking world sees.
His hands grip my ass, lifting me like I weigh nothing, and I moan as he grinds against me, the friction maddening. The wall digs into my spine, but all I feel is the heat of him, the way his cock throbs against my core, separated by too many layers offabric. My panties are already soaked, the lace clinging to me, and I hate how much I want him to rip them off. To take.
“You’re dripping,” he snarls, his lips trailing down to my ear, his breath hot and filthy. “I can smell you, Pia. Fucking soaked for me.” His teeth graze my earlobe, and I whine, my hips rolling against him, chasing the pressure. “Tell me you want this. Tell me to fuck you right here.”
A shudder wracks my body, my nails digging into his shoulders. I should slap him. I should tell him to go to hell. But the words that come out are a broken, breathless “Yes.”
His growl is feral. Triumphant. One hand tangles in my hair, yanking my head back just enough to expose my throat, and his mouth is on me again, biting, sucking, marking me like he owns me. Like he’s been waiting to do this for years. His other hand slides between us, fingers finding the waistband of my panties, and I gasps as he tears them aside, the lace snapping under his force.
“Santino—!” My protest is cut off by the first rough drag of his fingers through my folds, and oh god—I’m drenched. Slick and hot and aching, my clit throbbing under his touch. He groans, low and dark, as he circles it, his fingers slipping easily through my wetness.
“So fucking wet,” he murmurs, his lips against my jaw. “All for me.” His fingers press deeper, two of them sinking into my pussy without warning, and I cry out, my back arching off the wall. He curls them inside me, stroking, finding that spot that makes my vision white out, and I’m moaning, my nails raking down his back, my thighs trembling around his hand.
“Please—” I don’t even know what I’m begging for. More. Everything. His thumb presses down on my clit, rubbing in tight, relentless circles, and my hips buck against his hand, my body moving on its own, chasing the pleasure coiling tight in my belly.
“You’re gonna come for me,” he orders, his voice rough, his breath hot against my ear. “Right here. Right now. And then I’m gonna fuck this tight little cunt until you scream.”
His words send me spiraling, my body tightening, my breath coming in sharp, broken gasps. His fingers pump into me, his thumb working my clit, and I can feel it—the orgasm building, crashing over me like a wave. My muscles lock, my back bowing, and then I’m coming, my pussy clenching around his fingers, my cry swallowed by his mouth as he kisses me through it, drinking down my moans like he’s starved for them.
I’m still trembling, my body oversensitive, when he pulls his fingers free with a wet, obscene sound. He brings them to his mouth, his dark eyes locked on mine as he sucks them clean, tasting me. “Fuck, you’re sweet,” he growls, his voice thick with hunger. “I could eat this pussy for hours.”
Before I can recover, he lets my legs down, then spins me around, pressing my front against the wall. The brick is cold against my cheek, my palms splayed against the rough surface. His body covers mine, his cock a heavy, insistent pressure against my ass as his hands grip my hips, yanking them back.
“Hands on the wall,” he orders, his voice a dark command. “Don’t move them.”
I obey, my breath coming in sharp pants as I hear the sound of his belt unbuckling, the zipper of his slacks. The rustle of fabric, and then — the hot, thick press of his cock against my ass, the head slipping through my soaked folds, teasing my entrance.
