In one brutal, inevitable motion, his hands frame my face as though he needs to be sure I’m real, and his mouth crashes into mine.
The kiss is even less gentle than before. It is hunger and fear and possession all tangled together, a vow spoken in the only language he trusts.
I make a sound I don’t recognise.
His breathing stutters. “Say it,” he growls against my lips. “Say you’re here.”
“I’m here,” I whisper.
“And you’re not running.”
“I can’t,” I admit, the truth ripping out of me. “Not anymore.”
Something in his expression fractures. Relief and rage and devotion so sharp it hurts.
His hands slide down my body like he’s memorising, like he’s afraid if he doesn’t touch every inch he’ll lose me again.
And then he notches his broad head at my entrance and the world narrows to sensation, to heat, to the unbearable rightness of finally crossing the line we’ve been circling for months.
Giovanni’s control is a thin veneer now, stretched over something primal.
“You’re mine,” he rasps, voice shaking with it. “From your pretty head to the tips of your fucking toes. No one else will ever have you, Lucia. Accept this. So we can live in harmony.”
Yesterday’s me would’ve argued. Fought and challenged such blatant possession and declaration of ownership.
But the me of today, watching the savage need in his eyes destroy the words before they form? I swallow, overwhelmed by the gruffness of him, by the rabid, reverent way he looks at me like I am both his sin and his salvation.
Then he stops waiting for permission.
“It’s going to hurt, baby. And you’re going to scream for me. Scream your pain and your pleasure so it echoes in my mind for all my life.”
“Yes. Yes.Yes?—”
I’m barely done with the last yes before he surges inside me.
I scream because yes, it hurts. And yes, I’ve waited what feels like a lifetime for this.
No way his men missed that. But I don’t care.
And apparently neither does he, because he’s pulling out slowly, his eyes riveted to the place we’re connected.
And then I see what’s got his entire focus.
The traces of blood on his cock.
Virgin blood.
My primitive, possessive husband’s chest heaves and his eyes are so dark I can barely make out the pupils.
I swallow, overcome by the moment, by the gruffness in his tone. By the wild, rabid look in his eyes.
Then, apparently done teasing and tormenting, he slams back into me.
He’s not giving me mercy and I want none.
He’s just proven to me how savage he is about protecting what’s important to him. And I’m fully on board with him displaying that savagery between my legs.
So I throw my head back against the filthy wall, scream again when he pistons in and out. In and out.
