His grip tightens on the wheel. The speedometer climbs. Through the windshield, I watch the water. Biscayne Bay sparkling in the afternoon sun. But all I can think about is what's coming. How he'll strip me bare the second that door closes. How he'll pin me against the wall, or bend me over the couch, or carry me to bed and make me scream his name until the neighbors complain.
My pussy clenches at the thought, and I shift in my seat, the friction of my dress against my skin almost unbearable. Every nerve is live, electric, waiting for his touch.
"I need you," I whisper, and his jaw tightens.
"Soon," he promises, and the word sounds like a vow. Like a threat. Like everything I want it to be.
The city streams past, but all I see is him. All I feel is this building heat, this promise of what's coming.
Drive faster, I think again, but don't say it. He knows. His foot is already pressing harder on the accelerator, racing toward home, toward the moment when this terrible day transforms into something else entirely.
The car pulls into the underground garage, and Nico kills the engine. For a moment, we just sit there, the silence thick with anticipation. His knuckles are white on the steering wheel, and when he turns to me, his eyes are dark with promise.
"Upstairs," he says, the single word carrying everything we both need.
We exit the car like people trying not to run. Professional. Controlled. But the electricity between us makes the air crackle as we cross to the elevator. His hand finds the small of my back, possessive, guiding, a brand through the thin fabric of my dress.
The elevator arrives with a soft chime. We step inside, and the doors close behind us, sealing us in this small space together. His scent surrounds me – soap and gun oil and the lingering metallic hint of what he did this morning. I inhale deeply, letting it fill my lungs.
The second we're alone, he has me against the wall. His body presses into mine, hard and unyielding. His mouth captures mine in a kiss that's more claim than affection, all teeth and tongue and desperation. I moan into his mouth, my hands already working at his belt, needing to feel him.
"Wait," he growls against my lips. "Not yet."
The elevator climbs. Ten floors. Twenty. Each ding marking another level of restraint slipping away. By the time we reach the penthouse, his hand is under my dress, fingers tracing the edge of my underwear, teasing but not giving me what I need.
The doors open directly into our foyer. We stumble in, holding hands like teenagers.
I reach up. Touch his jaw. The stubble is rough under my fingertips. He leans into my hand, and I feel his control starting to crack.
"Take me to bed, Nico. I need you to fuck me properly. No more running. Not from each other."
His eyes darken at my blunt words. He takes my hand, the same hand that ended Cesar hours ago, and leads me inside.
Our bedroom. The bed we've shared before, sheets that smell like sex and us. Gun oil and vanilla, violence and desperate fucking.
He doesn't rush. That's what makes my pussy clench with anticipation. Knowing he's going to take his time destroying me. Tomorrow there will be fallout from Cesar's death, power struggles, consequences. But tonight…
He stands in front of me, close, his hands finding my waist through the cotton dress. The fabric is so thin I can feel every callus on his palms. He grips me firmly, like I might disappear if he doesn't hold tight enough.
He looks at me. Really looks. His gaze burning as it travels from my face down to where a tear almost exposes my pussy. I'm already so wet I can feel it on my inner thighs.
His hand comes up. He traces the wounds from the cliff. First the long scrape on my arm. His thumb follows it, then his mouth, his tongue laving the mark. Then the bruise on my collarbone. He sucks on it, making it darker, claiming me over the ocean's marks.
He lifts the dress hem and slides down my panties, exposing my pussy to his hungry gaze. "Fuck, you're already dripping for me."
"I've been wet since I watched you kill Cesar," I admit, spreading my legs slightly.
His finger slides through my folds, gathering my wetness, and I moan at the contact. He brings his finger to his mouth, tasting me, and his eyes go black.
"You jumped off that cliff," he says, voice rough.
"I did."
"You swam."
"I did."
"To me."
