The climax slams me so hard my vision whites out; I scream so loud it bounces off the room, and my legs convulse, locked around his waist. He holds me, draws every last aftershock out like a debt owed, and when it finally tapers, I’m limp, floating, a girl-shaped puddle of pure dopamine.
He leans up, kisses my temple, and finally—finally—presses his lips to mine. I can taste myself on him, and it turns me on all over again.
"Still think you can win this?" he asks, cocky but also reverent, and I know we’re both too far gone to ever walk it back.
"Oh, absolutely, Mr. Conti," I pant, grabbing his shirt and tearing it apart, making buttons fly. It doesn’t takemuch to push him back, right into a chair. I hike my skirt up higher, lose the panties, and watch him spring to full readiness the second my hand frees his cock. Christ. It’s not just the size, it’s the way he looks at me, like at any second he’ll either fuck me or ruin me, and I have no goddamn clue which would be worse. Or better. For a moment, I just watch him there, half-naked and hard and beautiful, the cocky grin wiped away by a raw need I don’t think he’s ever let anyone see.
“Condom?” I raise an eyebrow.
He reaches over to a desk drawer and pulls it open. From inside he produces a gold foil package.
“Prepared much?” I ask.
“Always,” he rasps, unwrapping the plastic and pulling the condom over his beautiful cock.
I take a second to enjoy the sight, before I climb onto his lap, straddling him, skirt barely fending off decency, and grind myself against the impossible length of him. I’m so slick there’s no resistance; he slides between my folds and back again, and I let the blunt head of him tease my entrance, again and again, watching his eyes roll back with the torment.
"Your turn, Mr. Conti," I say, and let myself down on him in a long, slow glide. He’s so thick, I have to fight a hiss as he stretches me to the edge of what I can take. But I don’t stop, not for a second, even when the pressure burns, even when it feels like we’re splitting each other open. I stare him dead in the face, daring him to lookaway, and see everything I need reflected back: awe, hunger, and the barest flicker of surrender.
He groans, deep and low, letting his head fall back. "Holy shit," he rasps, "Ana, you’re going to fucking kill me."
I rock my hips and drive him in deeper, until my clit is flush against his pelvis, until I feel every vein, every twitch of him inside. He grabs my ass with both hands, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise, but he doesn’t try to control the pace. That’s mine. This is mine. I set the rhythm, slow at first, savoring the way he tries and fails not to buck up into me. Then faster, harder, until the sound of our bodies meeting fills the air, wet and obscene and perfect. I can feel my stitches pull, but I'm too far gone to care. They can be restitched. And the pain? It only adds to the pleasure running through me, giving it that bittersweet edge I crave.
Rough hands cup my breasts, teasing and kneading and pinching until I whimper without meaning to. He licks and sucks and bites at my chest, trading off between nipples, marking them while I ride him. I catch him staring up at me, absolutely destroyed, sweat sheening his battered abs, and the way his jaw flexes when he’s about to blow is the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.
I drag my nails down his chest, not delicately, and he shivers, grabbing my hips to steady himself. "You were made for this," he says, voice all gravel, "You were fucking made for me."
I lean in close, so our mouths almost touch. "If you want to come," I whisper, "you have to ask for it."
He grits his teeth and shakes his head, like he can hold out. But I know better. I squeeze my cunt around him, grind down in a way that makes both of us howl, and feel him start to lose control. The head of his cock drags just right across every nerve as I move, and it’s pushing me closer, faster, to the edge.
He’s sweating now, clutching me like I’m the last air in a burning room, and I love it, love the power, love that he’s as helpless against me as I was for him. He’s the big, bad Cosa Nostra scion, but he’s mine, all of him, from the thickness inside me to the bruises I leave on his ribs.
I snarl in his ear, "You want it, boss? You want to finish inside your little Bratva princess?"
He whimpers, actually whimpers, and jerks his hips up so hard I nearly lose my balance. "Oh fuck," he groans, "I'm coming." I could drag it out, but honestly, I’m too far gone myself. My second orgasm is already winding tight inside me, threatening to detonate.
"Do it," I spit between clenched teeth, and ride him so hard the chair groans under us, his hands locked on my hips guiding the last few desperate thrusts. He comes with a roar, fingers spasming on my skin, cock pulsing deep inside me. The moment his heat floods me, I lose it too, another blinding, liquid climax that arcs my body back, makes my vision tunnel, turns my bones to dust.
We collapse together, sticky and spent and breathing like we ran a full marathon. His forehead is slick against my collarbone, arms still wrapped around me like he can’t bear the thought of letting go. I’m trembling, and not entirely from the aftershocks.
"You’re dangerous," he eventually says, voice wrecked.
"So are you," I reply, pressing my mouth to his temple. "But we already knew that."
He laughs, a short, shattered sound. "I surrender," he says, and I want to believe him, but we both know I won’t take his word for it.
"Next time," I say, sliding off him slowly, letting him see every inch as I stand, "I get the handcuffs."
He grins, devilish and wild. "There’s a next time?"
Carefully he takes the condom off, knots it and tosses it in the trash. I dress with deliberate slowness, turning away from him so he can watch the show. "Oh, there’s always a next time," I promise, and toss a wink over my shoulder.
His gaze glides down on me—he's still grinning like he won something impossible—then the smile dies. His gaze drops to my side, sharp as a blade.
"Stop." His voice goes from wicked to lethal in a breath.
I follow his eyes, annoyed for half a second before I see it too, a dark smear blooming around the dressing on my flank. A stitch must’ve pulled. Barely anything, just enough to ruin the moment.
