My breath stutters in ragged bursts, my body trembling on the knife’s edge of release.
Then his voice—rough, dark, commanding—rumbles from between my thighs.
“Come for me,” he growls, lips slick with me. “I want your legs shaking when I fuck you.”
The orgasm creeps in slowly, until I’m overtaken—pure white heat ripping me apart. My head falls back, a cry spilling from my lips as I shatter for him, undone completely. He doesn’t let up until I’m trembling in his grip, wrecked, exactly as my king intended.
The rasp of his zipper cuts through the silence. He frees his cock, already thick and swollen, the silver barbells at the tip glinting like a promise of ecstasy. He strokes himself once, then again, rougher, as if restraint is already slipping through his fingers.
When his gaze finds mine, it’s molten. His hands clamp on my hips, dragging me forward until I’m balanced on the very edge of the war table, caught in the path of the ruin he’s about to deliver.
“I’m not going to be gentle,” he warns, voice ragged, frayed at the edges. “I’ve got one goal right now—and it’s to fuck my queen until she can’t speak. Until you can’t walk.”
He slams into me in one brutal thrust, stealing every ounce of air from my lungs. My head tips back with a cry as my body stretches around him, forced wide, claimed by every thick, merciless inch of the man who already owns me.
“Do you feel that?” he groans against my throat, his voice breaking on the word. “That’s what you do to me. You can command a room full of killers—and then unravel for me like this. Only for me.”
My nails carve into the muscles of his back, my legs lockingaround his waist, taking him deeper, clinging to him. Each thrust drives harder, sharper, his hips a relentless force that pins me to the table. His hand drops between us, fingers finding my clit, making soft circles until sparks explode behind my eyes.
“Fuck I hope you get pregnant right here,” he growls, dirty and reverent all at once. “Right where you crowned yourself my queen. Mark your body where you marked your place at my side.”
“Enzo—oh my God—” My voice breaks, high and raw.
His hand clamps the back of my neck, forcing my gaze to his through the haze of pleasure. His eyes are molten, demanding, absolute. “Eyes on me, Angel,” he snarls. “You come when I tell you. Not a second before.”
“Enzo—please—let me come,” I gasp, shaking in his hold, pleasure coiled so tight I could break.
“No,” he rasps. “Not yet. You’ll come with me.”
I whimper, clinging to him, my body trembling under the demand as he pounds into me with devastating force. The denial is agony, my release strangled in my chest as he drives me closer, over and over, keeping me pinned on the knife’s edge.
Then his thrusts turn jagged, desperate, his control slipping as a guttural growl rips from his chest. His hips slam forward one last brutal time, burying him to the hilt, spilling deep. His voice breaks as he finally gives the command I’ve been dying for.
“Now, Angel. Come.”
The permission grants me relief. I scream as I splinter around him, clenching tight as he floods me, both of us shaking, undone, ruined in the way only we can do to each other.
We stay tangled—sweat-slicked, trembling, still caught in the aftershocks of ruin and worship. His lips brush mine, his voice shredded but reverent.
"Every scar, every sin, every breath I’ve ever taken—you own them now. There’s not a piece of me that isn’t yours."
The words sink into me, raw and unshakable, as his forehead rests against mine. My fingers thread through his damp hair,grounding us both, pulling him closer even when he’s already inside my heart.
My voice is soft but certain, a vow carved from everything we’ve survived. “And I promise to hold you safe. Always, my King.”
The Marchetti estatekitchen is an expansive space, but somehow still holds the warmth of family.
Lars is barefoot in front of the oversized gas range, wielding a wooden spoon, his expression pure focus. Violette lounges nearby with her martini, perched like a queen on a velvet stool, shoes long forgotten on the tiled floor. And Enzo? He’s leaning against the doorway, arms crossed, watching the chaos unfold.
“Okay, now what?” I ask, peering over Lars’s shoulder as he adds something green and fragrant to the bubbling pot of sauce
“Basil. Torn, not chopped. You bruise the hell out of it otherwise.” He tosses a glance at me. “Your turn.”
I blink. “My turn to…?”
“Stir,” he says, handing me the wooden spoon. His nails are a deep shade of maroon today. “Clockwise. Gently. This isn’t a blender, Marchetti.”
I stick my tongue out at him but take the spoon anyway, stepping in close and giving it a careful swirl. “You know, for a guy who does very illegal things for a living, you take your sauce very seriously.”
