He wraps his hand around me. The grip is firm. Precise. His thumb drags across the head, smearing the precum that has gathered there. The slick friction sends a jolt through my pelvis. I absorb it without moving.
The discipline is excruciating.
He lowers his mouth.
The heat is immediate. The wet, engulfing warmth of his mouth closing over me. He takes me deeper—inch by inch. His hand works the base, synchronized with the rhythm of his lips. The coordination is seamless.
"Fuck—" The word escapes through locked teeth. My hands are fisted in the sheets, knuckles white. He told me to receive. I am receiving.
He pulls back. Slow. The suction increases. He releases me with a wet sound that fills the bedroom. His eyes come up to mine. His lips are slick, flushed. He looks powerful.
"My Prince," I say. The title is rough. Wrecked.
His eyes flare. The title landed.
He strips. Fast. The shirt pulled over his head. The trousers shed. The body that emerges is lean, defined, carrying the evidence of the past nine days—the scrape on his cheekbone, the bruise on his hip, the bite mark on his neck that is mine and will always be mine.
He reaches for the bedside table. Lube. He coats his hand. He reaches behind himself.
The image of Alessandro Falcone—the new Don of the Falcone empire—preparing himself for me is an image that will outlive every other memory I carry.
His breathing changes. His eyes flutter. The concentration of a man working himself open. He adds a second finger.
"Now," he says.
He positions himself. He wraps his hand around my cock—slick, firm—and guides me to his entrance.
He sinks down.
Slow. The descent is measured—inch by inch. His weight drives him down. The tight, clenching heat of his body opens around me.
His jaw clenches. His eyes hold mine. He doesn't look away. Not through the stretch. Not through the burn. Not through the moment where he takes me completely.
He breathes. His hands brace on my chest. The weight of him on my hips is a claim.
He moves.
The rhythm starts slow. A rolling, grinding motion that keeps me buried deep. The friction is devastating—tight, hot, the internal muscles gripping with each upstroke. His hands press harder on my chest.
"You're mine," he says. His voice is wrecked. "My monster. My weapon. My husband."
"Yours." The word is broken. Offered.
His pace accelerates. Harder. Deeper. The bed protests.
"Let me," I say. A request, not a defiance. "Let me touch you."
His hand catches my wrist. He hesitates, then lets go.
My hand wraps around his cock. The weight and heat of him in my palm while he rides me is an overload. I stroke him, matching his rhythm.
The sound he makes rewrites my understanding of the human voice.
He comes first.
The orgasm hits him mid-descent. His body seizes. His cock pulses in my hand, hot ropes of seed streaking my chest. His hole clamps around me, a convulsive constriction that triggers my own release.
I come inside him.
