I am hard. Painfully hard. The blood is thrumming in my veins, demanding release.
Alessandro reaches out. His fingers are cool, steady. He wraps his hand around me.
The touch sends a jolt through my spine that makes my knees buckle. I have to grab the edge of the counter to stay upright.
"Do it," I rasp.
He leans forward. He opens his mouth.
He takes me in.
The sensation is blinding. Wet heat. Suction. The soft drag of his tongue. He doesn't hesitate. He slides down, taking the head, the shaft, forcing his throat to open and accommodate me.
I weave my fingers into his hair. It’s soft, silky. I grip it, anchoring him.
"Yeah," I groan. "Just like that."
He sets a rhythm. He uses his hand and his mouth in tandem, twisting, sucking. He knows what he’s doing. Of course he does. He’s Alessandro Falcone; he doesn't do anything halfway. He attacks this with the same focus he applies to a spreadsheet or a crime scene.
I look down.
The view destroys me.
The Prince of the city, on his knees in his own kitchen, his cheeks hollowed out, his eyes closed, serving me. The contrast between the violence of the day and the intimacy of this moment is too much. It breaks something in my brain.
I start to move. I snap my hips forward, driving into his throat.
He makes a noise—a muffled, choked sound—but he doesn't pull away. He takes it. He grips my thighs harder, his nails digging in.
"Look at you," I whisper. "Look at what you are."
He opens his eyes. He looks up at me. And there is no shame in his gaze. There is only hunger. There is only a dark, consuming need that mirrors my own.
It pushes me over the edge.
I fuck his face. Harder. Faster. I ignore the drag of his teeth. I ignore the way he gags. I need to get out of my own head, and he is the only exit.
"Alessandro," I roar.
I grab the back of his head. I hold him in place.
I bottom out in his throat and I come.
It’s violent. It tears out of me in hot, spurting waves, emptying me out. My legs shake. My vision blurs.
He swallows. He keeps sucking, milking every drop, until I am dry and twitching and sensitive.
I pull out.
He slumps back on his heels, gasping for air. A string of saliva connects us. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.
He looks up at me. His eyes are watery. His face is red.
He looks beautiful.
I pull my pants up. I zip my fly. My hands are still shaking.
He stands up. He is unsteady. He leans against the counter, breathing hard. He smooths his turtleneck. He runs a hand through his hair, trying to restore order.
