Tonight.
Hours from now, I'll sit across from her. Watch candlelight play across her skin. Listen to that sharp tongue carve me into pieces while I imagine all the ways I could silence it.
My hand drifts to my thigh. Stops. This is stupid. I'm not some teenage boy who can't control himself.
But my dick doesn't care about control. It's already straining against my zipper, throbbing with the kind of need that makes rational thought evaporate.
I think about her hands. Small, delicate, always moving when she talks. Those fingers flying across keyboards, creating security systems that would make government agencies weep. What would those hands feel like wrapped around my cock?
Fuck.
I palm myself through my trousers. Just pressure. Just enough to take the edge off.
It doesn't help.
The image shifts. Vittoria on her knees in this office, looking up at me with those defiant eyes while her mouth?—
I unzip my pants. The relief is immediate, my cock springing free, already leaking at the tip. I wrap my fist around the shaft and squeeze.
This is pathetic, some distant part of my brain whispers.You're the heir to the Chicago Bratva.
I stroke slowly, letting the fantasy build. Vittoria spread across my desk, papers scattering to the floor. Her dress bunched around her waist. Those long legs wrapped around me as I sink into her, watching her face twist with pleasure she doesn't want to feel.
My grip tightens. Faster now.
She'd fight me at first. That's what makes it so fucking perfect. She'd dig her nails into my shoulders and tell me she hates me, even as her pussy clenches around my cock. Even as she begs for more.
I imagine the sounds she'd make.
"Blyad'," I mutter, my hips jerking.
I think about bending her over this chair. Fisting that dark hair while I fuck her from behind. Making her watch our reflection in the window—the princess and the monster, tangled together while the city burns below.
The pressure builds at the base of my spine. My balls tighten.
Tonight.
Tonight I'll have to sit across from her and pretend I'm civilized. Pretend I don't want to throw her over my shoulder and carry her to my bed. Pretend the only thing I'm interested in is abusiness alliance.
My hand flies faster. Rougher. I'm close now, that familiar tension coiling?—
I picture her face when she comes. The way her control would shatter. The way she'd look at me afterward, stunned and furious andhungry.
The orgasm tears through me. I grunt, spilling over my fist, my whole body shuddering with release. For a moment, everything goes white.
Then reality seeps back in.
I'm sitting in my office with cum on my hand and a dinner reservation in a few hours.
Pathetic, that voice whispers again.
But I'm smiling as I clean myself up. Because tonight won't be about patience or control or careful strategy. Tonight is about showing Vittoria Sartori exactly what she's been running from.
And exactly what she's been runningtoward.
It won't be easy. Every instinct screams at me to claim her. To mark her. To make it so fucking clear she belongs to me that no James Rogers or anyone else would ever dare look at her again.
But I've waited this long.
