"Tell me you belong to me." I press harder, grinding the slick cotton directly into her swollen clit. The wetness seeps into my skin. The scent of her arousal mixes heavily with the yeastand toasted flour in the air. The most intoxicating, dangerous perfume I have ever encountered.
"I belong to the debt," she argues, the sassy defiance flaring up even in the haze of blinding lust.
I punish the lie immediately. I slip two thick fingers under the tight elastic leg hole of her panties. I bypass the cotton, finding the slick, bare folds of her pussy. She is covered in her own heavy arousal. Slick, hot, and waiting. I trace the swollen, sensitive flesh. Her entire body shudders. I drag a thick coat of her wetness up to the sensitive hood, smearing the slick moisture directly over her clit.
I pump my thumb in a relentless, brutal rhythm. Down the slick folds, over the swollen peak. Hard and fast.
She gasps, a broken, shattered sound. Her inner muscles clench tightly around nothing. Her hips rise off the marble, desperately chasing the friction of my hand.
"Say it," I demand, my jaw locked tight with agonizing restraint. My massive frame shakes with the agony of holding back.
The thick, throbbing length of my cock is a blunt instrument, screaming to rip through the denim and bury itself deep inside her. I want to feel her stretch around me, those tight walls giving way until I hit the hilt. I want to thrust until I dump every drop of my seed straight into her womb and leave a brand she can never wash off.
But I cannot take her tonight. I refuse. Taking her right now, while the trauma of the explosion still echoes in her blood, crosses a line even a monster like me avoids. She needs time. She needs to understand that I am her protector, not just her captor. The agonizing restraint is a physical torment, but I hold the line.
I keep my fingers on the outside. No penetration. Just relentless, brutal friction.
I slide my thumb over her clit again, pressing down hard. "Tell me whose woman you are."
"Yours." The word tears from her throat on a ragged sob. "I'm yours."
The absolute surrender in her voice snaps the final tether of my sanity. I grip her hips securely and drag her forward until she is sitting on the very edge of the counter. I thrust my hips violently against her. The thick, heavy seam of my denim jeans grinds directly into the soaking wet folds of her pussy.
She screams my name again, her legs locking tightly around my waist.
I thrust again. Short, brutal, simulating grinds. Dragging my heavy erection through the rough fabric of my slacks directly over her swollen clit. The intense pressure mimics the brutal pounding she desperately craves. I grind my hips in a tight, fast circle, delivering maximum friction to the exact center of her heat.
"Matteo!" She claws at my broad shoulders. The heavy gold chain digs deeply into the side of her neck as I crush her against my chest.
I bury my face in the crook of her neck. My coarse beard scrapes the delicate skin. I open my mouth and suck a massive, dark bruise directly over her fluttering pulse point. Branding her. Making sure every single man in my syndicate knows exactly who she belongs to the second they lay eyes on her. I bite the tender flesh, drawing a sharp cry of pleasure from her lips.
My hips stutter, thrusting faster. The heavy ache in my balls is unbearable. The pressure builds dangerously close to the edge. My cock throbs violently, leaking thick streams of precum against my restrictive underwear. The agonizing pain of blue balls radiates straight up into my abdomen. I am dangerously close to losing control and ruining my slacks right here against her thigh.
Her inner muscles spasm violently. The sweet, slick wetness pours over my slacks. I feel the exact moment her orgasm hits. Her entire body locks up tight. Her back arches off the marble, her breasts thrusting forward. The tight walls of her pussy clench and release in rapid, desperate contractions against the seam of my pants. She cries out loudly, the sound bouncing off the stainless steel appliances and disappearing into the massive, empty penthouse.
I hold her tightly against my body while she rides the violent wave of her climax. I absorb every tremor, every shudder, every shattered gasp. I grind my hips one final time, dragging the hard ridge of my slacks against her hyper-sensitive clit just to draw out the last frantic spasm from her core.
She collapses heavily against my chest. Her chest heaves with ragged, uneven breaths. Her face buries directly into the crook of my neck. The scent of her arousal and soft perfume clings heavily to the air, obliterating the smell of the yeast and flour scattered across the island.
I am in absolute agony.
The throbbing pain in my balls is blinding. The thick length of my erection screams for the slick, tight release of her body. Every single feral instinct in my brain demands I push her back against the flour-covered marble, spread her pale thighs,and claim my property the way a Costa man claims his woman. Brutally. Completely. Permanently.
I force myself to step back.
The physical separation requires every ounce of willpower I possess. The cold air of the kitchen rushes forcefully between us, chilling the sweat cooling on my skin. She whimpers at the sudden loss of contact, her hands grasping empty air before falling weakly to her sides.
I reach out, my large hands surprisingly gentle as I grasp the hem of her tank top. I pull the soft fabric down, covering her beautiful, heavy tits. Hiding them from my own greedy, obsessive eyes before I lose this agonizing battle with my biology.
She remains seated on the edge of the marble island. Her legs part slightly, her knees knocking together in the aftermath of her violent orgasm. White flour dusts her pale thighs and smears aggressively across the front of my dark, ruined slacks. Her brown eyes are blown out with lust and confusion. She looks perfectly wrecked. She looks completely mine.
I reach forward and gently wipe a streak of white flour from her soft cheek. My calloused thumb brushes her cheekbone. The stark contrast between my brutal, blood-stained hands and her innocent, terrified face solidifies the obsessive vow locking into place inside my chest.
Arthur Reeves is a dead man. The Bellanti hit squad is already breathing borrowed air. I will personally hunt down every single man involved in ordering the hit on her apartment. I will tear their throats out with my bare hands. I will burn their south side warehouses to ash and dump their bodies into the freezingcurrent of the Chicago River. No one touches my collateral. No one threatens my woman.
I will bathe this entire city in blood to keep her safe inside this kitchen.
The heavy, secure silence of the penthouse presses in on us again. The commercial refrigerators hum their steady drone. The proofing dough rests forgotten on the far counter.
