She asked me to handle her father. She swept the ashes of her million-dollar debt into the trash. She stood in my secure, windowless war room and handed me the tactical advantage to slaughter my enemies.
She chose this.
She chose me.
My massive hands grip her thick hips. Soft. Plump. Perfect.
"They are dead," I tell her. My voice is a gravel rasp. Raw. Feral. "The men downstairs. Dominic is cleaning it up. You are safe."
She nods. Her wide eyes lock onto mine. No fear. Only fire.
"I know," she whispers. Her hands slide up my broad chest. Her fingers tangle in the thick gold chain resting over my shirt. "I told you. I am staying."
The feral possessiveness snaps its leash.
I cannot hold back anymore. The brutal tease from the other night tore me apart. The dry, desperate friction against this very counter almost broke my sanity. The agonizing restraint I forced upon myself out of respect for her trauma is gone. The trauma is handled. The enemies are dying. The debt is burned.
I need to bury myself in her.
I need to ruin her for anyone else.
I lift her. She gasps loudly as her bare thighs clear the edge of the heavy kitchen island. I set her down directly into the spilled flour from my midnight baking. White dust clouds around her wide hips, settling onto her pale skin.
I step between her spread legs.
My brutally heavy frame crowds into her space. I dwarf her completely. My chest is broad, thick with coarse hair beneath the dark fabric, my arms heavy with dark tattoos. I am brutal. I am violent. I am a monster built for war.
She is soft. Curved. Delicate heat and stubborn defiance.
"You belong to me," I growl. My rough hands trace the slope of her thick thighs. The flour coats my large, calloused palms. I rub the fine white powder into her smooth skin, branding her with my touch.
"I belong to you," she echoes. Her voice shakes. A sassy, defiant smirk plays on her full lips, masking the tremble of her body. "You think you can claim me and I will submit? Prove it, Costa."
My blood boils. A ferocious, territorial roar builds deep in my heavy chest.
I grip the hem of her shirt. I drag the fabric violently up her torso.
"Arms up."
She obeys. I strip the shirt over her head and throw it across the kitchen. It lands near the enormous stainless steel refrigerator.
Heavy, gorgeous tits spill freely into my large hands.
I weigh her full breasts in my palms. Squeezing the soft, plump flesh. My rough, calloused thumbs drag mercilessly over her tight, peaking nipples.
She arches her spine into my touch. A loud, desperate moan slips past her lips.
I lower my head. My thick, coarse beard scrapes roughly against her delicate collarbone. I open my mouth over her left nipple. I suck hard. Pulling the sensitive peak deep into my mouth. I scrape my teeth over the hard, aching flesh, making her moan as the friction burns through her.
She cries out. Her fingernails dig fiercely into my broad shoulders.
I feast. I consume her. I suckle the other breast, laving the tight peak with a flat, wet tongue. She tastes like sweet salt and pure surrender. My scent—dark rum and heated skin—surrounds us, mixing with her sweet, musky arousal.
My hands move to the waistband of her soft sweatpants. I grip the fleece material. I pull them down in one violent, unbroken motion. Her thin cotton panties go with them.
I kick the discarded clothing away.
She is completely naked on the cold marble. Flour coats her bare ass. White dust streaks her thick, gorgeous thighs.
