Her taste overwhelms me, shattering any semblance of control I had. I suck and lick her through a never-ending stream of tremors, only relieving her to nibble and chew at the delicate skin of her thighs. Then I return to her pussy, licking up the mess I made, and she comes again.
This time I suck softly on her clit, moaning into the tenderskin, drawing out more gentle vibrations from her body. I’m completely mindless with need.
“G-God…” she whimpers.
I detach my lips. “I’m no God,cucciola.” Then I return them to her so I can savor every taste and shiver. I could suckle on her, lick her out, for days.
“I-I mean, Fiero.” She shakes again. “Fuck, Fiero.”
I drown in her. Lose myself in her scent, her little noises, completely.
And the sound of my name when it falls from her mouth on whimpers, moans, cries…
In the heat of this moment, nothing else matters. Everything falls away. My past, her past, my hate, her debt.
Because the taste of her was made for me and no one else.
Her thighs press against my temples as I nuzzle her clit, drawing more little pulses from her core.
And I realize something deeply inconvenient. My obsession with ruining Pfeiffer McAllister just turned into a fever.
I feel flushed, heavy and smoldering.
And if death were to come now, I’d let it take me.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Pfeiffer
Twenty-three nights to go.
I’ma furnace of burning ash when I walk into Velvet. It’s been three days since Fiero Bellucci—Il Diavolo, mafia kingpin, myboss—made me come over and over on his tongue, and I haven’t cooled even a degree.
He hasn’t been around and, believe me, I’ve searched. Not obviously, but from beneath tempered lids. I haven’t said a word to anyone about our encounters and I don’t know who knows.
I get the feeling he’s keeping our rendezvous quiet and I should do the same. Not that I would tell anyone about the way he’s kissed me or the orgasms he’s wrenched from me without a thought for his own pleasure.
I don’t understand. If I’m paying off a debt, if what I’m doing here is meant to be some sort of punishment, why does it feel so good?
The rational side of me is waiting for the other shoe to fall.At some point he’s going to drop the mask—figuratively, if not literally—and give me exactly what he thinks I deserve, and it’s not going to be pleasurable.
I can only thicken my skin before it happens.
Tonight, the club is quieter than usual. A few regular visitors are seated on the sofas, mostly masked. Laughter comes from the bar where two people are sitting on stools being regaled with stories by José, the bartender.
I haven’t seen Hallie since the day in the coffee shop. In a way I’m thankful—I don’t want her to pry too much into the outcome of Fallen Angels. Not until I know what Il Diav—Fiero—permits me to say.
My stomach warms, remembering how he demanded I use his real name. In a weird way, it made me feel special. Everyone else calls him Il Diavolo, but he wantedmeto call him Fiero. With each recollection of his tongue between my thighs, I’m more convinced he wanted me to cry his name when I orgasmed.
A lusty shudder shakes my shoulders and I cut my attention to the screen, trying to block out memories that make me aroused in inconvenient places.
“Pfeiffer.”
I look up to see Vivienne standing over me, her features fixed into a disapproving glare I’m starting to know well. I straighten and face her, like a soldier might regard their superior.
“Your presence has been requested.”
My heart leaps into my throat.
