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"You," I breathe, breast bouncing with each thrust; I can feel his stare on me.
"Who owns this pretty cunt?" He asks, slapping my clit and chuckling darkly when I gasp.
"You. My Don. Please don't stop," I beg, hands reaching up to hold his biceps as he ruts harder and faster into me.
He presses my cheek to the wood and covers my mouth with his palm so my moans stay in the cellar. He talks into my spine, filthy and worshipful at once, telling me he can feel how close I am, telling me I will come when he rubs that swollen little clit just so. He does. I soak his cock, squirting so hard that I’m sure there will be a puddle at our feet. He keeps going until I am shaking, then slams deep and comes with a groan that sounds like a kill shot, flooding me, holding me there while it drips onto the stone.
For ten minutes, the only sound in the cellar is the slow, ragged cadence of our breathing.
Romeo slowly pulls out of me, groaning as the slick friction breaks, and scoops me up into his arms, resting my head against his neck.
I bury my face into his shoulder, tasting the salty sweat on his skin, my body completely boneless and warm.
"You cheated," I whisper tiredly against his collarbone.
Romeo chuckles, a deep, victorious vibration in his chest as he carries me up the spiral stairs toward our bed.
"I never play fair when it comes to you, Kitten," he murmurs, kissing my scarred forehead in the dark. "And I always, always win."
FIFTEEN
IRIS
Morning light in Capri arrives not as a harsh glare, but as a slow, warm bath of molten gold across my skin.
I wake stretched out on the king-size bed in the master suite, tangled in sheets of deep crimson silk that smell entirely of our sweat, sex, and the dark musk of the man who still sleeps wrapped around my back.
His left arm is heavy, corded with hard muscle, resting low over my hips. His palm cups my lower belly with that familiar, possessive weight, fingers splayed wide as if he were guarding a treasure even while unconscious. Behind me, his steady, deep breaths flutter against the sensitive nape of my neck, sending lazy ripples of warmth down my spine.
My body aches in the most delicious, decadent way possible.
The bruises from where his hands gripped my hips against the Barolo wine barrel in the dark cellar throb with dull, sweet heat. Between my thighs, my skin is tender, slick with the remnants of his cum and the thorough ruined feeling that only Romeo Messina can give me. My ass still tingles from the stinging crack of his open palm.
I shift slightly, rolling my shoulders, and wince with a soft, satisfied groan.
Instantly, the arm around my waist tightens like an iron vice.
"Don't move, Kitten," Romeo's morning voice rumbles directly against my ear, low, gravelly, and thick with sleep.
His face buries deeper into the crook of my neck, his rough five o'clock shadow rasping against my jawline. He nips lightly at the sensitive skin beneath my earlobe, his tongue soothing the small sting before he settles back down.
"You're awake," I murmur, my voice husky from screaming his name in the dark hours before dawn.
"I'm always awake when you move, Iris," he whispers, his lips dragging a slow, heated trail down the side of my throat. "You smell like me. Your pretty, tight cunt smells like my cum."
I let out a soft, breathy laugh, tilting my head to give his lips more room. "Such poetic words before breakfast, Don Messina."
"Poetry is for men who have to beg for a woman's attention," he growls against my collarbone, his hand sliding slowly up from my stomach to cup the heavy fullness of my right breast.
His calloused thumb finds my nipple, flicking the peak with lazy, practiced precision until it tightens into a rigid little bud. A sharp, involuntary gasp escapes my parted lips, my hips arching back into the hard, rigid length of his morning erection pressed flat against the cleft of my ass.
"Romeo," I breathe, half a warning and half an invitation. "You took four orgasms out of me last night. I can barely feel my toes."
"Then I'll carry you all day, wife," he rumbles, unbothered by my weak protest.
He rolls me onto my back, hovering over my small frame, his dark eyes black and heavy with that unending, hungry worship that terrifies and intoxicates me. The morning sun washes over his scarred shoulders, illuminating the black ink crawling up his neck and the thick muscle of his chest.
He reaches out, his fingers surprisingly gentle, and traces the faint purple fingerprints his hands left on the soft curve of my inner thigh.
