Page 29 of His Wicked Wants (West Coast Mobsters #6)
CHAPTER 26
GAbrIEL
I lean into him, brushing our noses together. “Are you telling me you’re not tempted?”
He lets out a ragged breath. “No, I am not. I have no interest in some sweet little thing like you.”
“I’m not so sweet. Let me show you.” I slide my hand down his stomach, feeling the ridges of muscle through his shirt, and then lower. My fingers find him hard in his pants, and I rub a little, feeling him strain toward me, knowing how badly he wants this, even if he won’t admit to it.
He doesn’t push me away. And then he licks his lips, and I watch that tongue slide slowly as though he’s tasting something—and I know I’ve got him. A moment later, he yanks me close, a hand gripping the back of my head, fingers closing in my hair, and his mouth lands on mine, firm and demanding.
I kiss him back eagerly, opening my mouth so his tongue can plunder me. Might as well let him think he’s in control—he prefers it that way, and so do I. It’s not like either of us could deny the fact that he’s stronger and bigger and more powerful. I can’t get away.
I don’t want to.
He’s the most dangerous man in the city, maybe the country. He’s a killer . And here and now, I’m his willing prey. I hate him so much sometimes it makes me want to scream, but I can’t deny how much I want him.
My pulse is banging so loud in my head that I barely hear him when he growls, “You are playing a dangerous game.” His lips are at my neck as though he’s about to bite me, tear my throat out, and my legs are shaking with the force of my own desire.
He spins me around, shoving me forward and pinning me to the wall, his teeth on my ear, his words just as sharp?—
“You want me to fuck you? Hard and fast and dirty, right here, against the wall? Is that what you want?”
I nod, and I know he feels it. He’s pressed up so tight behind me, and his dick is rubbing against my ass, his hand coming around to undo my belt and zipper, and then his hand is in my underwear, jerking me roughly, and I cry out, arching into his touch.
He shoves my underwear down. He’s got his cock free, now, and the feel of it, hot as a brand against my bare skin, is almost frightening. “It’ll hurt,” he warns.
“I don’t care,” I tell him. And I mean it.
He puts a hand under my chin. “Spit.”
I spit.
“Again.”
His hand disappears, the knuckles brushing my asscheek as he rubs it up and down his length, and then he grabs my hands, positions them on my ass, and makes me hold myself open for him as he fingers me for a moment, kneading at the tight knot, working until my body finally gives way, lets him in. “At last,” he says coolly, and then I hear him spit into his hand one last time.
My face is pressed into the wall and I squeeze my eyes shut tight as his spit-wet cockhead begins to probe at my hole.
“If you want me to stop—” he warns.
“ Do it,” I hiss at him.
He growls something in Italian as he pushes into me, and all I can feel now is the white-hot burn of it, the pain of it shooting right through me, asshole to extremities, making me pant out a string of curses at him?—
And then he’s in, deep inside me, his body a heavy, hard weight against mine.
“Fuck,” I choke out. I don’t know if it’s an exclamation or a request.
It doesn’t matter anyway, because he’s not stopping. He’s pulling out of me again, slow but inexorable, his cockhead dragging over the most sensitive parts inside me, the pain and pleasure coalescing into a single sensation. His fingers dig into my hips. I can already feel the bruises forming, and in the back of my mind, the part observing instead of experiencing, I’m pleased to think I’ll have something to remember tomorrow, something to point to as evidence that he was here , that I had him inside me.
Whatever mind games he might choose to play tomorrow, or the day after, or the day after, he won’t be able to deny the marks of his hands on me.
It’s a comforting thought.
He’s almost all the way out, my ring stretching over his thick head, and I think maybe this is the way he plays, a cat with a mouse, toying with me, but then he pulls back my hips, makes me arch my back until I think it’ll break, his hand hard against the side of my face, pressing me into the wall. He shoves back in, fast and sharp, and I let out a startled yelp.
He doesn’t stop. He slams into me again, and then again, and I’m pinned in place by his cock as much as his hand, each thrust going deeper, deeper, until he’s deeper than anyone has ever been…
And I’m pushing back, encouraging him, helping him do it, because the pain has passed into an exquisite and torturous need. He’s not even touching my dick, but I think I could come like this, with his thick cock raking in and out of my ass, his balls slapping against mine, and I can feel my orgasm building, rising, my moans getting more and more desperate…
He pulls out of me abruptly, leaving me panting, empty, unfulfilled.
He turns me around, and for a moment I think he’s going to stop, tell me he’s done with me, he’s had his fun—but then he grabs me bodily, dragging me across the room to throw me over the back of the couch.
I’m spreading my legs wide before he even tells me to, and he spits on me again, a fat, hot splat that lands right on my asshole. A second later, he’s pushing back in, his cock finding its home in my body, a perfect fit. “Harder,” I beg, my voice muffled in the cushions, but he must have heard me, because he’s fucking me so hard now that the couch is moving, scraping along the floor with a terrible screech each time, but neither of us cares.
We’re lost. Lost in each other, drowning in shared need. His hand is on my lower back, holding me down, and his other hand reaches under me to find my dick, jacking it in time with his thrusts, and it’s too much, it’s too good, and when I hear him panting, “Come for me, Gabriel,” I can do nothing except obey.
It’s like nothing I’ve ever felt before, this orgasm. It starts deep inside me, a whiplash of sensation that spreads out until it consumes me entirely. And then he’s coming too, filling me with a liquid heat that makes me shudder all over again and cry out with a cracked, vulnerable voice.
He collapses over me, panting, and I’m sure my sweat must be soaking into his expensive shirt, because I’m wet all over with perspiration. He pulls out of me carefully, but I still groan at the sting, and he strokes the small of my back absently, as though in apology.
But then he’s gone, and I’m left alone on the couch, cold and exposed, and I can hear his footsteps retreating. For a moment I’m furious—he’s leaving me here like this, tucking his spent dick back into his Italian pants and walking away like nothing happened, while I’m left here with his cum sliding out of my sore ass?—
But I hear a faucet running and he comes back a minute later with a glass of water, which he sets on the coffee table in front of me, muttering, “Don’t move.” A warm, wet sensation on my aching hole makes me moan again, this time in relief.
He takes his time cleaning my tender skin, even blowing gently across my asshole to dry it, and it just seems so unlike him, so un-Nero , that I find myself chuckling.
“You won’t be laughing when you try to walk around the grounds this afternoon,” he tells me, but there’s a humor in his tone that I’ve never heard before. And then he’s gone again, returning with my terry robe to drape over me, and I’m too stunned to even thank him, so I just pull it up and around my shoulders as he helps me stand.
“Are you alright?” he asks. He won’t look me in the eye.
“Are you?” My voice is more challenging than it should be, maybe, but at least it forces him to look me in the face.
I almost wish he hadn’t. He’s closing off, the shutters rolling down behind his eyes. “I need to get to work.”
“But I was making you lunch,” I blurt out. It sounds ridiculous after what we’ve just done, and he ignores it, heading for the door. “Nero,” I call after him.
He pauses with his hand on the doorknob, barely turns his head to acknowledge me.
“I’ve been thinking about it. The rose garden in the north-west of the estate—the roses there are all red. It would match Ms. Rochford’s color scheme. And it would be a nice place for the wedding.”
He just gives a nod, and then he leaves.