Page 8 of Madness & Mercy (Deadly Sins #1)

“Am I?” I trail the same thumb along his jaw, watching the flicker in his expression, something between restraint and desire. “You snuck out of my estate, broke into my club, risked your life just to come face me again. Either you’re suicidal… or you want something.”

He doesn’t answer. I press my advantage.

“I think you like pushing men like me. Seeing how far I’ll go before I break you.”

“No one breaks me,” he says, but his voice lacks conviction.

I lean in, my breath brushing his ear. “Everyone breaks, Julian. The question is… how loud will you scream when you do?”

He shudders. It’s slight, but I feel it.

“You think this scares me?” he bites out, turning his head just enough to look me in the eye. “I’ve seen worse. I’ve done worse.”

I grab his chin, force his gaze to lock with mine. “Then show me.”

His pupils dilate. His chest rises faster now. But he still doesn’t move.

And that’s the tell.

He wants to be pushed.

I step even closer, the space between us dissolving. My fingers tighten under his jaw, tilting his head back just slightly, exposing the vulnerable line of his throat. The room hums with silence and heat.

“You want control?” I whisper. “Then take it.”

I release him suddenly, take a single step back. My eyes drag over him slowly. “Let’s see what happens when no one’s watching. When it’s just you and me and nothing left to hide behind.”

He’s breathing hard now. Still trying to look unfazed, but the flush creeping up his neck betrays him.

He doesn’t strike.

He doesn’t leave.

Instead, he closes the distance.

I expect a punch, a shove, maybe even a stab.

What I don’t expect is the way his hand knots in the front of my shirt, the way he yanks me forward and crashes his mouth to mine.

It’s brutal. Messy. All teeth and heat and hate.

I grab his waist, slam him back into the wall, and kiss him harder. He groans into it, half-defiance, half-surrender. My hands find his wrists and pin them above his head, and that’s when he gasps.

I pause, lips brushing his. “You like that?”

His eyes blaze. He doesn’t answer.

I press my knee between his thighs.

“Say it.”

“Go to hell,” he growls, but his hips roll into mine.

So that’s how he wants to play it.

I grip his wrists tighter, slide my other hand up his shirt, feel the tremble in his stomach as I drag my palm across it.

He’s burning.

He wants this just as badly as I want to unravel him.

Still pinning him to the wall, I nip at his jaw, trail my mouth down the column of his throat.

“Still think you’re in control?” I murmur.

He huffs a breath, biting down on whatever noise threatens to escape. I feel it in his body. The restraint, the tension, the need.

Julian’s breath fans hot against my throat, and for a second, I think he might crack. That he’ll give in completely, let me strip him down to nerves and ruin.

But then he yanks one wrist free, twists with surprising strength, and shoves me.

My back slams into the wall, but before I can retaliate, he’s already there, pressing into me, one hand at my chest, the other gripping my jaw.

“I am now,” he says, voice low, eyes dark.

Oh, really?

I arch a brow, lips twitching despite myself. “You think this is control?”

“I think you talk too much,” he growls, stepping closer until our hips are flush. His palm slides from my chest to my throat like a warning. A threat.

Cute.

He leans in, his lips grazing the corner of my mouth. “You like control, don’t you?”

I hum, eyes flicking lazily over his face. “And you like pretending you have it.”

His jaw ticks.

I tilt my head, exposing my throat, just enough to tease. “Go on, then. Show me how dangerous you are.”

That throws him for half a beat. Not long, but enough for me to see it—his pupils blown wide, the pulse ticking at his neck, the silent question in his eyes.

He wants me to give in. To submit.

I don’t.

But I let him think I might.

Julian tightens his grip slightly, and I feel the tremor in his fingers. It’s so faint, most wouldn’t notice.

But I do.

His mouth crashes to mine again, harder this time. Hungrier. He kisses like he fights: sharp, punishing, desperate to take.

I let him take.

Let him taste what he thinks he’s conquered.

But just as his hand starts to trail lower, fingers curling into my belt, I laugh. Low and feral, right against his lips.

“Enjoying yourself, cagniolo?”

He freezes.

Then snarls.

“I’m not your fucking dog,” he bites out.

“Oh?” I murmur, eyes gleaming. “Maybe you’re my piccolo puttano.”

And just like that, I flip the power back with a twist of my wrist and a shift of my weight, slamming him back against the opposite wall.

His breath leaves him in a grunt. His fists clench, but he doesn’t push me away.

“I told you,” I growl, my palm flat against his chest, pinning him in place. “You don’t get the upper hand, cagniolo.”

Julian’s lips twitch into a smirk, but it falters as my hand slides down.

“You really gonna keep calling me that?” he mutters, his voice tight with anticipation.

I lean in, lips ghosting over his jaw. “I’ll call you whatever I want.”

Before he can spit something back, I drag my hand over his waistband, unfastening his belt with a practiced flick. His breath catches.

His pants and underwear drop.

The smirk is gone.

Now it’s just his eyes—wide, glassy, burning with something between loathing and need.

“Touch me and I’ll—”

“You’ll what?” I interrupt, amused as I pin his wrists above his head with one hand. “Bite me? Beg me?”

He’s hard already. Pathetic.

Beautiful.

“You don’t get to touch yourself,” I murmur, my mouth at his ear. “Not unless I say.”

He sucks in a breath through his teeth as I reach into my back pocket and pull out a small bottle of lube. He clocks it immediately.

His eyes narrow. “You planned this.”

I grin. “No, cagniolo. I’m just always prepared.”

Except, I wasn’t prepared… for any of this.

Not the heat in my veins.

Not the way he looks at me like he’s daring me to lose control.

Not the sick, gnawing hunger clawing at my chest.

I’ve never done this with a man. Never wanted to.

But something tells me he has.

Something in the way his body moves beneath mine, like he’s done this before.

And that thought?

It makes something savage twist up inside me.

Makes me want to mark him, ruin him, own him.

Make him mine.

Whether he knows it yet or not.

I slick my fingers and shove my hand between his thighs, circling his hole, watching his jaw clench and his thighs twitch.

Then I push in, slow but deep, and fuck, the sound he makes—half curse, half moan—goes straight to my cock.

He’s tight, hot, and fuckable in a way that makes it real damn hard not to lose control.

He shudders.

His head knocks back against the wall with a dull thud, breath catching sharp in his throat. “Don’t—”

“You want this,” I growl, curling my finger just enough to make his hips jerk helplessly. “You’ve wanted it since the second I walked up to your booth at the café. You were already half hard before I said a word. But you’re too fucking proud to beg.”

“I hate you,” he spits, voice ragged.

“Good.” I lean in, lips brushing his ear as I add another finger. He gasps, his body straining against my grip. “Hate me harder.”

Julian’s breathing turns to wrecked panting, sweat beading along his brow as I drive deeper, fingers unrelenting. When I find the spot that makes his whole body lock up, his knees nearly buckle.

He groans, head lolling forward as I fuck him open with slow, cruel precision, watching every flicker of resistance burn to ash.

Piece by piece, he’s coming apart, and I’m not stopping until there’s nothing left but need.

He jerks his hips, chasing the pressure. His hand twitches, desperate to touch himself.

I catch it midair.

“I said no,” I snap, twisting his wrist back until he hisses, and slam it against the wall again. “You don’t get to rush this. You don’t come until I say so.”

“I’m gonna—”

“No.”

He grits his teeth like it’ll help him hold on, like he’s not already hanging by a thread.

But I’m starting to understand his body already.

Every tell, every traitorous twitch. The way his breath stutters when I hit just the right angle, how his thighs start to shake when he’s close. And fuck, he’s close.

I grind my fingers deep, curling hard against that spot inside him that makes his whole body jerk.

“F—fuck,” he gasps, spine arching, his head thudding back against the wall. He’s trembling, soaked in sweat, pupils blown wide with need.

“You feel that?” I murmur, dragging my mouth along the shell of his ear. “That tight little ache in your gut? That fire building under your skin?” I stroke him from the inside, relentless now, slow but merciless. “That’s mine. I control when it snaps.”

He whimpers. Fucking whimpers. That arrogant mouth of his is bitten raw now. He can’t form anything but desperate, broken noise.

“Please,” he rasps, and I nearly lose it right there.

“No.” I pull back just enough to keep him trembling, right on the edge, and press a kiss to his jaw. “Not yet. You don’t come until I give you permission. You don’t deserve it until I watch you fall apart for me.”

He’s sweating, shaking, fighting it with everything he has. But then I thrust my fingers deeper, curling them just right, grinding slow and cruel against his prostate.

He chokes on a moan. His whole body seizes. And I know he’s right fucking there.

“I said not yet.” My hand tightens around his wrist. “You wanna come? Then fucking beg, Julian.”

His lips part. Nothing comes out. Just a shattered breath. He’s holding it back, his body spasming, so close he’s shaking from the strain.

“Beg for it,” I growl again, my lips against his throat now. “Or I stop. Right now.”

That’s what breaks him.

“Please,” he gasps, voice wrecked. “Please, Nico—fuck, I—I need—”

I press in deep and hold, my fingers buried to the knuckle inside him.

His knees buckle. He lets out a strangled noise like he’s being torn in half. And then he breaks.

His whole body shudders violently as he comes, untouched, raw and ruined. Lips parted in disbelief, tears stinging the corners of his eyes from how hard he fought it. The orgasm wracks through him like it’s ripping the breath from his lungs, like it’s punishment and mercy all at once.

I hold him there, fingers still deep inside, until he’s done shivering.

Then I slowly pull away, watching the way his chest heaves, his lashes fluttering, his expression wrecked.

“Still think you’re in control?” I murmur, dragging my thumb down his slick stomach.

Julian blinks, dazed, lips parted like he wants to argue, but nothing comes out.

For once, he’s speechless.

But I know it won’t last long.

For him, it never does.