Page 155 of Pietro

His hand slides between my legs, finding me already wet through the thin lace of my underwear. He groans, the sound vibrating through me.

"Always so ready for me."

He pushes the fabric aside, not bothering to remove it completely. The blunt head of him presses against my entrance, and I arch back instinctively.

His hand fists in my hair, pulling my head back. The sharp tug makes me gasp.

"Watch," he commands, nodding toward the glass doors. "Watch yourself take my dick."

He slams into me in one brutal thrust.

I scream, the sound echoing off the walls. My arms nearly buckle from the force, but his grip in my hair keeps me steady.

"Fuck, you feel perfect." He withdraws almost completely before driving back in, harder this time.

Each thrust pushes me forward. My palms press flat against the carpet, trying to brace myself against his relentless pace.

His free hand grips my hip, fingers digging into my flesh hard enough to bruise.

"Pietro—oh god?—"

"That's it, baby. Let everyone hear who's fucking you."

His hand in my hair tightens, pulling harder. The burn in my scalp mixes with the pleasure building between my legs, creating a sensation that makes my vision blur.

He releases my hair, both hands gripping my hips now. The new angle lets him go deeper, hitting that spot inside me that makes stars explode behind my eyes.

"Come for me, Nora. Now."

His hand slides around to where we're joined, fingers finding my clit. The pressure combined with his relentless thrusts shatters me.

I scream his name as the orgasm crashes through me. My arms give out, chest pressing against the carpet as waves of pleasure roll through my body.

Pietro doesn't slow. He fucks me through it, chasing his own release.

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

NORA

The private dining room at Bella Notte glows with candlelight. Pietro chose this place specifically. Tucked away from prying eyes, intimate enough that we can actually talk without his men hovering nearby. Well, they're probably outside, but at least I can pretend we're normal for once.

"You're doing it again," Pietro says, twirling his wine glass.

"Doing what?"

"That thing where you cut your food into perfect little squares." His lips twitch. "Like you're performing surgery on that chicken."

I look down at my plate. He's right. I've sectioned everything into neat, even pieces. "It's called being civilized."

"It's called being obsessive." He reaches across with his fork and steals one of my perfectly cut pieces. "See? Tastes the same even when it's stolen."

"Thief." I try to stab his hand with my fork, but he's too quick.

"You work for a thief, baby. What did you expect?"

"I expected dinner without harassment."

He leans back in his chair. "When have I ever given you anything without harassment?"