Page 15 of The Assassin’s Captive (The Roma Syndicate #5)

SERENA

T he fire crackles behind the hearth, sending amber light dancing across the walls of his living room. I sit on the leather sofa, legs tucked beneath me, watching Lorenzo pour himself another glass of whiskey. The third one in an hour, but he's prowling, stalking around like a beast in a cage.

The realization has fully settled into my bones. I am trapped here—no car, no phone. No way out except through him. And he wants answers I can't give. Secrets I have spent years protecting. Trust I don't possess.

But there are other things I can offer. Other currencies I can trade.

I study the rigid line of his shoulders beneath the black shirt, the tension coiled in his frame.

He's been distant since the call from Costa earlier.

Cold. Calculating. The man who kissed me that night has retreated behind walls of ice and steel.

But I saw the hunger in his eyes when I walked into this room.

The way his gaze lingered on the curve of my waist, the sweep of my bare legs beneath this silk dress.

Desire is a weakness. And Lorenzo Santoro, for all his control, is still a man.

I rise from the sofa, bare feet silent on the floor, and he doesn't turn when I approach, but his hand tightens around the glass. I stop behind him, close enough to feel the heat radiating from his skin, to catch the scent of cedar and gunpowder that clings to him always.

"You're thinking too hard," I murmur, my voice barely above a whisper.

His shoulders tense. "Am I?"

"Brooding. Plotting. Whatever it is you do when you get that look." I step closer until my chest nearly touches his back. "But tonight doesn't have to be about Costa. Or the past. Or whatever war is brewing out there."

He turns then with a slow, predatory look in his hazel eyes as they search my face, looking for the trap. The deception. He knows me too well already.

"What are you doing, Serena?"

The question comes out flat. A statement rather than an inquiry. But I hear the undercurrent of warning threaded through his voice. The edge of danger that should make me retreat.

Instead, I reach up and trace the scar that cuts down his cheek. His jaw clenches beneath my touch, but he doesn't pull away.

"Maybe I'm tired of fighting you," I say. "Maybe I want to try a different approach."

"And what approach is that?"

My fingers trail down to his throat, feeling the steady pulse beneath his skin. "Cooperation. Trust. You want me to open up to you? Then perhaps you should give me a reason to."

His free hand captures my wrist, his grip firm but not painful. "Careful. You're playing games you don't understand."

"I understand perfectly." I lean closer until my lips brush against his ear. "You want to know my secrets. I want to know yours. Seems fair."

His breath hitches. The glass in his other hand trembles, whiskey sloshing against the crystal. For a moment, his mask slips, and I see the raw hunger beneath. The need he has been holding back.

"Stop." The word comes out rough. Strained. "You don't know what you're asking for."

But I do. I know exactly what I am asking for. What I am offering. Not the truth—I can't give him that. But my body. My submission. The illusion of surrender that might buy me time. Space. An opening.

I pull my wrist free and place my palm flat against his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart. "I'm not asking for anything. I'm telling you what I want."

His control fractures. I see it happen in real time—the moment his resolve crumbles and something darker rises to take its place. The glass drops from his hand, shattering against the marble floor. Whiskey spreads in golden rivulets, forgotten.

His hands find my waist, pulling me against him. "You think you can handle me?" His voice drops to a growl. "You think you can play this game and walk away unscathed?"

My pulse hammers in my throat, but I meet his gaze without flinching. "Try me."

The words hang between us for a heartbeat.

Then his mouth crashes down on mine, hard and demanding.

There is nothing gentle about this kiss.

Nothing tender. He claims my lips as though he owns them, his tongue sliding past my defenses.

I taste whiskey and a hint of a cigar on his breath, but it's the danger that's tantalizing to me.

My hands fist in his shirt, pulling him closer even as my mind screams warnings. This is not part of the plan. This heat spreading through my veins, this ache building low in my belly. This is not calculated. This is not control.

This is need, raw and honest and terrifying.

He breaks the kiss abruptly, his breathing harsh. His eyes burn as they search my face. "Last chance to run."

But I can't run. Won't run. Not when I am so close to finding his weakness. To gaining the upper hand.

"I'm not going anywhere," I breathe.

Something shifts in his expression then. Something predatory and possessive that makes my stomach flutter. His hands slide down to cup my ass, lifting me easily. My legs wrap around his waist instinctively, and he carries me away from the broken glass, away from the light of the fire.

The hallway is dim, shadows pooling in every corner.

He sets me down beside the staircase, his hands already working at the fasteners of my clothing.

The fabric pools at my feet, leaving me in nothing but black lace.

His gaze devours every inch of exposed skin, and I feel beautiful and powerful and terrified all at once.

"You want to know my secrets?" He strips off his shirt, revealing the network of scars and ink that maps his chest. "Here's one. I've wanted you since the moment you walked into that opera house."

I see the truth of it in his eyes, the admission of vulnerability he would never normally allow. And I realize this game I thought I was playing has already spiraled beyond my control.

His hands frame my face, thumbs stroking across my cheekbones. "And here's another. After tonight, you'll never look at another man the way you look at me."

Before I can respond, his mouth is on mine again, hungrier this time, more demanding. I lose myself in the taste of him, the feel of his hands roaming my body. When he backs me against the wall, the cool plaster is shocking against my heated skin, I arch into him instead of pulling away.

This is supposed to be leverage. Manipulation. A calculated risk.

But when he drops to his knees and presses his mouth to the hollow of my throat, when his hands slide up my thighs and his breath ghosts across my skin, I forget about strategy. About escape. About everything except the fire he is building inside me.

He hooks his fingers in the lace at my hips and tears it.

Not pushes, not peels. Rips. The fabric shreds like tissue in his fists, and I gasp as cool air brushes the heat between my legs.

He doesn’t pause to admire. He drags his mouth between my thighs and forces a cry from my throat with the first pass of his tongue.

He groans into me. The sound is low and feral.

My knees buckle, one hand flying to the banister to steady myself.

The other tangles in his hair, anchoring me to the rhythm he sets—ruthless, relentless.

There’s no mercy in him now, no patience.

He sucks hard, tongue circling until I’m trembling, close to falling apart, and when I whimper, he presses his fingers into me without warning.

He pushes two fingers inside me at once, deep enough to stretch and fill me completely.

I writhe against his mouth, hips jerking with every thrust of his hand. “Lorenzo?—”

“Louder,” he snarls. “Say my name again.”

“Lorenzo.” A broken moan this time. “Please.”

He groans again, fucking me with his fingers as he sucks harder, rougher, until I’m shaking.

Until I feel myself unraveling, the edge pulling closer with every breath.

My climax rips through me with brutal force, dragging a cry from my lungs that borders on a sob.

His name leaves my mouth in a fractured moan as my body clenches around his fingers, muscles contracting in sharp, helpless spasms.

Pleasure crashes through me in wave after wave, each one stealing my breath and snapping my spine taut. I convulse around him, my thighs shaking, my vision blurring at the edges, every nerve ending lit with raw, overstimulated heat.

And still, he doesn’t stop—he keeps going, his mouth and hand working in tandem to draw every last tremor from my body until I’m limp and trembling in his grip, wrecked in the aftermath of the orgasm he forced from me.

Lorenzo's mouth trails up my stomach, over my ribs, up to my throat. His hand slides up my back, gripping my nape as he stands. When he kisses me, I taste myself on his tongue, and the shock of it tears another sound from my throat. His belt clinks, his pants fall. And then he’s shoving me back against the wall, one hand between my shoulder blades to hold me steady as he lines himself up, dragging the thick length of him through my folds once, letting the slick heat of my arousal coat him from base to tip.

The weight of his dick presses against my entrance, and I feel the promise of pain and pleasure mingling just beneath the surface.

My breath catches. My hips rock forward instinctively, seeking more friction, more heat.

I forget why I instigated this. I forget why I pushed him until he wanted to fuck me, but I don't regret it.

It's all blurred together in my mind—my desire, his desire, the threats, the fact that I'm captive—and right now I don't even care. I just want him inside me.

He thrusts into me in one punishing stroke, so deep it knocks the air from my lungs.

I cry out, clutching his back with desperate fingers, my nails scoring red lines into his skin.

His breath shudders against my neck before he bites down on my shoulder, teeth sinking in just enough to anchor himself as he begins to move.

He doesn’t ease into it. He pounds into me savagely, every motion bruising and raw.

His hips drive forward again and again, slamming into mine with a force that rattles through my bones.

I gasp with each impact, body arching to meet him, caught between the sharp burn of being taken and the molten pleasure curling low in my belly.

“This what you wanted?” he grits. “To see what happens when you push me too far?”

I try to answer, but I can’t speak. I can barely breathe. Every thrust drives me higher, closer to the edge I thought I’d already fallen from.

He grabs my thigh and lifts it higher on his waist, angling my body until he can drive into me even deeper.

The change hits hard—so deep I swear I see stars—and I gasp, nails biting into the muscle of his shoulders.

His hand slides up, curling around my throat.

He doesn’t squeeze. Doesn’t cut off my air.

But the possessiveness in that gesture is unmistakable.

His palm spans my neck, his thumb pressed just beneath my jaw, feeling the frantic rhythm of my pulse.

It’s not dominance for the sake of fear.

It’s control. Claiming. Each stroke of his body into mine lands sharper, more punishing, as if this is the moment he’s branding me from the inside out.

My head tips back, exposing more of my throat to him, and I moan—deep and guttural and ruined—because with his hand there, with his cock hitting that spot over and over again, I feel completely owned. Completely his.

“Look at me,” he growls. “I want to see your face when you come.” His hand angles my jaw so I can't look away and when I meet his eyes—and I fall.

The second climax crashes over me with savage intensity, tearing through me in brutal, all-consuming waves.

My back arches off the wall, every muscle locked tight as white-hot pleasure explodes behind my eyes.

I cry out a raw and unrestrained noise, as my body clenches around him with rhythmic pulses.

My legs give out, boneless and trembling, but he doesn’t let me fall.

Lorenzo holds me upright with one hand locked around my waist and the other still cradling my throat, fucking me through every desperate spasm of release.

His rhythm falters only when I clamp down hard around him, the slick drag of my climax making him hiss through his teeth.

He thrusts once more—deeper, harder—and groans low in his chest as his control snaps.

His body jerks against mine. He shudders, breath catching, and then he spills inside me with a curse, buried to the hilt. Every muscle in him is rigid, his head bowed, his mouth dragging hot and open across my neck as he empties himself into me.

His breath is ragged. My body shakes against him.

The wall is cold against my back, but his body is warm, solid, real. I can hear his heartbeat beneath my ear, still racing from our encounter.

For a moment, I let myself pretend this means something. That the tenderness in his touch as he caresses my bare shoulder is real. That the way he holds me—protective, possessive—is born of affection rather than ownership.

But reality crashes back too soon—about the same time he pulls out, lets his sex drain down my thigh, and slides his slacks back into place. This changes nothing. I'm still his prisoner. He's still my captor. And tomorrow, Costa will still expect answers I can't give.

My attempt to convince Lorenzo Santoro that he wants me more than he wants to obey his boss hasn't been successful because I lost myself in his touch. I'm powerless against him.

I lift my head to look at him. His eyes are closed, his breathing deep and even. He looks younger somehow, the harsh lines of his face softened by satisfaction. By peace I doubt he finds often.

"Lorenzo," I whisper.

He opens his eyes, hazel depths focusing on my face. For a heartbeat, I see something unguarded there. Something that makes my chest tight.

"Please let me go," I say quietly. Because I need to say it, need to reaffirm my desire to be anywhere other than here.

I have a life, a job, a family. I want to go home.

And this man who is holding me against my will may be incredibly sexy, dangerously and uncontrollably so, but I can't let myself forget that I'm here as his prisoner.

His expression shutters. The walls slam back into place, and the tenderness vanishes as though it never existed.

"No," he agrees, his voice carefully neutral. "Fucking you changes nothing, Serena. I can't let you leave."

I know, deep in my bones, that despite him saying nothing has changed, everything has definitely changed. The game I thought I was playing has become something else entirely. Something dangerous and complicated and real.

Something that might destroy us both.