Page 7 of The Assassin’s Captive (The Roma Syndicate #5)
My hands stay where he left them, fists curling into the pillow above my head, but it’s getting harder with every thrust to not touch.
The slap of his hips against the back of my thighs, the heat of his skin, the brutal friction of every inch dragging against my walls—it tears sound from my throat, not words, not even his name, just raw, involuntary, feral noise.
He reaches between us without slowing and presses two fingers to my clit, rubbing hard and tight in rhythm with his thrusts, watching me fall apart beneath him with a dark hunger that makes my whole body clench.
“That’s it,” he breathes. “Come for me again. Let me feel you squeeze around my cock while I fuck you through it.”
I try to hold back, but he knows exactly where to touch, how to grind against me at just the right angle to drag the climax out of me whether I’m ready or not.
When it hits, I break—hips jerking, thighs trembling, a moan clawing out of my throat as I clench around him so hard it pulls another curse from his lips.
Lorenzo doesn’t let up.
He fucks me through it, through the aftershocks and overstimulation, through the trembling and the breathless gasps. He keeps his pace brutal, hand still working my clit until I’m half-sobbing, half-moaning beneath him, not knowing whether the next wave will destroy me or rebuild me.
“You take everything I give you,” he growls, voice rough with restraint. “You take it and you thank me for it.”
“Thank you,” I choke out, completely undone. “Thank you.”
He growls something low in Italian and grabs my wrists again, yanking them above my head and pinning them with one hand while the other wraps around my throat—not squeezing, just holding, just reminding me I’m his.
I didn't even know I'd moved them, but suddenly the lack of his skin on my palms feels punishing.
He leans down, eyes burning into mine.
“Next time,” he says, his cock still slamming into me with relentless force, “I’ll keep you cuffed, blindfolded, gagged if I have to. But tonight I want you to scream my name when I fill you.”
And I do.
He doesn't ease up. He keeps my wrists pinned in one hand, his hips pounding into me in a brutal rhythm that shoves me higher up the mattress with every thrust. The slap of skin, the wet drag of friction, the broken sounds spilling from my mouth—it all fuels him.
He watches me unravel beneath him, fully exposed, fully his.
“You’re going to come one more time,” he growls, voice vibrating against the base of my throat. “And this time, you’ll scream for it.”
His fingers slide back between my legs, finding my clit again, rubbing fast and tight as he drives into me harder, deeper, every inch slamming into the tender places he’s already marked. My body jerks, overstimulated and desperate, the edge coming too fast to hold back.
“Lorenzo—fuck—Loren?—”
He snarls when he hears his name. “That’s it. Let go. Come on my cock while I fill you.”
The orgasm hits like a detonator—violent and full-bodied, my entire frame locking up as I scream through it, eyes rolling back, nails biting into my own fists to keep from clawing him open. I clamp around him hard, every muscle pulling tight, and that’s what breaks him.
With a guttural groan, he lets go of my wrists and grabs my hips, slamming in one final time.
He buries himself to the hilt and holds there, his entire body shuddering with the force of his release as he comes inside me—deep, hot, possessive.
His jaw clenches, teeth bared, eyes locked on mine like he wants to watch the exact moment I come completely undone.
He stays like that for a long beat, cock still throbbing inside me, breath ragged against my neck. Then he lets his weight sink down, heavy and grounding, one arm sliding beneath my shoulders to drag me closer, the other tangled in my hair like he still doesn’t want to let me go.
“I told you,” he murmurs against my skin. “You’re mine now.”
And I believe him—and that scares me.
We lie tangled in the sheets, my head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat slow.
His fingers grip my bare shoulder, and I can feel the tension slowly leaving his body.
The rational part of my brain is starting to reassert itself, whispering questions I'm not ready to answer.
What am I doing? Who is this man, really?
But I push those thoughts away, focusing instead on the warmth of his skin, the steady rise and fall of his breathing.
"No regrets?" he asks quietly, his voice rumbling through his chest.
I turn my head to look at him. I can't really read his expression in the low light, but there's something vulnerable in his eyes that I don't expect.
"No," I say, and I mean it. "Not tonight, anyway."
There is zero response from him, not a nod, not a smile, but his hand continues its tense movement across my skin. The rest of Rome probably sleeps, but in this room, in this moment, nothing exists beyond the two of us and the heat we've created together.
I close my eyes, letting myself drift in the afterglow, trying not to think about what tomorrow will bring—finally feeling free from the pressure of the courtroom.