Page 25 of Ruined By Capture

I imagine bending her over that laptop, watching her grind the mattress as I take her from behind. How that perfect ass would feel against my hips, how she'd arch her back and gasp my name when I…

Cazzo. I need to focus.

I shift my weight, forcing my eyes away from Melania's curves. Watching her work shouldn't be this fucking distracting. But it's been weeks since I've been with a woman and my body's reminding me of that fact with painful clarity.

Women have always been easy for me. A look across a crowded club, a drink sent to their table. They come to my bed willingly, eagerly. No attachments, no complications. Just a night of pleasure before we go our separate ways.

That's how I like it. Clean. Simple. I take what I need, give them what they want, and we part satisfied. Sometimes they want more but I make the rules clear from the start. One night. Maybe two if they're particularly skilled with their mouth or know how to move their hips just right.

I've never brought a woman to my actual home. Hotel, their apartment, the occasional back room at Omertà when I couldn't wait. But never somewhere they could learn anything about the real me. Never somewhere they could become a liability.

The last woman I fucked was some model at a social event three weeks ago. I can't remember her name now. Don't need to.

That's how it works in my world. Sex is just another bodily function. Release the tension, clear the mind, move on to the next task. Damiano jokes that I fuck like I kill—efficiently, without mercy, leaving no witnesses. He's not entirely wrong.

I watch Melania work, memories crawling up my spine like unwanted hands. The intensity in her eyes reminds me of Violet.

Violet. Haven't let myself think of that name in years.

Six months. That's all it took for her to crawl under my skin. An American art dealer with honey-blonde hair and a laugh that made people turn their heads. She knew nothing about my world—thought I ran security for high-profile clients’. Technically true.

What we had was... different. Clean. For those six months I'd leave the blood and violence at the door of her Manhattan apartment. Inside those walls I was just a man. Not Damiano's weapon. Not the monster that makes grown men piss themselves when I walk into a room.

"Could I have some water, please?"

Melania's voice snaps me back. She's looking up at me, those amber eyes narrowed slightly. I've been staring at her. For how long?

"What?" My voice comes out rougher than intended.

"Water?" She raises an eyebrow.

I nod once, turning without a word. My thumb traces my bottom lip as I head for the kitchen, my mind still half-trapped in memories.

In the kitchen I grab a bottle of water from the fridge. My eyes catch on a plate of cookies Ettore left. The old man's always baking something, claiming the safehouse needs to ‘smell like a home, not a prison’. I don't have much of a sweet tooth but I remember reading somewhere that sugar spikes concentration.

I take one cookie, then add another.

I return to the room, water bottle in one hand, cookies in the other. Melania doesn't look up when I enter, still absorbed in whatever the fuck she's doing on that laptop. Lines of code scroll across the screen, meaningless to me but clearly making perfect sense to her.

"Here." I place the water bottle on my chair beside her. Then, almost as an afterthought, I drop the cookies next to it.

She glances up, surprise flickering across her face. "Thank you." Her eyes dart to the cookies and I briefly detect an expression other than calculation or fear. Something almost... human.

I drop into the chair across from the bed, stretching my legs out in front of me. The room feels smaller than it did before, the air more sullen. I watch as she reaches for a cookie, still typing with one hand.

She takes a bite, and then—"Mmmmm."

Her moan goes straight to my groin. Low, throaty, pure pleasure. Her eyes close for a moment as she chews, savoring the taste.

My cock stiffens instantly. Fuck.

I shift in my seat, trying to ease the hard pressure against my zipper. That sound. That fucking sound. It's the same noise a woman makes when you graze exactly the right spot inside her. When you curl your fingers and press that place that makes her back arch and her thighs tremble.

She takes another bite, oblivious to what she's doing to me. Another luxurious sigh escapes her lips.

My mind fills with images of those lips wrapped around my cock instead of that cookie. Her eyes looking up at me as I grip her hair, guiding her movements. I'd be gentle at first, let her set the pace, but then?—

"These are incredible," she says, reaching for the second cookie. "I haven't eaten anything this good in days."

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