Page 31 of The Assassin's Captive
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.
15
LORENZO
Dawn filters through the blackout curtains, painting thin lines of gold across the marble floor. I wake gradually, consciousness returning in layers. The scent of her hair against my chest. The steady rhythm of her breathing. The weight of her arm draped across my ribs.
Serena sleeps curled against me, her face peaceful in the morning light. No tension in her jaw. No wariness in her closed eyes. She looks younger this way, vulnerable in a manner she would never allow while awake. Her dark hair lies tangled under us, and I find myself studying the delicate curve of her ear, the way her lashes rest against her cheekbones.
I should move. Should extract myself from this tangle of limbs and return to the business of keeping her contained. But I remain still, memorizing details I have no right to notice. The faint freckle on her shoulder. The way her fingers curl loosely against my chest. The soft exhale that escapes her lips when she shifts deeper into sleep.
This is dangerous territory. I do not linger in beds. I do not watch women sleep. I do not allow myself the luxury of tenderness, even in stolen moments before the world intrudes.
But Serena is different. She has been different since the moment she walked into that opera house, chin raised, eyes blazing defiance. She should be afraid of me by now. Should understand exactly what I am capable of. Instead, she seduced me last night. Drew me into a game I thought I understood but found myself losing the moment her mouth touched mine. And now, hours later, after fucking her twice more, she owns a part of my soul I know I won't get back.
