Page 13 of The Assassin's Captive
He doesn’t tear them off. He peels the lace down with a kind of reverence that doesn’t match the tension thrumming beneath his skin. When the last scrap of fabric slides past my knees, he tosses it to the floor and grips my hips again, holding me steady.
I reach between us and unfasten his belt. The metal buckle clinks and his body goes still. I drag the zipper down, my knuckles grazing the line of his stomach. His breath hitches as I reach inside and wrap my fingers around him.
“Lie back,” he says, voice tight. I hesitate, just long enough to see the control snap in his eyes. “Now.”
I lower myself to the bed, letting my legs fall open as he stands and kicks off his pants. The sight of him—naked, hard, eyes fixed on mine—sends heat spiraling low in my stomach. He kneels again and drags me to the edge of the mattress, one hand locking around my ankle as he lifts my leg over his shoulder.
“I want to hear you,” he says. “Every sound. Every breath.”
Then he lowers his mouth to me. My hips jerk at the first touch of his tongue, the hot slide of it turning my nerves electric. He doesn’t rush—he devours me like it’s the only thing he came here to do, tongue moving in steady, maddening strokes while his fingers grip my thighs to keep me still.
I try to stay quiet but I fail miserably. He's good at this—so fucking good I'm already finding it hard to breathe, seeing stars behind my eyes at the strain to hold back. But the room fills with broken sounds, muttered whimpers, gasps for breath. My hands fist the sheets, my spine lifting from the mattress as pressure builds fast and deep in my core. He groans into me when I moan his name, and the vibration sends me over the edge.
He doesn’t stop until I’m shaking, writhing on the bed, convulsing around his digits. "Shit… Oh Christ," I mumble over and over while his tongue delves into my depths and draws fountains of moisture from somewhere inside me. I'm trembling, pulsing around him, as he growls into my sensitive skin.
Then he rises, dragging his mouth up my body until he’s hovering above me again, lips wet, eyes dark.
“I’m not done,” he says.
“Good,” I whisper. “Don’t stop." I’m panting, chest heaving for breath as I reach for him.
Lorenzo catches my wrist before I can touch him and pins it to the mattress above my head, his fingers curling around thedelicate bones of my wrist like he’s testing how easily he could break me. His eyes stay locked on mine, no trace of gentleness in the tension carved into his jaw or the way his cock presses hard against my inner thigh, slick from how thoroughly he’s wrecked me already.
“You don’t move,” he says, his voice low and taut. “You don’t speak unless I tell you to. And if I see your hands anywhere but where I put them, I’ll tie them to the fucking headboard.”
I nod once, breath caught somewhere in my throat, but it’s not enough for him. He tightens his grip until I gasp.
“Say it.”
“I won’t move.”
“And if I tell you to beg?”
“I will.”
His mouth curls, half-satisfied, half-dangerous, and then he lets go and shifts his weight lower, dragging the backs of his fingers down the length of my torso in one slow, possessive stroke that makes my body strain toward him even when I try to stay still.
He doesn’t warn me when he enters me—just grips my hips and drives in to the hilt with one brutal thrust that knocks the breath from my lungs and locks my spine into a bow away from the mattress. The stretch is punishing, my pussy still swollen and oversensitive from his mouth, and I feel every inch of him as he holds himself deep and still inside me.
“You feel that?” he growls, bending over me until his mouth brushes my ear and his weight presses me deeper into the mattress. “How deep I am inside you?" I nod at him and he says, "Now I own you, Serena. I own this pretty cunt of yours. It's mine."
He starts to move—not gently, not teasing, but in a steady, merciless rhythm, dominating me, claiming me. He fucks me like he’s trying to imprint the shape of his cock into my body, likehe wants me to feel him long after he’s pulled out and left me empty and ruined.
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.”
