Page 14 of The Assassin's Captive
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'dmoved 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 ofhis 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.
7
LORENZO
Iwake before dawn, my internal clock as reliable as any alarm. The apartment is quiet except for the soft sound of her breathing beside me. Serena lies on her side, dark hair fanned across the pillow, one hand tucked beneath her cheek. In sleep, she looks younger, the sharp edges of her wariness smoothed away.
I watch her for a moment, memorizing the curve of her shoulder, the way her lashes cast shadows on her cheeks. The rational part of my brain catalogs this as a mistake—bringing her here, touching her, letting her under my skin. But the rest of me wants to reach out, to trace the line of her spine, to wake her with my mouth on hers.
I don't.
Instead, I slip from the bed, careful not to disturb the mattress. My clothes are scattered across the floor, reminders of how quickly things escalated between us. I dress in the dim sunlight already filtering through the curtains this morning. It's time to put my orders to action, though I already feel the way my body wants to resist what I'm supposed to do and linger in the chemistry between us.
The night replays itself in fragments as I move through the apartment. Her laugh over drinks, the way she looked at me when I mentioned the opera. The heat in her eyes when I kissed her. The sounds she made when I touched her. I file each memory away under things I don't get to have, things that were never meant to be mine.
Because that's what this was—a moment stolen from a life that doesn't belong to me. A glimpse of what normal might feel like if I were someone else. If she were someone else. If we existed in a world where my hands weren't stained with blood and her job wasn't to prosecute men like me.
I retrieve my Glock from the kitchen counter where I left it, checking the magazine before sliding it into the holster at my back. My phone sits beside where the gun was, the screen dark. No missed calls from Emilio. No urgent messages. The world outside this apartment has continued without me, but it won't wait much longer.
The coffee maker gurgles to life as I set it to brew. The familiar ritual grounds me, brings me back to the present. Back to what needs to happen next.
