Page 144 of The Hitman's Secret Baby
I run my fingers through his hair, tugging gently until he looks up. "So make me feel like it."
He stands, shedding his shirt, his belt, everything. Every scar on him is new and familiar all at once.
I trace one with my fingertip as he lifts me again and carries me to the bed.
We sink into the sheets like they've been waiting for us. I straddle him, palms flat against his chest, the rhythm of his breath syncing with mine.
I guide him inside me, the stretch and slide of it making me shudder. His hands grip my hips, his brow furrowed with restraint. But I don't want his restraint.
I want everything. I begin to move, slow and deep, my nails dragging down his chest. His eyes stay locked on mine. "Say it," I whisper, gasping as his hands slide up my sides. "Say you still want me."
"I never stopped," he replies. "You're mine, Aria. No matter what this house takes from us, no matter who tries to break us, you will always be mine."
He thrusts up into me, hard enough to knock the air from my lungs. I ride him harder, our bodies slapping together, slick and breathless. He curses beneath me, one hand slipping between my thighs, teasing me until my breath breaks and my body arches against him. "Oh," I cry out, my mouth parted as breathless moans leave my lips. Even as I'm falling apart above him, his arms slide beneath my legs, lifting me effortlessly, our bodies still joined.
I gasp, my head falling back as he sits up against the headboard, taking me with him. I straddle him now, his cock still inside me, thick and hard, pulsing in a way that makes my breath catch. He's so deep I can barely think, every inch of him buried in me, pressing into places that feel like they were made for this.
He grips my hips, holding me down on him, not letting me move yet. "You feel that?" he asks, voice rough and low. "That's how deep you are in me. I want you to feel it in your belly, in your spine. I want you to remember what it means to belong to me."
"I do," I whisper, hands braced on his chest, nails digging in as my walls flutter around him, already aching again. "I never forgot."
He pulls me down, slowly at first, grinding up into me until I feel him press so high inside of me I swear I see stars. My hands slip to the back of his neck, clinging, desperate, as he thrusts up into me with punishing force, each movement thick with the kind of need that doesn't burn out.
The bed rocks beneath us, but I barely feel it. All I know is the stretch, the fullness, the steady grind of his hips as he fucks me deeper than I thought possible. My thighs tremble against him. He growls, one hand sliding between us to press against the tender, swollen place where I'm already dripping for him again.
"Right there," he mutters, his breath hot against my mouth. "You feel that? That's where I want you to come. While I'm still inside. While you're locked around me."
His words hit like a spark to dry leaves. I moan, high and helpless, as the heat builds again, fast and sharp, spiraling up through my spine. My hips rock harder, grinding down into him, and he meets every movement, his eyes locked on mine with no softness, only hunger.
"Enzo," I choke, my voice cracking. "I can't?—"
"You can," he growls. "You will. Give it to me."
I break. My body clamps around him, pleasure tearing through me so hard I scream, every muscle drawn tight, every inch of me wrung out by the force of it. He bites my shoulder, not hard enough to break the skin, just enough to keep me in his arms as I shatter.
With a low groan, he moves me again, guiding my body onto its side as he settles behind me. His hands are firm, sure, one sliding beneath my thigh to lift it, the other bracing against the mattress as he lines himself up.
A beat later, he thrusts in—thick and deep—pushing into the slick heat of me with a greedy sound that makes my breath catch in my throat.
The stretch is intense from this angle, a deep, dragging pressure that makes my leg twitch in his grip. He grunts as he sinks all the way in, the sound low and ragged against the back of my neck.
The rhythm he finds is a slow buildup of pleasure, each stroke wet and lewd, our bodies meeting with the slap of skin and the slick squelch of how soaked I still am for him.
His cock drags against every swollen nerve as he fucks me from the side, the sounds of it—wet, thick—filling the room between breathless moans and the hiss of his voice in my ear.
"Listen to that," he growls, his palm tightening on my thigh. "You hear how hungry your body is for me?"
I can't answer. I can only whimper, the noise barely escaping my throat as my walls clench around him again, fluttering, soaked, desperate.
The slap of our bodies grows louder, messier, the suction and slip of his cock inside me so filthy it sounds like sin made flesh.
My fingers curl around the bedsheet. His name falls from my lips in a whisper and then again, louder.
"Enzo, please."
"Come with me," he groans. "Let me feel you. Let me come inside you."
"Give it to me, every last drop," I cry out, and moments later, a thick warmth floods my insides. He growls something guttural and slams into me once, twice more before he shudders hard and goes still, buried deep, spilling into me with a sound torn from his chest.
