Page 19 of Power
“Fuck—I can see it in your eyes. You want a taste of this, don’t you? You want me to come in your mouth?”
“I…”
“Fucking answer me.”
Her back lurches further against the door, frantically trying to see if she can somehow permeate through it. “I… that’s not what I want.”
“Tell me what you want, then.” This feels so damn good. When she doesn’t say anything else, I stroke faster, panting and groaning. My grip is rough and violent. I’m so close to her now.
“I love you watching me touch myself, Vittoria. I know you want to do much more than watch, don’t you, princess?”
She remains standing, her eyes glued to my hands working my cock.
“Get. On. Your. Knees.”
She doesn’t move at first. Her breath is uneven, her hands twitch at her sides. But she wants this—I can see it in the way her chest rises too fast, in the way her thighs press together like she’s trying to steady herself against something inevitable.
“Vittoria.” My voice is rough, coaxing. “You need me? Show me.”
A shaky breath leaves her lips. Then, finally, she sinks to her knees, her body folding in front of me like it’s the only place she belongs.
I watch her, knowing I should pace myself, knowing I should draw this out—but the way she looks up at me, her dark, drowning eyes filled with hunger, shreds the last of my control. My strokes turn rough, desperate.
She’s close to tears, but she doesn’t look away. Her lips part, her breathing stutters. Through the thin fabric of her shirt, I see the tight peaks of her nipples, proof that my pleasure reaches deep inside her, pulling her under right along with me..
“God girl,” I groan, knowing what’s about to happen and welcoming it wholeheartedly. “Now open that pretty mouth for me.”
I half-expect her to argue, but she doesn’t. Instead, she opens her mouth, and I plunge halfway in, spilling my load on her tongue. I don’t stop stroking until I give her everything I have.
Basking in the pleasure of my orgasm, my entire body shudders and trembles. “Oh God, Vittoria, what are you doing to me? I can’t stop coming.” I put a hand on the wall for support.
I watch her swallow, and just like the little minx I know she is, she closes her beautiful puckered lips around my dick and sucks gently, emptying my balls completely until I have to physically pry her head off.
The little she-devil moans before getting to her feet and wiping her lips with the back of her hand. I reach out and grab her hand, pulling her flush against me and holding her close.
“I’ve never had an orgasm that intense in my entire life, Vittoria. You’re amazing.”
“But I am married.” There’s an anger in her voice, one I hear even without trying.
But like the asshole I’ve always been, I ignore it.
“That ceased to be important to me the minute you walked through my front door,” I say. “I’m going to make you do things you never thought you could do. I’m going to taste your pussy, finger you, and make you come on my tongue. I’m going to fuck you until you can’t take it anymore, and you will make your body available for me when I want, how I want, and for as long as I want. You’ll move when I say, talk when I say, and enjoy thepleasure I’m going to give you without complaint like my dirty little whore.”
She swallows loudly and doesn’t say anything. In her silence, I find my answer: she definitely wants this too.
Chapter 6
Dario
The truck lurches to a stop outside the warehouse. I slide out and the cold night air bites at my skin. The place is quiet and secluded but that’s why it’s perfect. When I walk through the heavy steel doors, the smell of oil and metal hits me. I can hear the low hum of the machinery, and I know my men are here. They’re always here, waiting for the next job. They don’t ask questions, just take orders. That’s how it works.
I push open the door to my office and step inside. Raffaele is already there, leaning back in the chair with his arms folded over his chest. His hair—normally sleek and controlled—is a mess, like he’s run his hands through it one too many times. It almost forms an accidental mohawk, which would be funny if not for the look on his face.
His eyes are bloodshot, showing the type exhaustion that doesn’t come from lack of sleep alone. But his posture is rigid and composed and tells me he’s ready. He means business.
He’s wearing jeans and a T-shirt stretched tight over his biceps, a reminder of exactly how built he is and how well he knows how to use it. That’s what I like about having him in my corner—there’s no wasted muscle, no useless strength.
He knows I’m pissed. I don’t have to say a word. He’s been with me long enough to read the signs.
