Page 20 of Indigo Deception
When my hips rock against his face, chasing the building pressure, he pulls back. I bite back a whimper of protest as he rises and licks the remnants of my juices. The gesture is obscene and erotic and makes my stomach clench with desire.
"Turn around," he commands, voice rough. "I want you to see."
He spins me to face the mirror, and the woman reflected is a stranger to me. Flushed cheeks. Swollen lips. Wild eyes bright with a reckless hunger I've never allowed myself to feel, let alone show.
Behind me, Angelo's gaze meets mine in the reflection as he positions himself. There's something almost angry in his expression—frustration and need boiling over after weeks of denial.
"Say my name," he demands, one hand gripping my hip, the other tangled in my hair.
"Angelo," I whisper, and he enters me in one powerful thrust that steals the breath from my lungs.
My gasp echoes off the marble and tile. He covers my mouth with his hand, his other arm banded around my waist to hold me steady as he thrusts so deep I feel him in my stomach.
"This is what you've been running from," he growls in my ear, his breath hot and damp against my skin. "This terrifies you. Not me—us. What we could be."
And God help me, he's right. But not for the reasons he thinks.
I'm terrified because in this moment, with him buried deep inside me, I'm not Agent Gianna Rossi. I'm not even Sarah Bennett, financial consultant. I'm just a woman losing herself in pleasure.
His lips brush the sensitive spot behind my ear, and his fingers dig into my flesh, leaving marks.
“Fuck, your pussy was custom made for me,” he groans deeply, the sound reverberating against me.
And that's what sends me over the edge.
My orgasm builds like a gathering storm, tension coiling tighter with each thrust. When it finally breaks, it tears through me with such force that my vision blurs around the edges.
His rhythm falters as I tighten around him. "Fuck, Sarah," he groans, and the name—the wrong name—is like a slap.
This isn't real. None of it is.
Angelo drops his head in the crook of my neck, his control finally slipping as he follows me over the edge with a muffled groan against my shoulder.
For several heartbeats, we remained frozen in place, his forehead pressed to my shoulder, my hands white-knuckled on the edge of the counter, both of us breathing hard in the aftermath.
The bathroom smells of sex and expensive cologne and the faint lemon of cleaning products. An obscene combination that somehow perfectly encapsulates the moral tangle I've gotten myself into.
I wince slightly as he removes his cock from me, and the weight of what I've just done settles on my shoulders like a dark shroud.
I turn around and watch as Angelo straightens first, adjusting his clothing with no sign of shame about what we've just done. It makes me wonder how many similar encounters he's had in inappropriate places.
He reaches to help smooth my skirt down and locks his gaze on mine. "Don't look so terrified," he says, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. "I will not announce what just happened to my family over tiramisu."
I manage a weak smile, carefully tucking away the chaos of emotions threatening to overwhelm me. "Your sister already knows.”
His eyebrow arches. "Olivia? What did she say?"
I hesitate, then repeat her warning. His face darkens momentarily before smoothing into a grin.
"She's protective." He shrugs. "But she's not wrong."
"About what?"
"About my making people live with their mistakes." He holds my gaze, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. "I don't forget. And I don't forgive easily."
A chill runs through me that has nothing to do with the coolness of the bathroom tile beneath my feet.
"Is that a threat?" I ask, my professional mask slipping back into place.
