Page 27 of Until the Ink runs Crimson

He pushes me down on the desk, the cool surface sending a shiver up my spine as my head thuds softly against the wood. My body sprawls beneath him, exposed, raw, vulnerable—but there’s no fear. Only fire. His eyes rake over every inch of me, possessive and hungry, and for a second, I swear I see the barely held together restraint in his shaky breathing, the war he’s fighting between control and indulgence. He’s seen me before, but never like this—completely his, completely unguarded. The heat in his gaze scorches me. There’s no hiding. Not from him. Not from myself.

"Lazaro, please... I can't take it anymore," I gasp, breath catching as my body coils tighter, trembling beneath his cruel rhythm.

Me saying his name must’ve snapped something inside him, because he finally stops teasing and starts fucking me with full force again. The restraint he clung to shatters, replaced by raw, primal urgency. His grip tightens, his hips slam forward with brutal precision, and the air is punched from my lungs. I know it’s not just about possession for him anymore—it’s about domination.

"You feel so fucking good," he growls. "You love my cock inside your tight little pussy, don’t you?"

My response is nothing but a gasp—high, helpless, desperate—as my body arches into him without thought. I hate that he’s right. Hate that I need it this badly. That I crave the chaos he brings with every thrust.

"Yes," I gasp. "Yes, God, please. I’m going to… I’m… Oh God, oh fuck!"

His hand slides down, gripping my thigh, spreading me wider, forcing me to take every inch. I meet him stroke for stroke. My body fights him—and welcomes him—all at once.

Finally, a guttural scream tears from my throat as a wave of searing pleasure crashes through me, obliterating every coherent thought and memory in its wake. My vision blurs, breath caught in my lungs, body shaking with the force of release that ignites like fire behind my eyes, leaving me adrift in a haze of raw ecstasy and trembling limbs.

Lazaro drives into me with unrelenting force, sending another climax crashing through me. My body convulses, caught in a storm of pleasure that refuses to end. One orgasm rolls into the next, each one more intense than the last, stripping me raw until I’m left trembling, limp, barely able to hold myself upright on the desk. My limbs feel like jelly, my breath shallow, skin slick with sweat. Every nerve is alight, every muscle burning, as he continues to take me without mercy, pushing me beyond the edge again and again until I’m a wrecked, boneless mess beneath him.

After my second orgasm, Lazaro finally comes, a deep, guttural groan escaping his lips as he spills.

Lazaro pulls away first, breath rough. My chest rises and falls with every uneven breath, lips swollen, hair tangled, fury still coiled deep inside me. He leans in, eyes locked on mine. There's a fire in his gaze, but I refuse to let it burn me.

His mouth brushes my ear, voice low and dark, "See who you belong to now?"

My body stiffens, a spark of defiance burning behind my ribs. I turn my back to him, fingers tightening around the blood pact still lying on his desk.

"You got what you wanted," I say, sitting up. "So did I."

Our eyes lock —his stormy and unreadable, mine blazing with fury I can't swallow. "Riven," I spit out. "That’s who’s been leaking Syndicate intel."

His eyes snap up to meet mine, and for a split second, I catch the betrayal flashing there—sharp, raw, unfiltered. His lips part slightly, like he can barely contain himself. It’s not just shock—it’s pain, fury, disbelief. Riven is his right-hand man. His most trusted. And I just shattered that trust with a few words. Still, I refuse to wait for a response.

I grab the document and walk out—naked, furious, and burning. I keep my eyes forward. I won’t look back. I can’t.

But even as my footsteps echo down the hall, his eyes haunt me, and a voice inside me whispers that no matter how far I walk, there's no going back now. Not from this. Not from him.

Chapter 12 – Lazaro

Riven. The name echoes through my mind like a curse.

I didn’t want to believe it. But I knew. Deep down, things had shifted. A restlessness in his stance, hesitation in his voice, a pause too long in his responses. And now the truth coils around my ribs like a vice. Brotherhood. Loyalty. Trust. All undone by a whisper and the truth it carried.

Me and Riven, side by side, guns blazing as we burst into Blake’s penthouse. The bastard hadn’t paid his debt, and we came to collect with fire and steel. Bullets flew, smoke filled the air, and our boots pounded across shattered marble tiles. I remember Riven’s voice, cutting through the chaos—calm, ruthless, barking commands like a soldier born for war.

"Left flank, I’ve got you," he yelled, covering me as I stormed the living room, gun raised.

"You always take the easy side," I shouted back, ducking behind the bar and firing at Blake’s guards.

"That’s because you like to make a mess," he replied, a grin in his voice even through the mayhem.

We worked like clockwork—he covered my six, I cleared the front. When it was over, Blake’s bullet-riddled body slumped against the designer couch, blood pooling around his expensive rug. Riven walked over, grabbed him by the collar, and dragged the corpse to my feet, tossing it down with a smug grin.

"Debt paid," he said, breathless and exhilarated.

We were fire and fury back then—unshakable, unstoppable, a force no one dared to challenge. That memory now tastes like ash on my tongue.

The guards drag him in.

His face is a canvas of brutality—swollen beyond recognition, with a jagged swell where his nose used to be. It’s twisted off-center, angled grotesquely as if it had been crushed sideways beneath a boot. Bruises bloom along his cheekbone, his lips are crusted with dried blood. Yet, he glares at me with unrelenting defiance.

---