Page 50 of Forbidden

“Yes,” I gasp, nails raking his chest, leaving red welts. He thrusts up, brutal, relentless, the head of his cock hitting that spot inside me that makes stars burst behind my eyes. Blood smears between us, so slick and warm, and he grabs my hand, pressing it to his wounded arm, making me feel the pulse, the heat.

“Fuck me harder,” I beg, voice hoarse, and he obliges, pounding into me with a growl, his good hand sliding between us to rub my clit in tight, vicious circles.

“You’re so wet for me,” he rasps, teeth grazing my jaw. “Dripping down my cock, soaking me. I’m going to fuck you until this is all you ever think about, until you’re ruined for anyone else. You’re mine, cara—my tight little cunt, my everything.” His words are a filthy litany, dripping with possession, and I’m lost in it, body melting around him, pleasure building so sharp it hurts.

“Did you mean it?” I pant, mid-thrust, my hands braced on his shoulders as I ride him, his cock buried deep, pulsing inside me. “Everything you said in that text?”

He freezes for a split second, then surges up, flipping me onto my back without pulling out, pinning me beneath him. His bloodied hand is on my throat, squeezing just enough to make my head spin, and he drives into me, slow and punishing, each thrust dragging against every nerve.

“Every fucking word,” he snarls, eyes wild, unhinged. “I missed you so much I’d crawl through hell to get to you. You’re my obsession, Penelope—my blood, my breath, my goddamn soul. I’d kill for this pussy, die for it, fuck you even when the world burns down around us.”

His hips snap harder, deeper, the chair creaking under us, the headrest colliding against the wall so hard it’s leaving dents. And I’m shattering, screaming his name as I come, walls pulsing around him, milking him dry. He groans, a primal sound, and spills inside me as his body shudders and he collapses, his blood and sweat and cum a sticky mess between us.

We’re panting, wrecked, and he laughs—a weak, raspy sound, his hand limp against my thigh.

“Better get me to the hospital, cara. Don’t want me bleeding out to death before I can fuck you again.”

I smile and kiss the corner of his mouth, tasting iron and him. “You’re impossible and we need therapy.”

“And you’re addicted,” he murmurs back, eyes glinting with that unhinged spark that pulls me in every time. His good hand slides up my back, possessive even in its weakness, fingers tracing the sweat-slick curve of my spine.

He’s right. I am.

Chapter 17

Adriano

I’m in the warehouse office today with my boots propped on the desk. My right arm throbs, stitched up and bandaged from Penelope’s knife slash two nights ago and the accident, but the pain feels good. Reminds me of all the things I could have lost that night. Just one thing actually. Her.

The place as usual stinks of rust and old cigarette smoke as Ralph drops a folder down, the papers spilling like guts across the wood. His scarred face twists, half pissed, half smug, his black hair in that stupid knot.

“Told you I’d find it,” he says, leaning back in his chair, arms crossed. “Vinny fucked with your tires. Sliced the rubber clean through on Henry’s orders. Probably laughed while he did it, the slimy prick.”

I snatch the folder, flipping it open. Photos stare back—Vinny’s shaky hands on my SUV, a grainy shot of him meeting Henry in some alley, passing cash. My jaw locks tight. I shot that bastard’s brains out days ago, watched his blood paint the wall, and still, he nearly took me with him. The crash replays in my head: tires bursting, metal screaming, glass biting my skin. I taste blood in my mouth just thinking about it.

“Henry’s been busy,” Ralph keeps going, tapping his knee like he’s itching to hit something. “Been sneaking around under an alias, some bullshit name, ‘Paul Grayson.’ Holed up at the Regency Hotel. Guess who he’s been fucking cozy with? Ricci.”

That name lands like a punch. Ricci. The bastard who sent his goons after Penelope, who nearly broke her before I broke his men. Who I haven’t been able to find since. With his resources and influence, he has been under the radar for too long.

“Ricci’s supposed to be hiding. Licking his wounds.”

“Yeah, well, he’s not,” Ralph spits. “He’s plotting with Henry. New player, sure, but Ricci’s got the means, money, men, connections. If he links up with more of your rivals, you’re looking at a war we can’t win. Not now.”

I shove the folder aside, papers scattering, and stand up fast, chair scraping the concrete. My rage boils. Henry’s a dead man—always was—but Ricci’s the bigger snake. More power, more pull. If he rallies my enemies, I’m fucked. My empire’s fucked. Penelope’s fucked. I pace around, picturing Ricci’s throat under my hands, his windpipe crushing slowly. But I stop. Breathe. I need a plan, not a rampage. Not yet at least.

“I’ll gut Ricci first,” I say. “Henry’s a gnat. Ricci’s the one who’ll burn me down if I don’t move fast.”

Ralph nods. “Smart. Hit the head, the body drops.”

“Get Tommy on it,” I tell him, grabbing my jacket. “Tail Ricci. I want his every piss tracked. Then we carve him out.”

Ralph’s already on his phone, thumbs jabbing. “Done, boss.”

I storm out, my mind on one thing alone as I slide into the SUV. My ribs ache from the crash, a dull stab with every breath, but I ignore it. Penelope’s face appears in my head. Her wild eyes, her sharp mouth, the way she cut me and then stitched me up. I need her now. Not just her body, though fuck, I crave that too. I need her voice, her fire, the way she sees through my bullshit. The way she calms me. The engine growls as I peel off, tires chewing asphalt, heading straight for her apartment.

I open the door with my key this time. She’s on the couch, legs curled under her, some shitty reality show blaring on the TV. Her head snaps up, coffee-brown eyes narrowing, then softening when she sees it’s me. She’s in a loose tank top and shorts, hair wild, like sleep’s been dodging her as hard as it’s been dodging me.

“You look like you crawled out of a ditch,” she says, muting the TV, her lips twitching.

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