Page 12 of The Assassin's Captive
He stands first, extending his hand. I take it, letting him pull me to my feet. The apartment feels smaller now, the space between the living room and his bedroom charged with anticipation. He leads me down the hallway, his fingers intertwined with mine.
The bedroom is sparse—a king-sized bed with dark sheets, a dresser, heavy curtains drawn against the Roman night. A singlelamp casts warm light across the room, creating shadows that dance on the walls. He turns to face me, his hazel eyes searching mine.
"Are you sure?" he asks, his voice husky with arousal. I appreciate his careful attention to consent, but I wouldn't have come to his bedroom if I wasn’t sure.
I answer by reaching for the buttons of his shirt. His breath catches as my fingers work down the line of fabric, revealing the broad expanse of his chest. Scars crosshatch his skin—old wounds that tell stories I don't want to think about tonight. I run my palms over the hard planes of muscle and skin inked with dark art, feeling his heart hammering beneath my touch.
He lets me explore for a moment before his hands find the zipper at the back of my dress. The sound fills the room as he draws it down slowly, the cool air hitting my skin as the fabric pools at my feet. I step out of it, standing before him in only my underwear.
His gaze travels over me, reverent and possessive. "Beautiful," he breathes, and the word sends heat coursing through my veins.
He reaches for me again, his hands spanning my waist as he draws me against him. The contact of skin on skin makes me gasp. He's warm and solid, all controlled power and barely restrained desire. When he kisses me again, it's hungrier, more demanding, and I meet him with equal fervor.
We move toward the bed, a tangle of limbs and searching hands. He guides me down onto the mattress, following me, his weight settling over me. The sheets are soft against my back, but all I can focus on is him—the way he looks at me, the way his hands map every curve of my body.
There's nothing careful about this. Nothing sweet or tentative. When his mouth finds the sensitive spot at the base of my throat, I arch beneath him, my fingers digging into hisshoulders. He works his way down my body, each kiss, each touch building the fire burning inside me.
I let myself get lost in the sensation, in the way he makes me feel—desired, wanted, alive in a way I haven't felt in years. The heat between us is consuming, dangerous, but I don't want safe tonight. I want this—him, the way he touches me, the way he makes me forget everything beyond this room.
Lorenzo's hand slides beneath me, palm spanning my lower back as he shifts his weight to the side. The movement presses my hip against the mattress and lets him look down at me without hovering, his body half-curved around mine. His knuckles trail the line of my ribcage, slow, unhurried, like he’s drawing a map no one else is allowed to read.
“I’ve thought about this all evening,” Lorenzo says with rough restraint. “More than I should have.”
His fingers dip below the waistband of my panties, not to tug them off, just to rest there, possessive. My breath hitches, but I hold his gaze.
“Then stop thinking,” I say.
His mouth curves, but there’s no humor in it. He slides his hand lower, over the curve of my hip, across my thigh. “You like control?” he asks.
“Not tonight.”
He shifts again, sliding his leg between mine, the coarse fabric of his pants dragging against the inside of my thigh. I hook one arm around his neck, pulling him closer, and his breath catches against my skin.
“You’re going to ruin me,” he mutters.
“Not if you ruin me first.”
That earns a sound from deep in his chest—half growl, half laugh—and then his hand fists in my hair as he captures my mouth again, angling my head back so I have no choice but to letmy jaw fall open. His other hand grips my thigh, pulling it over his hip so the whole length of him presses flush to me.
“Keep your hands where they are,” he says against my mouth.
I do. He doesn’t move fast. He rocks against me once, slow and heavy, a threat disguised as friction. Then again, harder.
“I’m not going to be gentle,” he warns.
“I didn’t ask you to be.”
Lorenzo pushes up just enough to slide his hand between us. He palms my breast through the lace, thumb circling until my back arches off the bed.
“This on or off?” he asks.
“Off,” I breathe.
He sits up on his knees and reaches behind me, one practiced flick undoing the clasp. I shrug the straps off, let the bra fall to the floor without looking. His eyes darken as he takes me in fully.
“Christ,” he mutters. “I'm so fucked.” He shakes his head and this time, I chuckle.
Lorenzo rises onto his knees and pulls me with him, one arm braced around my back as he drags my hips into his lap. The pressure of his cock against my underwear makes it impossible to think. His mouth finds the side of my neck as he slides his hand between us, curling his fingers under the edge of the fabric.
