Page 30 of The Assassin's Captive
But I do. I know exactly what I am asking for. What I am offering. Not the truth—I can't give him that. But my body. My submission. The illusion of surrender that might buy me time. Space. An opening.
I pull my wrist free and place my palm flat against his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart. "I'm not asking for anything. I'm telling you what I want."
His control fractures. I see it happen in real time—the moment his resolve crumbles and something darker rises to take its place. The glass drops from his hand, shattering against the marble floor. Whiskey spreads in golden rivulets, forgotten.
His hands find my waist, pulling me against him. "You think you can handle me?" His voice drops to a growl. "You think you can play this game and walk away unscathed?"
My pulse hammers in my throat, but I meet his gaze without flinching. "Try me."
The words hang between us for a heartbeat. Then his mouth crashes down on mine, hard and demanding. There is nothing gentle about this kiss. Nothing tender. He claims my lips as though he owns them, his tongue sliding past my defenses. I taste whiskey and a hint of a cigar on his breath, but it's the danger that's tantalizing to me.
My hands fist in his shirt, pulling him closer even as my mind screams warnings. This is not part of the plan. This heatspreading through my veins, this ache building low in my belly. This is not calculated. This is not control.
This is need, raw and honest and terrifying.
He breaks the kiss abruptly, his breathing harsh. His eyes burn as they search my face. "Last chance to run."
But I can't run. Won't run. Not when I am so close to finding his weakness. To gaining the upper hand.
"I'm not going anywhere," I breathe.
Something shifts in his expression then. Something predatory and possessive that makes my stomach flutter. His hands slide down to cup my ass, lifting me easily. My legs wrap around his waist instinctively, and he carries me away from the broken glass, away from the light of the fire.
The hallway is dim, shadows pooling in every corner. He sets me down beside the staircase, his hands already working at the fasteners of my clothing. The fabric pools at my feet, leaving me in nothing but black lace. His gaze devours every inch of exposed skin, and I feel beautiful and powerful and terrified all at once.
"You want to know my secrets?" He strips off his shirt, revealing the network of scars and ink that maps his chest. "Here's one. I've wanted you since the moment you walked into that opera house."
I see the truth of it in his eyes, the admission of vulnerability he would never normally allow. And I realize this game I thought I was playing has already spiraled beyond my control.
His hands frame my face, thumbs stroking across my cheekbones. "And here's another. After tonight, you'll never look at another man the way you look at me."
Before I can respond, his mouth is on mine again, hungrier this time, more demanding. I lose myself in the taste of him, the feel of his hands roaming my body. When he backs me against the wall, the cool plaster is shocking against my heated skin, I arch into him instead of pulling away.
This is supposed to be leverage. Manipulation. A calculated risk.
But when he drops to his knees and presses his mouth to the hollow of my throat, when his hands slide up my thighs and his breath ghosts across my skin, I forget about strategy. About escape. About everything except the fire he is building inside me.
He hooks his fingers in the lace at my hips and tears it. Not pushes, not peels. Rips. The fabric shreds like tissue in his fists, and I gasp as cool air brushes the heat between my legs. He doesn’t pause to admire. He drags his mouth between my thighs and forces a cry from my throat with the first pass of his tongue.
He groans into me. The sound is low and feral. My knees buckle, one hand flying to the banister to steady myself. The other tangles in his hair, anchoring me to the rhythm he sets—ruthless, relentless. There’s no mercy in him now, no patience. He sucks hard, tongue circling until I’m trembling, close to falling apart, and when I whimper, he presses his fingers into me without warning.
He pushes two fingers inside me at once, deep enough to stretch and fill me completely.
I writhe against his mouth, hips jerking with every thrust of his hand. “Lorenzo?—”
“Louder,” he snarls. “Say my name again.”
“Lorenzo.” A broken moan this time. “Please.”
He groans again, fucking me with his fingers as he sucks harder, rougher, until I’m shaking. Until I feel myself unraveling, the edge pulling closer with every breath. My climax rips through me with brutal force, dragging a cry from my lungs that borders on a sob. His name leaves my mouth in a fractured moan as my body clenches around his fingers, muscles contracting in sharp, helpless spasms.
Pleasure crashes through me in wave after wave, each one stealing my breath and snapping my spine taut. I convulsearound him, my thighs shaking, my vision blurring at the edges, every nerve ending lit with raw, overstimulated heat.
And still, he doesn’t stop—he keeps going, his mouth and hand working in tandem to draw every last tremor from my body until I’m limp and trembling in his grip, wrecked in the aftermath of the orgasm he forced from me.
Lorenzo's mouth trails up my stomach, over my ribs, up to my throat. His hand slides up my back, gripping my nape as he stands. When he kisses me, I taste myself on his tongue, and the shock of it tears another sound from my throat. His belt clinks, his pants fall. And then he’s shoving me back against the wall, one hand between my shoulder blades to hold me steady as he lines himself up, dragging the thick length of him through my folds once, letting the slick heat of my arousal coat him from base to tip.
The weight of his dick presses against my entrance, and I feel the promise of pain and pleasure mingling just beneath the surface. My breath catches. My hips rock forward instinctively, seeking more friction, more heat. I forget why I instigated this. I forget why I pushed him until he wanted to fuck me, but I don't regret it. It's all blurred together in my mind—my desire, his desire, the threats, the fact that I'm captive—and right now I don't even care. I just want him inside me.
