Page 494 of Rosetti Family New York
I reach around to grab the front of her collar, using it to pull her back against me as I drive deeper. The pressure on her throat isn't enough to restrict her breathing, just enough to remind her who's in control.
"Color?" I demand, never stopping my relentless pace.
"Green," she gasps. "So fucking green."
I release the collar and slide my hand up to tangle in her hair, pulling her head back sharply. My other hand finds her clit, circling it with precise pressure that makes her whole body tremble.
"You don't come until I say," I warn her, feeling her inner muscles already beginning to flutter around my cock. "Understand?"
"Yes," she whimpers, struggling to hold back as I continue my assault on her senses.
I slow my thrusts deliberately, making each one deep and purposeful. The change in rhythm makes her moan louder, herbody straining against the restraints as she tries to move with me.
"Who commands you here?" I ask, my voice rough with exertion.
"You do," she pants. "Only you."
Satisfied with her answer, I withdraw completely. She makes a sound of protest that cuts off when I spin her to face me, her body twisting in the suspension system. I want to see her face when she comes apart.
I reach for a small flogger on the nearby table—this one made of soft suede with dozens of thin tails. Perfect for sensitized skin. I drag it lightly across her breasts, watching her nipples harden further at the teasing contact.
"I'm going to mark these perfect tits," I tell her, bringing the flogger down in a controlled strike across her breast. Not hard enough to truly hurt, just enough to sting and redden the delicate skin.
She arches into it, surprising me. "More," she begs. "Please."
I oblige, alternating between breasts, watching her skin flush pink under my attention. Her breathing becomes ragged, her eyes half-closed in that space between pain and pleasure where she floats so beautifully.
After her breasts are sufficiently marked, I drop the flogger and thrust back into her with no warning. She cries out, her headfalling back as I set a brutal pace. I grip the ring on her collar, using it to pull her face close to mine.
That's when it happens.
16 - Carmela
I'm suspended in Van's restraint system, blindfolded and floating in pure sensation, filled by him completely, when his phone starts buzzing against the nightstand. The leather restraints hold my wrists above my head, my body stretched and vulnerable, pussy already aching with need, body alight with sensation from his careful treatment with the whip.
"Don't move," he commands, his voice rough with desire. He pulls out of me, leaving me empty, and my body throbs with unfulfilled need.
I hear his footsteps retreat, then the sound of him answering. My nipples are hard peaks in the cool air, and I can feel how wet I am, how ready for him. The anticipation makes every nerve ending sing.
"Reyes." His voice shifts, becomes clipped and professional. "Yeah."
The blindfold makes every sound sharper—the creak of leather as he settles into his chair, the rustle of papers. My heart pounds as I realize this isn't a hospital call. Something in his tone is different, colder. My pussy clenches involuntarily, the contrast between my aroused state and the sudden tension making everything more intense.
"Shipment routes compromised," he says, voice carrying easily across the room. "Three extraction points need moving by tomorrow."
I freeze in my restraints, the words cutting through my arousal. Shipment routes. The words send panic through my system because they sound like something my family would discuss, not my grumpy surgeon who saves lives and makes me come apart with his mouth.
"Same protocols as overseas," he continues, and I catch something strained in his voice now. "Intel gathering. You know I understand the process. But this wasn't part of the deal. I'm already paying off my debt."
The casual mention of overseas while I'm helpless and naked, suspended and dripping wet, makes my skin crawl. This isn't the Van whose cock was pressed against my entrance minutes ago, who whispered filthy promises about what he was going to do to me. This voice belongs to someone else entirely.
"Van," I whisper, testing the restraints. They hold firm, keeping me exactly where he positioned me, legs spread, pussy exposed and aching.
"Hold on," he says into the phone, not to me. Then silence stretches between us.
When he speaks again, his voice is different. Tired. "Carmela heard some of that."
My blood turns to ice. He's talking about me. To someone who clearly knows who I am, what my family does. The helpless position that moments ago felt like the most erotic surrender now feels like the most dangerous vulnerability imaginable. I'm completely exposed, wet and wanting, while he discusses me like I'm not even here.
