Her words come out broken: “You’ve killed people?”
I slide my hand up and cup her chin, turning her so her cheek brushes my mouth. “I’ve led my family since I was twenty-five. I keep them safe. And yes—when it's necessary.” I pause to taste the word on her neck, my tongue tracing the vein that jumps with her pulse. “You expected something less?”
She shakes her head, just slightly. “I don’t know what I expected.” Her breath clouds the glass. “I just…why me?”
I ease my hand under the hem of her cashmere sweater, palm flat against her belly, absorbing every tremor. “Because when a man finds what he’s waited for all his life, he’d be a fool to let it go,” I say. “And I think you feel the same.” My thumb grazesthe delicate line of lace above her skirt—it’s bold, her lingerie, almost a dare. “I know fear, Lucia. Yours tastes like curiosity.”
She’s silent, but her hips press back against me, searching for something she can’t name.
“You should be afraid,” I say, unfastening her skirt with one hand. The zipper is so quiet it sounds obscene.
She turns to face me, her blue eyes huge and bright with panic or hunger—it’s a fine line. I move both hands to the edge of her sweater and pull it over her head, slow enough to let her stop me, but she doesn’t. Underneath: a lacy bra, black, scaffolding breasts that ought to be in an art museum. Her skirt puddles around her ankles, leaving her in thigh-high stockings and patent-leather Mary Janes.
I grip her jaw in my hand, not hard, but so she can’t look away. “I know you have every reason to be frightened by me, Lucinda Stuyvesant,” I say. “But I would never hurt you.” I let the words settle in the space between us, then add: “I was put on this earth to worship you. I have never been more certain of anything in my life.”
She tries to laugh, but there’s a thickness in her throat. “How can you even say that?” she asks. “You don’t know me. We’ve barely spoken?—”
“A real man never hesitates when he finds his woman,” I say, my hands moving to unclasp her bra and slide it off, exposing her chest to the cold air and my hungry gaze. “And make no mistake: you are my woman.” The words come out rough.
She’s trembling now, and not from the cold. “This is insane,” she says.
I nod. “It is. And you want it.”
She doesn’t deny it.
I take her glass from her hand and set it on a side table, then undress—first the jacket, then my shirt, the tie coming undone with a flick. I let her watch. Her eyes widen when she sees thescars across my chest, the muscles too dense for a man my age, the trail of dark hair disappearing below my waistband.
I watch her chest, her heart pounding under pale skin.
I fist my cock, long and hard and veined, the head already leaking. I see her watching, see the hunger warring with shame on her face.
I grip her hips and turn her so she faces the glass, spreading her legs with my boot. “Hands on the window,” I say, and she obeys, palms flattening against the cool pane.
Her ass tightens, the round globes perfectly naked, pale as alabaster and trembling slightly with each breath—two flawless hemispheres begging for the crimson imprint of my palm. I slide one thumb down between her cheeks, finding her already wet. “I need to fuck you, Lucia,” I say, my voice ragged. “I want you to feel like the whole city is watching us. You want that, don’t you?”
She shudders, and her breath fogs the glass. “Can they…can they see us?”
I laugh, deep in my chest, lining myself up behind her. “Maybe,” I say, teasing her entrance with the fat head of my cock. “Maybe not. But you’ll never forget this.” I push in, slow but relentless, stretching her inch by inch until she chokes on the pressure.
She cries out—pain and pleasure tangled, the city lights painting her reflection in smeared, surreal color. I give her a minute, drawing back, then slam into her again. Her forehead taps the glass, her ass pushed flat to my hips.
“Harder,” she gasps, and I oblige: fucking her rough, each thrust a promise and a threat. Her hands claw at the glass, desperate for something to hold. Out in the dark, Manhattan twinkles on, indifferent to her shame.
I lean over her back, my mouth at her ear. “You don’t ever see another man,” I say. “You don’t ever let another man touchyou.” I grip her throat, gentle but commanding. “You belong to me now. This pussy is mine.”
She’s moaning, arching back for more. I grind into her, rutting like a fucking animal, the world outside nothing but noise.
She starts to come, and I feel it—the way her slick inner walls clamp down on me like a vise, her whole body going rigid before dissolving into liquid pleasure. Her ass quivers beneath my grip, alabaster flesh turning pink where my fingers dig in. I don't stop my assault, not until I'm satisfied, not until she's sobbing my name and her thighs are slick with her own release. I withdraw my throbbing length only to flip her over like a rag doll, hoisting her up so those creamy legs instinctively wrap around my waist. Her weight is nothing against my strength. I carry her to the leather couch, pinning her wrists above her head with one hand while I guide myself back into her dripping heat. She arches, mouth open in a silent scream as I pump mercilessly, the wet sounds of our joining filling the room until I finally explode inside her, marking her as mine from the inside out.
After, her head lolls back, eyes hazed and lips swollen. I kiss her cheek, the sweat on her neck, tasting her salt and surrender.
She tries to push me off, but I hold her pinned, letting her feel my weight. “Scared?” I murmur.
She nods, breathless. “Yeah.”
“Good,” I say, and laugh. “So am I. But not for the same reasons. I’m too far gone to lose you, baby. You have no idea how deep I already am.”
I stay inside her, hardening again, and when she looks down at where our bodies join, she starts to cry, just a little, and I know I’ve finally found something that can't be bought, can't be threatened out of someone. It’s real—the only real thing left in this city.