The streaks of fire became jagged strikes of lightning, a white-hot sensation that refused to let up, nor did he want it to. He drove into her, feeling her contract all around him, biting down hard, that silken fist that was the most beautiful, perfect storm of fire and thunder, pounding through his veins, hot as hell. Val rolled his hips, grinding into her with each ferocious surge.
Emme gasped, her head thrashing. “Too much, too much.” But she moved with him, her body rhythm countering his, hips pulling away and hammering down over his cock in a twisting, spiraling motion that nearly had his eyes rolling up in his head.
They came together in a fury. Then she was locking up on him. A blazing firestorm. Hotter than anything he could remember. “Fuck,” he shouted. The word ripped from him as her silken fist clamped down on his cock like a vise, like a python squeezing him, strangling him.
She clung to him, crying out his name while he kept yelling, “Fuck,” his head thrown back as pleasure ripped through him, threatening to destroy him through sheer force. Her orgasm seemed endless, biting at his cock, milking him, determined to get every drop from him. He soaked her inner walls, long ropes of his seed triggering more orgasms in her.
“That’s it, baby, take it all—been too long without you. Plenty where that came from.” There was. So much more. All for her. He was jerking inside her, his cock in that hot haven where he belonged. Where he wanted to stay forever.
Val wasn’t so certain his legs were going to support him. She’d milked him dry, but his cock wasn’t going to stay satisfied for long. He knew that. She wanted to talk, to get things straight between them, and it had to be done. He was there for that reason, but there was no way he could be with Emmanuelle and not claim her body again and again.
He kicked aside his clothing and slipped up onto the bed beside her, wrapping his arm around her waist to lock her to him before she could escape to the bathroom and build up her defenses. Kissing his way up her belly to her breasts, he was careful when he brushed gentle, soothing kisses over the bruises.
“You have no idea how much I want to follow this bastard to hell and make him pay for hurting you.”
Her fingers slid through the thickness of his hair. She’d always done that. Massaged his scalp. Idly played with his hair. He’d never objected because it always felt like such a connection between them. She almost always did it after they had sex. When she didn’t, it bothered him. He’d find himself wondering why.
“Don’t you think being dead is payment enough?” There was a hint of laughter in her voice.
“No, absolutely not.” He levered his body to one side when he really wanted to blanket her, to press his weight over hers and hold her under him so she couldn’t leave him again. “He should have died slow, in agony, thinking about each punch.” Before she could move, he laid his head on her belly. “Some things are just not forgivable, Princess. Punching you is one of them.”
“I don’t know why,” she said softly, her fingers working through his hair, “but when I’m with you, I always feel at peace. I shouldn’t. We’re so different, and we’re so totally wrong for each other, but for the first time in two years, I feel like I can breathe.”
He closed his eyes and let himself bask in her honesty. That was the other thing about Emme he’d always admired. Even when it cost her, she gave him such truth. Little pieces of her soul. He wrapped them up, just like the ropes did her shadow, trapping them, so he could take them out when he desperately needed them. When he was drowning in filth and blood. There was his Emmanuelle to let him know he would have something to go home to—until she left him alone for two long fucking years.
His palm tightened against her hip, fingers digging into her flesh. “We’re not wrong for each other, Emme. We never were. Our families are more alike than you want to believe.” He felt her stiffen beneath him, and he refused to move, tightening his hold on her. “Settle down. Just for a few more minutes. Give us a few more minutes just to be us.”
The tension receded from her body. Clearly, Emmanuelle wanted the same thing he did—time. A little time. Just to be left alone in their own world, even if it was a fantasy and would end the moment the sun began to rise.
Miceli had to kill him. He had no choice. He’d declared war, and there was no going back now. He’d made his attempt, thinking, with Parisi’s help, he would trap them as Valentino and Dario hustled the old man into Giuseppi’s safe room, or catch them like rats in the walls as Miceli positioned shooters at either end. Emme had said he brought her peace. She did the same for him, even when he knew there was no peace and there wouldn’t be until his uncle and cousins were dead.