“This is your punishment, Emilia.” I fisted the sheets as I bent to kiss her, needing to taste the tears on her lips, her desperation. “You don’t get to come until you’ve learned your lesson.”
“I have,” she almost begged.
“And what is the lesson, Piccola?”
“I…not to run away?”
I smiled against her lips, though a flicker of anger sparked to life. “No. The lesson is that you’re mine in every fucking way. I tell you not to drink the wine; you don’t. You deny that you’re mine…there are consequences. You run and put yourself at risk…”
Her breath hitched. “I’m sorry.” She wasn’t, though. Tomorrow, when she wasn’t high as fuck on endorphins and hormones, she’d try and run again. Set a fire, stab me…who knew what she’d come up with next. Fighting was in her nature, and it was the very thing that drew me to her. And this dance of crime and punishment was one I would thoroughly enjoy with her, over and over again.
“You will be my wife, Emilia. Even if you haven’t come to terms with it yet.” I pulled back, rising to my knees over her and unfastening my belt. The second I fisted my dick, her gaze was locked on it. I stroked hard and fast, my balls already about to blow after watching her writhe and scream for the last hour.
Her innocent curiosity was so hot, and when her tongue flashed over her lips as though she wanted a taste, I was done. I might have teased her, but I’d tortured myself just as much. With a groan, I came, spurting ropes of it over her throat and chest, some landing on her skin, some soaking into the satin of her dress. There was a moment where we both just stared at each other, our rapid breaths filling the room. She was stunning like this, covered in my come. Mine.
I pushed to my feet and fastened my pants. When I adjusted her underwear, a whimper slipped past her lips. She was so sensitive, I knew I’d barely have to touch her to make her come right now.
“Please,” she whispered.
I kissed her forehead. “Bad girls don’t get to come, piccola.” Then I tugged her dress down and moved to the bathroom. When I came back with a glass of water and some Tylenol, she frowned at me, anger creeping across that lust-blown gaze. “Open.”
She hesitated before opening for me. She was learning. I placed the Tylenol on her tongue, fighting a growl when her lips closed around my fingers. Then I cupped the back of her head as I held the glass to her mouth.
“Drink it all, princess.”
She did, and I set the glass on the side before sweeping my fingers over her cheek.
“Good girl.”
She might be pissed, but she’d thank me in the morning when she didn’t have a pounding headache and a throbbing ass. I pushed to my feet and made my way to the door.
“Gio, please. Don’t leave me like this.” She tugged at the restraints, her head thrashing back against the pillows, defenseless and covered in my come. I knew I was sick for liking the sight so much.
“We both know if I untie you, you’ll get yourself off. And like I said, bad girls don’t get to come, piccola.”
Then I left.
There was no way I was sleeping after that, so I went to my office and poured a glass of whiskey while I watched her on the camera. Bound and writhing with frustration. My dick hardened again as I thought about how she’d finally submitted. Finally. And now she was so helpless, so beautiful in red satin and come. My own personal obsession.
I downed half the bottle of whiskey, watching, always fucking watching. Her breaths evened out, sleep finding her despite having her hands tied to the bed.
I swear, the text from Jackson was the only thing that stopped me from going in there and fucking her. Deal or no deal. Begging or not.
I fastened my shirt buttons and made my way downstairs. The cool night air wrapped around me, clearing the haze of primal need from my brain.
Jackson’s SUV idled at the curb outside my building, the late-night traffic trickling on past. He and Tommy sat in the front, their expressions serious. That was enough to finally burst the bubble of bliss Emilia had created. I got into the back, and they both turned to look at me.
“This better be good.”
Jackson eyed me up and down with a smirk. “Told you. He was totally balls deep.”
I flipped him off, annoyed that I was, in fact, not balls deep.
“The Irish punchbag we had in the basement is dead.”
“Okay. Did he give you anything?”
“Not exactly.”
Tommy let out a strained sigh, flashing Jackson a look of disapproval. “He didn’t say anything. But it turns out, he was Shane O’Hara.” He lifted a brow. “Paddy’s nephew.”