Page 46 of Masked Don

I shove his slacks and underwear down, his cock springing out thick, flushed, and already leaking at the tip. The sight of him bare in this room, in the place where he decides fates, sends another pulse of heat through me.

He drops to his knees. His mouth is on me before I can say or do anything. Pleasure explodes through me, his tongue hot and relentless and stroking slow and deep. He presses his tongue to my clit, then kisses me there, and I moan loudly. My hands plunge into his hair and I grab him, directing him right where I need him.

Enzo obeys, growling into me, the vibration pulling sharp cries from my throat. I’m close, shaking, hips rolling against his face, and he pulls back.

“Not yet,” he says, his voice dark.

His eyes meet mine from between my thighs, narrowing just enough to let me know the power play is happening, his control turning into focus. He licks me, sucks me, slips a finger into my wet folds. The tension ratchets higher, and I whimper in frustration, the denial making everything more intense.

Then I snap back into focus.

My turn.

I slide off the desk and guide him into the chair behind it. He lets me, not resisting, sitting with his gorgeous, thick cock pointed straight up at me.

I drop to my knees between his spread thighs, leaning forward and licking the bead of precum off the end. I open my mouth and take him inside. He groans as I seal my lips around him, his cock big and heavy on my tongue. I taste the salt of him, the evidence of how badly he wants this. He’s too big to take fully into my mouth, so I use my hands for the rest, cupping his balls and gripping his shaft.

His fingers weave into my hair, not guiding or forcing but holding on. He groans, a word of Italian slipping out of his mouth that I’m sure is a curse. I hollow my cheeks, taking him into my mouth as deeply as I can.

Enzo gasps, his hips twitching and his control fraying, and I find myself strangely loving how I’m making him fall apart. I keep sucking, lashing him with my tongue and stroking him, secretly hoping to push him over the edge, even though he’s trying with everything to hold back.

“Stevie. Fuck. Stop.” He pulls me up before he finishes. “I need to be inside you. Now.”

We come together then, urgent and half standing. He lifts me, turns us, and drives into me against the wall beside the desk in one long, relentless stroke. The stretch burns, but the fullness is perfect, devastating. I gasp at the invasion, nails digging into his shoulders. He stills for half a second, buried deep, jaw clenched.

“Five years.” He breathes the words against my mouth. “Five years I’ve been wanting this.”

Then he moves. He plunges in all the way to the root, stretching me perfectly, my eyes widening at the intensity of it.

He holds, then pulls back and plunges again. Soon, he sets a rhythm, with deep, punishing thrusts rocking into me. Every slide drags against that perfect spot until I’m practically sobbing. His hand moves to my breast, thumb circling my nipple. The other takes my cheek into his palm, holding me, caressing me, caging me in.

“Sei mia,” he growls, filthy and reverent. “Mine.”

His hand slides from my cheek down to my throat. He doesn’t squeeze. He just rests it there, warm and heavy, his thumb on my pulse, and looks at me with a question in his eyes.

I nod. I want it. I want to feel how much of me he could take and doesn’t.

His fingers settle, the lightest pressure along the sides of my neck, and the whole world narrows to his eyes and his hand and the brutal, perfect rhythm of his hips.

I can feel the grief breathing through the heat. There’s not just lust in what’s happening; there’s loss and ache and a reconnection that neither of us knew we’d ever have. I glance down, watching his thickness drive into me over and over, and I fall past the edge.

“Enzo!”

I shatter around him, clenching hard, my vision whiting out. He holds back, but just barely, his hips grinding through my orgasm.

He carries me to the wide leather sofa without pulling out. We land in a tangle.

Now, it’s slower, deeper, face-to-face. Eye contact I can’t escape. The anger has spent itself; what’s left underneath is the thing neither of us will name. He moves in long, rolling strokes, watching every flicker across my face. I wrap my legs around him, meet him thrust for thrust.

And this intimacy terrifies me more than the frenzy did.

A second orgasm builds more slowly. It rolls through me like a wave I can’t outrun. I come again, gasping into his mouth, and still he holds.

We shift once more. I push him onto his back on the sofa and straddle him, reclaiming the pace. My hands brace on his chest as I sink down, taking him fully. I set the rhythm, slow at first, then faster, grinding my clit against him with every roll of my hips.

He gazes at me hard, his hands gripping my thighs like he’s worried I might slip away. The power is all mine now, and I take it, riding him hard, my breasts bouncing, his hands sliding up my sides and tracing my curves.

Then he takes over, grabbing my hips and holding me in place as he pounds upward with incredible force. This one builds so powerfully I worry it might break me.