Chapter Text
The shutters were still half-drawn, the room washed in soft gold and shadow.
Cha-young lay draped over Vincenzo like a very determined cat who had decided the sun could rise without him today. One of her legs was hooked possessively over his hips; her cheek rested on the warm skin just above his heart.
Her fingers drew idle, greedy circles across his chest. It is Sunday. And he'd told her the night before about a meeting. However, she is certainly not in the mood for giving him up. Mostly because the past 6 days of this week both have been busy as hell and now she is not ready to give up her husband to yet another meeting.
She refuses.
She had felt the change in his breathing the instant he read the text, she assumes by Luca.
She started with kisses, small, sleepy ones along his collarbone, then moved to his throat, then the sharp line of his jaw.
“Stay,” she whispered against his ear, lips brushing the shell. “It’s Sunday. Even the devil takes a day off.” Vincenzo exhaled, slow and amused, and kissed her once.
“Thirty minutes. I’ll be quick.” He tried to slide out from under her. She let him get exactly to the edge of the mattress before she pounced: arms looping around his shoulders from behind, legs wrapping his waist, mouth at the nape of his neck.
“You walk out that door, Capo,” she murmured, voice velvet poison, “and I will make the entire day hell. Try me.”
He laughed, he actually laughed and she'd glared at him, hair wild from sleep.
And just like that, he'd moved her off of him with a "Buongiorno, Cara."
She'd sat up, very annoyed, glaring at his back as he'd moved to the bathroom.
-
His study had become a war room again.
Maps, satellite photos, burner phones. Twenty capos and sottocapos in perfect suits. Cha-young sat at Vincenzo’s right in a black pencil skirt and sheer blouse like she had planned as her outfit, the minute he turned the shower on without her.
Net stockings. Red mouth. Polite smile that never reached her eyes.
She had kicked her heels off under the table the moment the door closed and the briefing by Matteo began.
Now her bare foot glided up the inside of his calf slow and deliberate.
Up.
Down.
Toes curling against the seam of his trousers like a cat dragging its tail across forbidden furniture.
You left our bed on a Sunday, the stroke said.
Now suffer.
Vincenzo’s hand dropped to her thigh, warm and heavy.
His thumb began tracing the delicate net pattern of her stockings in maddeningly slow circles, never venturing higher than mid-thigh.
She spared a glance at him, his flawless face as he sipped his espresso, calm and lethal, deciding who lives and who disappears.
While his hand, an inch away from where she is soaked for him.
Her foot pressed harder, demanding.
Move your hand higher, you bastard.
He answered by slipping two fingers just beneath the lace band of the stocking and stopping.
She almost whimpered aloud. She will kill him, oh yes, she so will.
Across the table, a sottocapo droned on about containers in Marseille.
Vincenzo nodded, asked a question before jotting something down in Italian with the pen she'd gave him five years ago, voice perfectly even.
Cha Young was so close to committing a crime before her husband, who has the ability to read her mind, dismisses the men with a nod and some concluding sentences.
Chairs scraped. Men vanished. The door shut with a soft, final click.
Only then did he turn his head and look at her.
"Impatient," he murmurs, grinning.
Cha-young was not eager for his games and before she could open her mouth, he simply cupped the back of her neck and dragged her into a kiss that tasted like espresso and ruin with his tongue sliding deep, claiming every corner of her mouth until her hands fisted in his shirt and she moaned into him.
When he pulled back an inch she chased him; he didn’t let her.
He lifted her (effortless) out of the chair and into his lap so she straddled him in his seat.
His hands dropped to her thighs.
One sharp, deliberate rip.
The net stockings split open under his fingers like they had been waiting for permission.
Cool air kissed bare skin; heat flooded everywhere else.
She gasped, forehead dropping to his.
He kisses her again deeper and hungrier and moved her to the table after pushing things aside, skirt rucked to her waist, torn lace fluttering.
Cha-young reaches for him instantly, fingers already tugging at his shirt, thighs parting in invitation.
Vincenzo catches her wrists, presses them flat to the wood on either side of her hips.
She knows he is going to torture her the minute he starts placing open-mouthed, hot kisses along the frantic pulse, teeth grazing the spot that makes her shiver.
The kisses move down to her collarbone, tongue tracing the delicate line where silk meets skin.
He unbuttons the blouse one pearl at a time, slow enough that she feels every second stretch into eternity.
Silk falls open. Bra unhooked and discarded in a flash.
He spends long minutes on her breasts, slow circles with his tongue, gentle suction and the occasional scrape of teeth until she is arching off the desk, small desperate sounds escaping from her throat.
Only then does he sink lower.
He drags the chair closer, sits like a king taking his throne, and hooks her knees over his shoulders.
Torn net stockings frame her thighs like dark, ruined garlands.
He just looks at her and the anticipation alone makes her thighs tremble.
She wants to scream at him to carry on but she is out of breath from his ministrations and just as she gathers her breath he leans in, breath ghosting over her soaked lace, and waits.
She moves her hand to his nape and lets out a sound she knows wil do the magic.
As always, she is right because he hooks the lace aside with one finger and blows a cool stream of air directly across her clit.
She jolts, a broken sound tearing from her throat again.
He smiles against her skin wickedly and finally tastes her.
One long, deliberate lick from entrance to clit, slow enough that she feels every ridge of his tongue before moving deeper, pressing inside her, curling just enough to make her hips chase him.
Flattening his tongue and drags it upward in one merciless stroke, he settles in for real. Slow circles around her clit, never quite touching it directly and gentle suction on her folds that make her mewl and hold his hair in one of her hands, the other holding the desk for dear life.
The occasional deep thrust of his tongue has her sobbing his name.
Every time she tries to rock against his face he pins her hips to the desk with iron hands and starts over slower an crueler until she is a writhing, begging mess.
He edges her mercilessly, bringing her to the brink, backing off, again, again, again until tears of frustration gather at the corners of her eyes.
"Vincenzo," she makes out, shaking uncontrollably, voice cracked and raw, and he finally close his lips around her clit and sucks hard.
She comes instantly and violently, back bowing off the desk, fingers scrabbling for purchase on polished mahogany, a shattered cry echoing off leather-bound books.
He doesn’t stop. Softens his tongue, draws the aftershocks out until she is limp and gasping, thighs clamped around his ears.
Only then does he rise, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes never leaving hers.
He unbuckles his belt with deliberate calm and she watches, lips parted, pupils blown.
When his trousers drop just enough, he steps between her legs, grips her hips, and drags her to the very edge of the desk.
He lines himself up and slides in one long, relentless thrust that buries him to the hilt.
Her back arches off the mahogany, a choked moan tearing from her throat.
He stills for one heartbeat and lets her feel every thick inch, lets her clench around him in helpless pulses, then pulls out almost all the way and drives back in slow and deep.
Each stroke is dragging against every sensitive spot he mapped with his tongue minutes ago.
Her legs wrap around his waist on instinct, heels digging into the small of his back, trying to pull him faster.
He doesn’t allow it.
One hand pins both her wrists above her head-height on the desk; the other grips her hip hard enough to leave bruises she’ll wear like jewelry.
“Amore,” he says, voice shredded.
She forces her eyes open.
He starts to ride her in earnest, long, punishing strokes that lift her hips off the desk with every thrust, the wet sounds filling the study, the slap of skin on skin mixing with her broken gasps.
The desk creaks beneath them and he changes the angle on the next thrust and she cries out, nails scraping uselessly at his shoulders through cotton.
He keeps that same devastating rhythm until she is sobbing his name, until her second orgasm crashes through her so hard her vision whites out and she clenches around him like a fist.
Only then does he let himself go.
He slams in one final time and stays there.
His grip on her wrists tightens, his other hand sliding under her to lift her hips higher, sealing them together.
A low, guttural groan rumbles from his chest as he comes spilling into her in thick waves that seem to go on forever.
She feels the warmth spreading deep inside her until there is no space left that isn’t his.
He doesn’t pull out and stays buried, forehead pressed to hers, breath ragged, letting the last shudders roll through them both while she clenches around him in helpless aftershocks.
Only when he’s finally spent does he loosen his hold on her wrists, sliding his arms beneath her to cradle her close.
He kisses the sweat at her temple and cradles her jaw to look at her. She kisses him softly in response.