Devil of the Mafia

He leaned in further, his voice dropping to a whisper that was nonetheless sharp with intent. "I would strip you bare. Slowly. Peel off every layer, savoring the anticipation. I would press you down here, feel the cool marble against your heated skin. And I would devour you, Cordelia."

The word hung in the air, heavy with implication.

Devour.

Not conquer, not possess in the abstract, but consume.

His dark eyes locked onto hers, holding her captive.

His voice was a low, velvet rasp in the quiet of the kitchen, a stark contrast to the sterile gleam of the steel appliances around them.

He leaned in, his lips brushing the shell of her ear, and began to speak, not of love or affection, but of a deconstruction. He spoke of the sounds he wanted to elicit from her.

"I want to hear you," he murmured, his breath a warm promise against her neck. "Not just a sigh, Cordelia. A gasp. The kind that's ripped from your throat when you think you can't possibly take any more. I want to hear the pleasured whimper when I find that spot deep inside you, the one that makes you lose your sanity. I want to hear you sob my name when the first wave hits, and I want to hear the broken, desperate sounds you make when I refuse to let it be the last."

Cordelia felt her face burn up from his words. He was so focused, so serious in what he was saying.