Velvet Obsession (Chapter 18)
Summary: When ruthless mafia don Bucky Barnes hears the enchanting voice of a beautiful lounge singer and rescues her from brutal abuse, his dangerous obsession turns into fierce protection and all-consuming love, pulling her from the shadows into his opulent, violent world until she willingly becomes his forever.
Paring: (Mafia) Bucky x Reader
word count: 8000+
warnings: NSFW, SMUT, fluff
A/N : Hello friends! Here is chapter 18! 5 more chapters to go! Thank you for reading!
Masterlist
. ܁₊ ⊹ . ܁ ⟡ ܁ . ⊹ ₊ ܁.
Chapter 18 - Table For Two
Bucky lay awake in the quiet dark, the only light a thin silver ribbon slipping between the heavy drapes from the moon outside. The mansion was silent except for the soft, even rhythm of your breathing against his chest. You were curled into him—naked, warm, utterly spent—your head tucked under his chin, one leg draped over his thigh, your hand resting open on his ribs like you’d fallen asleep reaching for him even in dreams.
He hadn’t moved since he’d pulled you into his arms after the last shuddering wave of your release. His body still hummed with the aftershocks—muscles loose but electric, skin slick where you’d pressed against him, the faint scent of sex and your perfume clinging to the sheets. His cock, soft now, rested heavy against his thigh, still sensitive from how many times he’d spilled inside you. Cum leaked slowly from between your legs, warm and sticky against his skin, a quiet, intimate reminder that he’d marked you in the most primal way possible.
He stared down at your sleeping face—lashes dark against flushed cheeks, lips parted and kiss-bruised, hair a wild tangle across his pillow. This was what obsession looked like when it finally won.
Months of watching you from shadowed booths.
Months of sending flowers and paying debts and orchestrating break-ins just to pull you closer.
Months of jerking off alone in this very bed to the memory of your voice, your smile, the way your hips moved when you sang.
Months of restraint—of almost-kisses, of brushing your hair back, of holding you too long after a hug—because he knew if he moved too fast you’d run.
And now here you were.
In his bed.
Naked.
Fucked raw and full of his cum.
Asleep in the cradle of his arms like you belonged there.
His ruthless side—cold, calculating, the part of him that had buried bodies in the Pine Barrens and burned rival families to ash—stirred beneath his skin. It whispered the same vow it always did when something precious was threatened:
No one touches her. No one comes near her. No one even looks at her the wrong way. I’ll burn this city to the ground before I let anyone take her from me.
He pressed his lips to your forehead—soft, reverent—and tightened his hold just enough to feel your heartbeat against his chest.
You were his now.
Completely.
Irrevocably.
And he would kill to keep it that way.
You woke slowly—warm, heavy-limbed, wrapped in muscle and cotton sheets that smelled like him. Sunlight had crept past the drapes, painting thin gold lines across the bed. Bucky was still there—awake, propped on one elbow, watching you with that quiet, intense gaze that made your stomach flutter even now.
His hair was a mess—long strands falling across his forehead, one lock caught in his lashes. His chest was bare, tattoos stark against tanned skin, faint red marks from your nails still visible across his pecs. He looked softer in daylight, but no less dangerous.
You smiled sleepily, stretching against him.
“Morning,” you murmured.
He leaned down and kissed you—slow, lazy, morning-soft. Then another kiss on your cheek. Your nose. Your eyelid. Your temple. A constellation of gentle presses that made you laugh under your breath.
“How are you feeling?” he asked against your skin, voice still rough from sleep and last night.
You shifted, feeling the pleasant ache between your thighs, the faint soreness in your muscles. “Good. A little sore… but good sore.”
He hummed—pleased, possessive—and nuzzled into the crook of your neck, lips brushing the spot he’d marked last night. “Good sore means I did my job right.”
You giggled, squirming as his stubble tickled. “Stop—you’re tickling me.”
He didn’t stop. He nosed deeper, growling playfully against your throat. “I want to spend all day in this bed with you. Just like this. Fucking you over and over until you can’t walk straight.”
“Bucky!” You laughed harder, shoving at his shoulder—half-hearted, delighted. “You’re terrible.”
“I’m serious,” he murmured, nipping your earlobe. “I’ve got nothing planned. No meetings. No calls. Just you. Naked. Under me. On top of me. Against the wall. Wherever you want.”
Your cheeks burned, but you couldn’t stop smiling. “You’re going to kill me.”
“Only with orgasms,” he promised, kissing the corner of your mouth. “Lots of them.”
You laughed again—bright, unguarded—and he drank the sound like wine.
Time passed in a soft, golden blur.
Mornings became lazy—coffee in bed, his head in your lap while you read, your fingers combing through his hair. Afternoons were quiet—walks on the mansions grounds (his coat around your shoulders, his arm around your waist), or you playing piano while he worked in the next room with the door open so he could hear every note. Evenings were dinners by candlelight—sometimes in the formal dining room, sometimes on trays in his bed—and nights were his.
He took you again and again—slow and reverent one night, rough and possessive the next. He learned your body like a map he’d memorized in dreams—every gasp, every shiver, every place that made you arch and beg. You learned his too—the way his breath hitched when you kissed the scar on his ribs, the way his control frayed when you whispered “please” against his throat, the way he held you after like you were something fragile and priceless.
He bought you things constantly.
Every time you tried to protest—“Bucky, you don’t have to—” he’d silence you with a kiss and a quiet, “I want to. Let me spoil you.”
You were always grateful—always kissed him thank-you, always hugged him tight when he came home. When his car pulled into the drive you’d run to the foyer barefoot, throw your arms around his neck, and kiss him like he’d been gone years instead of hours.
He lived for those moments.
This was what he’d wanted from the second he saw you on that stage—your voice, your smile, your softness. You in his home. In his bed. In his arms. Safe. Loved. His.
One Tuesday evening he came home late.
You heard the front doors open—heard the low murmur of his men, the heavy tread of his boots. You were in the kitchen, barefoot in a pretty floral dress, hair loose, sleeves rolled up as you plated the steak you’d made yourself. The cooks had the night off at your request. You wanted to do this for him.
The scent of garlic and rosemary clung to the air, a warm, domestic blanket over the mansion’s cold, polished edges. You were plating the steak, the seared crust gleaming under the low kitchen lights, when the hallway doors swung open.
Bucky stepped into the open-plan living space, his presence a physical shift in the atmosphere. He didn’t just enter; he occupied. The tailored black suit he wore was a second skin of authority, but it was frayed tonight—tie loosened, top button undone, faint creases at the elbows from a long day. A faint, almost metallic scent clung to him—not blood, but the cold, resolved energy of the city’s underbelly. His blue eyes, usually so sharp, were softened by fatigue, yet they pinned you as soon as they found you.
He stopped in the doorway, taking in the sight of you—barefoot, dress swaying around your knees, hair loose and catching the warm light, standing at his kitchen island like you belonged there.
“What’s all this?” he asked, voice low and warm with surprise.
You turned with a smile that felt deliberately light. “Dinner. I told the cooks to take the night off. I wanted to cook for you.”
He crossed the room in three strides—came up behind you, arms sliding around your waist, pulling your back to his chest. His lips found the side of your neck.
“You’re too sweet to me,” he murmured, nipping gently at your earlobe. “Always so thoughtful.”
You laughed—soft, delighted—as his hands roamed. One slid up to cup your breast through the dress; the other drifted lower, cupping you between your legs. You squirmed, half-laughing, half-moaning.
“Bucky—dinner’s almost ready.”
He pouted against your skin—playful, exaggerated. “But you’re already ready for me.”
You pushed his hand away gently, giggling. “Stop. Food first.”
He groaned dramatically but stepped back, hands raised in mock surrender. “Fine. But after dinner, you’re mine.”
Dinner was candlelit—candles flickering on the long oak table, wine poured into crystal glasses, steak and roasted vegetables you’d made yourself. You sat side by side instead of across from each other. He held your hand the entire time—thumb stroking your knuckles, lifting your fingers to his lips between bites, kissing them softly.
A ghost of a smirk touched his lips. He shed his suit jacket, hanging it with a care that belied the violence the fabric might have witnessed. His shirt, a crisp white, was unbuttoned at the collar, revealing the strong column of his throat. He moved to you, not to embrace you immediately, but to stand close enough that his heat radiated against your back. His hands, those famously lethal hands, settled on your hips, his thumbs pressing into the dip just above your pelvis.
“This dinner is so good,” he said, his voice a low rasp that bypassed your ears and went straight to your spine.
“It’s just steak,” you replied, turning with a smile that felt deliberately light. “You look like you’ve been wrestling heaven’s darker angels.”
“Only the ones who deserved it,” he murmured, his mouth near your ear. His breath was warm. “Now I’m home. With you.”
You felt the claim in his tone. It wasn’t a statement of fact; it was a reassertion of territory. You were his territory. You let him steer you gently to the dining table, a massive slab of dark oak, and you sat beside him, not across from him. The proximity was a game you both played—a game of simmering control.
The dinner began in a quiet hum. You ate, you talked about nothing consequential, your knees brushing under the table. His gaze, however, was a constant, slow-burning pressure. It tracked the movement of your hand bringing a fork to your lips, lingered on the pulse point at your neck, dropped to the swell of your breasts under your simple, knee-length dress.
His own eating was methodical, powerful. He cut his steak with precise motions, but his attention was splintered. After a sip of wine, he set his glass down and let his hand fall to your thigh. Not a grab, but a possession. His palm lay flat on the silk of your dress, his fingers a loose cage over your flesh.
“Thank you for cooking dinner for me, my love,” he said, his voice dropping into a private register. “You are so thoughtful."
“You're welcome. I’m always thinking about you,” you answered, keeping your tone even. You took a bite, chewed slowly, letting him watch.
His fingers began a slow, upward migration. They traced the seam of your dress along your thigh, climbing toward the hem. “What did you think about?”
You swallowed. “That you’d be hungry.”
“I’m always hungry,” he countered, his fingertips now brushing the edge of the fabric, a millimeter from touching the bare skin of your inner thigh. “For this. For you.”
A flush, deep and warm, started in your core and spread outward. You shifted slightly, not away from his touch, but into it, a subtle arch of your spine that offered him more. “The food’s getting cold, Bucky.”
“As much as I love the food,” he said, his voice thickening. His other hand left his fork and came to your face. He turned your chin toward him, his thumb stroking your lower lip. “I care a lot more about this mouth. About what it says to me. About what it does to me.”
You met his gaze, letting a challenge spark in your own. “It’s saying you should eat your dinner.”
He smiled, a real one this time, sharp and predatory. “It’s lying.” He leaned in, his lips a whisper from yours. “It wants to be fucked. It wants my cock in it. It’s thinking about that right now, while you’re trying to play this cool little game.”
Your breathing faltered. He was right. The game was a veneer over a lake of need. You didn’t pull away. Instead, you let your own hand drift from your lap to his. You found the hard, defined ridge of his abdomen under his shirt, and you pressed your palm against it. “Maybe I’m thinking about what’s under this shirt. Maybe I’m thinking about tracing every fucking muscle with my tongue.”
His eyes darkened, the blue becoming a stormy sea. His thumb on your lip pushed inward, gently parting your lips. “Then do it. Stop teasing me.”
“You’re teasing me,” you whispered, your own fingers now working at the buttons of his shirt. You popped the first one, then the second. The stark white fabric parted, revealing a glimpse of his chest—tanned, scarred in places, sculpted with a brutal, beautiful precision. “You come home smelling like power and violence, and you sit here touching me like I’m a fucking artifact. Take what you want, Bucky. Or don’t. I can wait.”
That was the trigger. A low, rough sound escaped his throat, not a moan, but a growl of surrender. The game broke because you refused to lose it; you made him break it.
“Fuck waiting,” he snarled.
In one fluid, violent motion, he stood, his chair scraping back. His hands gripped your waist and hauled you up, not onto the floor, but onto the table itself. Plates clattered, the wine glass tipped, spilling a ruby stain across the oak. He didn’t notice. He pushed you back until you were sitting on the edge, your dress rumpled around you. His hands went to the hem, and he pushed it up, gathering the silk in his fists until it was bunched around your hips, exposing your legs, your thighs, and finally, the simple black lace of your panties.
“These,” he said, his voice guttural. “These are for me. Only for me.”
He didn’t remove them with care. He hooked his fingers into the sides and pulled, the lace stretching then giving way, tearing a little at the seam. He flung the scrap of fabric aside. And then he was looking, his gaze a physical weight on your exposed cunt.
It was the first time he’d seen you like this in this light, in this context. Your pussy was laid bare under the dining room’s ambient glow. The lips were a full, dusky pink, parted slightly in the cool air. They were smooth, hairless, a deliberate choice you made for him. The inner folds glistened with a faint, natural moisture, a sheen of your own anticipation. The scent of you—clean, musky, intimately female—rose between you. He stared, his jaw tightening, his nostrils flaring as he inhaled it.
“Mine,” he breathed, the word a vow.
He didn’t ask. He moved. He bent, his hands spreading your thighs wider, his head dipping between them. His mouth, those famously cynical lips, found you. Not a kiss, but a claiming.
His tongue was hot, broad, and relentless. It didn’t explore; it conquered. It slid along the entire length of your slit, from the top of your clit to the entrance of your cunt, coating itself in your taste. You cried out, a sharp, unfiltered sound, your hands flying to his hair. You gripped the dark strands, not to push him away, but to anchor yourself.
“Bucky…” you gasped.
He answered by deepening his assault. His tongue focused on your clit, circling the swollen bud, then flattening against it, applying a pressure that made your vision blur. He alternated—flicking, sucking, then driving his tongue lower, into the very opening of your cunt. He tasted you there, deep, his nose nudging against your sensitive flesh. The sounds were obscene: the wet, slick noises of his mouth working on you, your own ragged breaths, the soft thud of your heel against the table leg as your body jerked.
His hands held your thighs open, his grip firm, almost painful, but the pain was a bright thread in the tapestry of pleasure. You could feel his own need radiating from him; the hard ridge of his cock pressed against his trousers, a relentless bulge against your calf.
He pulled back for a moment, his lips glistening with your wetness. His eyes, hazy with lust, locked with yours. “You taste like you’ve been thinking about this all day. Like you’ve been fucking dreaming about my mouth on you.”
“I was,” you confessed, your voice shaking. “I dreamed about your cock, too. About it filling me up right here, on this table.”
A fierce, possessive grin split his face. “Then get it for me.”
You pushed at his shoulders, urging him up. He rose, his body towering over you. Your hands went back to his shirt, yanking the remaining buttons free. The fabric fell open, revealing his entire torso—a landscape of hard-earned muscle, of old scars and new strength. Your palms swept over his skin, feeling the heat, the texture, the powerful flex of his abdomen as he breathed. You pushed the shirt off his shoulders, letting it drop to the floor.
His belt was next. You unbuckled it with frantic fingers, the leather giving way. His trousers, you unzipped, and then you shoved them down along with his boxer briefs. His cock sprang free, and you drank in the sight.
It was thick, veined, and fully erect, the head a dark, flushed crimson. It curved slightly upward, a proud, demanding arch. Pre-cum beaded at the tip, a clear promise of what was to come. You reached for it, your fingers wrapping around the base. It was hot, almost feverish, and solid as steel. You stroked him, once, twice, feeling him pulse in your hand.
“You’re so fucking hard for me,” you whispered, awed.
“Only for you,” he gritted out. His hands framed your face, pulling you into a kiss. This wasn’t the gentle brushing from before. This was a sloppy, desperate merger. His tongue plunged into your mouth, tasting himself on your lips, mixing with your own flavor. It was a feedback loop of desire. You kissed him back with equal hunger, your teeth nipping at his lip, your tongue battling his.
He broke the kiss, breathing harshly. “On the table. On your back. Now.”
He helped you, his hands guiding you to lie flat on the oak surface. The wood was cool against your bare shoulders, your back. Your dress was still bunched at your waist, your legs spread for him. He stood between them, his cock poised at your entrance. One hand gripped your hip, the other went to your cunt, his fingers parting your lips, spreading your wetness, ensuring you were open for him.
“Look at me,” he commanded, his voice a rough stone.
You obeyed. Your eyes found his, and you saw the storm there—the love, the violence, the absolute need. It was all for you.
He didn’t ease into you. He owned you. With a single, powerful thrust, he drove his cock into your cunt.
The penetration was a stunning, full-bodied event. He was big, and he filled you with a sudden, breathtaking pressure. Your inner walls stretched to accommodate him, a delicious, burning ache that instantly blossomed into a wave of pure pleasure. You cried out, a sound that was half pain, half ecstasy, your nails scratching at the table’s surface.
“Fuck… Bucky, you’re so deep…” you moaned.
He held himself there, buried to the root, letting you feel every inch of him. His eyes never left yours. “This cunt is mine. This body is mine. You are mine. Say it.”
“I’m yours,” you gasped, the words a truth you’d never deny.
He began to move.
His fucking was a declaration. He pulled back almost entirely, then slammed back in, each thrust a measured, powerful stroke. The rhythm was relentless, each impact sending a jolt through your body, rocking you against the hard table. The sounds were a crude symphony: the slap of his thighs against yours, the wet, rhythmic squelch of his cock plunging into your soaked channel, your own escalating moans.
One of his hands remained on your hip, anchoring you. The other traveled upward, over your stomach, to your breast. He pushed your dress down further, exposing your bra. He didn’t bother with the clasp; he pulled the cup down, freeing your breast. Your nipple, hard and sensitive, met his palm. He squeezed, not gently, a possessive pressure that made you arch off the table.
“You love this,” he grunted, his thrusts never faltering. “You love being fucked by me like this, like a fucking possession.”
“I love it,” you sobbed, the pleasure coiling tighter inside you, a spring being wound. “I love your cock in my cunt. I love how you fuck me. Fuck me harder.”
He obliged. His pace intensified, his hips driving into you with a faster, more brutal cadence. The table creaked under the force. Your head tossed back, your vision filled with the ceiling’s blurred lines. You were lost in the sensation—the thick, hot invasion of his cock, the rough grasp of his hands, the raw words pouring from his mouth.
After a few minutes of this, his rhythm changed. He slowed, withdrawing almost completely, leaving you empty and gasping. “Turn over,” he ordered, his voice thick with urgency. “Hands and knees on the table. I want to see that ass. I want to fuck that cunt from behind.”
You scrambled, your body slick with sweat and desire. You turned, getting onto your knees, your hands planted on the table for support. Your back was to him now, your ass presented to him. You felt the cool air on your exposed skin, felt the vulnerable, open position you were in.
His gaze was a hot brand on your back. You knew what he was seeing: the curve of your spine, the swell of your ass cheeks, and between them, your cunt, now glistening and gaping slightly from his previous fucking. Your pussy lips were flushed darker, swollen from use, the entrance slick and inviting. Above it, the small, shadowed pucker of your asshole was visible, a forbidden temptation.
He didn’t speak. His hands landed on your ass, spreading you wider. His thumbs pressed into the soft flesh, parting you fully for his view. He leaned in, and you felt his mouth again, not on your cunt this time, but higher. His lips pressed a hot, open-mouthed kiss against the curve of your ass cheek, then his tongue traced a wet line down the crease between your cheeks, towards your cunt.
“So fucking beautiful,” he muttered, his voice muffled against your skin. “This ass. This cunt. All mine.”
Then his cock found you again. From behind, the angle was different, deeper. He guided himself into your wetness, and the entry was a smooth, profound slide. He filled you up, his pelvis meeting your ass with a solid impact. One hand stayed on your hip, the other moved lower, between your legs.
His fingers found your clit.
As he fucked you, his thumb circled the swollen bud, applying a perfect, matching pressure to his thrusts. The dual stimulation was overwhelming. Each drive of his cock into your cunt was paired with a pulse of pleasure from his touch on your clit. Your moans became continuous, a stream of sound that you couldn’t control.
“You’re gonna take my cum,” he growled, his thrusts becoming faster, more urgent. “You’re gonna take it deep in this cunt. I’m gonna fill you up until you’re dripping with me.”
“Yes,” you begged, your body trembling on the edge. “Give it to me, Bucky. Fill me up. I want it.”
His hand on your hip moved to your hair. He gathered the strands at the back of your head, gripping them, not pulling painfully, but holding you firmly, controlling your posture. It was a possessive gesture that sent a fresh spike of submission through you, tightening the coil of your climax even further.
His fucking became erratic, a desperate, final sprint. His breath sawed in and out, his body slamming into yours with a force that shook the table. His fingers on your clit pressed harder, faster.
“Come for me,” he commanded, his voice ragged. “Come on my cock. Now.”
The command, the sensation, the sheer ownership broke you. The climax detonated, not a wave but a chain reaction of white-hot pulses radiating from your cunt and clit outward, searing through your belly, your legs, your fingers. You screamed, your body locking rigid for a moment before convulsing in release. Your cunt clamped around his driving cock, milking him, demanding his own finish.
He felt it, and he lost his last shred of control. With a final, deep roar, he drove into you, burying himself as deep as he could go. You felt him swell inside you, felt the hot, sudden flood of his cum erupting into your depths. It was a series of pulses, a hot, liquid jetting that filled you, marking you internally. He held himself there, grinding into you as he emptied himself, his grip on your hair tightening, his other hand still working your clit through your own climax.
He turned you gently, pulling you against him, your back to his chest. His arms wrapped around you, holding you on the table. His lips found your shoulder, and he nipped at the skin, a gentle, possessive bite.
“You’re mine,” he whispered again, the vow now a satisfied truth.
The room fell quiet except for the soft crackle of the fire in the hearth and the slow, shared rhythm of your breathing. Bucky eased out of you with careful gentleness, a warm trickle following, but he never let you go. He gathered you against his chest—strong arms wrapping around you like armor—pulling the thick duvet over both of your bodies. His lips found your forehead, your temple, the corner of your eye, pressing soft, lingering kisses there as if sealing every inch of you with his devotion.
You nestled closer, cheek against the steady thud of his heart, fingers tracing idle patterns over the ink on his chest. The world outside the mansion—the threats, the blood, the endless power plays—felt impossibly far away. Here, in this bed, in his arms, there was only warmth, safety, and the quiet certainty that you belonged to each other. He had you now—completely, irrevocably—and the ruthless king of New York finally had everything he’d ever truly wanted: you, safe, loved, and his forever.
. ܁₊ ⊹ . ܁ ⟡ ܁ . ⊹ ₊ ܁.
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