My mind wanders to how it’d feel to sink into Caroline’s ass, what it’d taste like with my come dripping from the tight ring of muscle, how she’d quiver beneath me from the aftershocks of her orgasm.
The thought of being the first in that hole has me coming undone.
I pull Siena forward, so she’s flush with my neatly trimmed pubic hair as lightning races up my spine, liquid fire collecting at the base and shooting straight through my balls. They seize up as I release down the redhead’s throat, an animalistic groan ripping its way from my chest.
She gags on my dick, and I feel her throat spasm as she struggles to swallow the load.
It’s been way too fucking long since I last came inside a woman.
I shove away from her, ignoring how she laps at the come dribbling down her chin from my sudden withdrawal—like she can’t get enough of my salty release. For some reason, the gesture only serves to disgust me further. Siena is too fucking easy. A puppy vying for my attention.
I want the lioness—the woman I have to work for. Beg for. It’ll make her surrender all the more sweet.
Walking around my desk, I grab a tissue from the box in the top drawer, wiping my dick off and tucking it inside my pants. Siena stands and comes over to me, taking a tissue for herself and dabbing at her chin. She perches on the corner of the desk as I sink into the chair, leaning so her massive tits are level with my eyes. I ignore her.
“Honestly, Elia, if you were gonna take me as your mistress, you could’ve just told me before you went and got married.” She laughs, tossing her hair over her shoulder as if the notion is hilarious.
“Who the hell said anything about you being my mistress?”
Her green eyes widen slightly. “Well, you did just bring me up here to fuck my mouth.”
“A one-time lapse of judgment, I can assure you.” I lean back in my chair and point toward the door. “You can go now.”
She blinks. “Are you kidding?”
“Do I look like someone who fucking jokes a lot?”
Her jaw drops. “Elia, you can’t be serious. I—I’m your girl. Before that fucking prude wife of yours came into the picture—”
The tone of her voice grates on my already electrified nerve-endings. I react with a cruelty rarely seen on this level of the club. Violence is usually reserved for the basement and our fixer.
“I’m going to go ahead and stop you there.” Pushing back from the desk and getting to my feet in one smooth movement, Siena doesn’t have time to digest what’s happening. My palm curls around her throat, my grip harsh and not at all reminiscent of the way I’ve held Caroline. I don’t give myself time to process that before I squeeze Siena’s larynx, cutting off her air supply.
Her fingers come up to scrape against mine, searching for traction. But I’m too large; too strong.
“Need I remind you who signs your paychecks, who ensures your safety to dance at this club, and who runs this fucking town? Me, princess. You will not speak to me like I’m the scum beneath your shoe, nor will you refer to my wife in any way that isn’t entirely and outrightly flattering. You’ve serviced my cock for years, but rest assured when I say I won’t fucking hesitate to slice your chest open and crush your bitter little heart if you ever fucking call me Elia again. I’m Mr. Montalto, or Sir, to you, and nothing fucking else.”
“But—”
My grip tightens, my free hand joining to lift her off the ground. Her claws wrap around mine, desperate in their attempts to get me to relinquish control, but I hold still. Dark red splotches crop up along her cheekbones, coloring her otherwise pale and dull skin.
“The time for talking is over between us. You will not mention this to a single soul. If I think you’ve even breathed a sigh regarding this afternoon, I’ll have your head mounted on my wall by the end of the day. I’m not fucking around, Siena. And I’m not taking a mistress. Capisce?”
She tries to nod, but my hold on her impedes the ability to agree with me.
With a harsh shove, I release her neck; my heart thumps erratically in my chest as she slumps to the floor, a sob wracking her body. Turning on my heel, I cross the room to the large window overlooking downtown and people-watch for a few moments in silence.
The door closes softly at her departure, and the tension coagulating in my shoulders softens, balmed by the loneliness permeating my office. And as I continue watching those below, picking out the addicts from the normal tourists, I lean my forehead against the cool glass, trying to calm the beat of my heart. Why the fuck does it suddenly feel so empty?
I’VE BEEN STARING out my bedroom window for half an hour, ever since Elia got home. He didn’t acknowledge me, despite it being the first time we’ve been under the same roof in a couple of days.
Instead, he stopped just inside the front door, watched me mix cake batter for a few silent moments, and then stomped up the stairs to his bedroom. The door slamming shut told me I probably shouldn’t go after him.
Not that I wanted to, anyway; it’s not my responsibility to cure his bad mood.
I was taking my strawberry cake out of the oven when he came back downstairs with a crossword puzzle book tucked under his armpit, dressed in a black long-sleeved tee and swim trunks.
Still, he ignored me, and so I’d gone upstairs to avoid seeing him again. Passing by the window, I caught a sliver of tanned, chiseled flesh diving into the pool on our patio, and found myself glued in place.
I haven’t moved since. Can’t stop ogling my husband as his body cuts through the water, an unstoppable bullet of energy.
What ghost is he trying to outswim?
The sun sets with me still standing, watching. Drooling. He pulls himself out of the pool after one final lap, falling back on the ledge and throwing an arm over his face.
Christ, he’s attractive. The kind of man that clearly made a deal with Satan, because his good looks are just otherworldly.
My clit throbs just looking at him, imploring me to go down and invite him upstairs. Though I’m sure he’d oblige, considering the other times he’s been more than happy to grind up against me, I can’t make myself do it.
He pulls his crossword puzzle booklet off the black chaise lounge, positioning a pen between his lips and dunking his feet into the water as he scrutinizes the page. Silently, I watch his brow furrow as he marks spots on the booklet, concentration making him a thousand times hotter.
Jesus, he could probably kill someone in front of me right here, right now, and I’d lay back and spread my legs like nothing happened.
And that is why I stay in place, why it feels like my feet have grown roots. We’re only a few days into this union, and already, I feel like I could give Elia my soul.
I have no idea what he’d do with it, given the chance, but I don’t want to test the theory, either.
Later, I’m spreading homemade buttercream icing along the outside of my cake, finally having ripped myself away from my husband’s glorious body, when he pushes the backdoor open, strolling inside.
Water drips from his dark hair, strands sticking to his forehead; unfortunately, he’s put that black shirt on again, as if afraid of what me seeing him in any state of undress might do.
He’s right to be afraid. I want to devour him.
Focusing on my spatula, I smooth the icing along the edges of my cake, ignoring his presence. He comes and stands beside the island, leaning one hip against the side. “I didn’t know you bake.”
“I’m sure there are a lot of things we don’t know about each other.” I glance up, meet his intense gaze, and immediately drop back to my cake. “I didn’t know you like crosswords.”
“They’re relaxing.”
“Is there a lot of stress in your line of work?”
“You know there is.” He cocks his head, eyeing me. “But not just with work, anymore.”
I swallow, nodding like I totally understand that. And maybe I do since he’s pretty obviously talking
about me, but whatever. I didn’t ask him to marry me.
“Do you need help?” he asks.
Straightening my back, I push icing down toward the mouth of the pipette, considering him. “Have you ever decorated a cake before?”
“Not since…” Trailing off, he clears his throat, scratching at his chest. “Not since I was a kid.”
“Well, if you’re sure you want to help, you can go behind me and space out flowers with this pipette.” I pick up the smaller baggie filled with a light blue icing, topped with a star-shaped nozzle. “Just make sure you don’t put them too close together, or I might have to kill you.”
Taking the tool from my hands, he follows me in a circle around the bottom edge of the cake, dotting every few inches with tiny, perfect accents. He’s careful and considerate with where he places each one, and it makes my chest tighten.
Any time I tried to bake with Juliet or, at one time, my parents, they took over and ignored all my suggestions. Eventually, it became a hobby I had to do by myself.
“This is relaxing, too,” he says after a few moments, putting the finishing flourish on the last flower. “How long have you been baking?”
“My dad had me in the kitchen at three. Eventually, I graduated to harder stuff like scones and artisan breads, but cake is the easiest, so I make them more than anything else.”
“So, things with your dad weren’t always so bad, then?”
I look down at the counter, my gaze circling a glob of batter that didn’t make it to the pan. “Nothing’s always bad, right? If you look hard enough, you can find the good in anyone.”
Our eyes meet when I lift my face, an electric current pulsing between us.
“I can relate. Things with my pops have been weird for a long time.”
“Since your mom’s death, right?” He raises an eyebrow, and I smile sheepishly. “Everyone in King’s Trace knows she died before you guys moved here. I swear, I didn’t Google you.”
Nodding without answering, he swipes a finger into the icing, bringing it to his mouth. His tongue swirls around the end, tasting, and it makes my stomach tense. “Well, this is delicious, in any case. I can definitely tell you love the craft.”
Sighing, I smooth my spatula over the hole he made, covering it with more icing. “That I do.”
“What else do you love?”
My gaze slides back to him slowly, one of my brows arching. “Why do you ask?”
“I don’t know. Is it wrong for me to want to get to know you?”
“Kinda. I mean, six months from now, none of this is gonna matter, right? So, I figure, what’s the point?”
He frowns, head whipping back like I’ve just slapped him. “You’re really sticking to that prenup.”
“It’s a contract, Elia. The only thing protecting me from you and my father.”
That’s the wrong thing to say; his eyes harden, deep-seated anger branching out over the contours of his perfect face. How can someone look so delectable and so frightening at the same time?
“Why the fuck do you need protection from me? I’m not the one leaving bruises on you.”
He’s right, but I don’t say it. “I just mean my reputation. My namesake. I want to make sure that when all this is over, I’m not left completely bro—defenseless.”
Crossing his arms over his chest, he glares at me, studying my face. “Right. When all this is over. Got it.”
“Elia, come on. We aren’t—”
He shakes his head, turning away from me. “I came here tonight because I felt like an asshole, leaving you here for a few days while I took care of things at work. I thought you’d be scared, confused, maybe even a little needy. Silly me, I married a girl that doesn’t fucking need anyone.”
“Why are you acting like you suddenly want more than what we agreed on?” My heart stutters, fear clogging its chambers. “Oh, God...”
Scoffing, he turns, showing off his profile, backlit by the pool lights outside. “Don’t be fucking stupid, Caroline. I was just hoping you’d warm my bed tonight.”
Heat scorches my cheeks, and I set my pipette down, rubbing my thighs together in an attempt to relieve the ache between them. God, I so want to. “I don’t think that’d be a good idea.”
“You’re probably right.”
As he stalks away from me, feet pounding against the stairs on his ascent, my head throbs, wishing I could answer him from before. Tell him what I really need protecting from when it comes to him; that I think he might leave bruises on my heart.
Elia
Get a grip, Elia.
If I’d stayed downstairs even a second longer, I would’ve ended up bending Caroline over the dining room table and showing her exactly what she should be afraid of.
How badly my body wants her, how it knows we’d fit together like missing pieces of a jigsaw puzzle.
But the fear and confusion in her eyes, coupled with the bewildering feelings soaring in my heart, gave me pause. Pissed me off, because all I fucking wanted in the first place was to spend a little time with her, get a glimpse of the girl beneath that hard shell. Still, she shut me out. Not that she has much reason to give me an edge inside, considering I’ve been M.I.A. since our wedding.
Pulling on a pair of flannel sleep pants and a white t-shirt, I travel across the hall and knock on her bedroom door. She pulls it open, rubbing sleep from her pretty blue eyes, and I inhale, trying to seal her scent into my lungs.
Jesus, you’ve got it bad, man.
“Elia?” She blinks up at me, then looks over her shoulder. “It’s midnight. Is something wrong?”
I shake my head, reaching out and cupping her chin. Because fuck me, I just can’t refrain from touching her. “I think I owe you an apology.”
She leans into me, her skin cool against mine. “You don’t. This is a weird situation we’re in, and it makes sense. We don’t know each other, don’t know if we even like each other. I get it, trust me.”
A confession eats away at my skin like a necrotizing bacterium, revealing my darkest secret—that I’ve been frustratingly enamored by Caroline since the moment I laid eyes on her.
Blood rushes between my ears in time to the pulse jumping in my neck. “I like you,” I whisper, the sound so soft I’m not sure she even catches it at first. When she pulls back, I know she heard it.
“Elia…”
“I don’t know why, or how. And I know things are new and weird between us, but God help me, I do.”
She looks down, scuffing her bare toe against the floor. “We should get some sleep.”
Disappointment heats my veins, and my hand drops from her to my side, deflated. I open my mouth to say more, but the turmoil on her face stops me. “Right… goodnight, Caroline.”
She eases the door shut as I turn and go back to my room. As I push mine closed, I watch her watching me through the crack before she caves and closes hers entirely, barring me from her life.
Which, all things considered, shouldn’t irritate me. Unfortunately, it’s quickly becoming apparent that whatever the hell I feel for Caroline is clouding my judgment, making me hunger for her.
I focus on the blackness outlining those feelings, emphasizing it in my mind. I want to break her—own her. Erase the darkness inked on her soul. Use her innocence for myself; harvest it so she lives on in my bones.
And I won’t stop until she’s given me everything.
MY COUSIN SHOWS UP on my doorstep as I’m taking a peach cobbler from the oven, hands on his narrow hips, blue eyes pinched as if he smells something rotten.
“Didn’t your mother ever tell you it’s rude to enter someone’s kitchen looking like you’ve just smelled week-old milk?” I shuck the red oven mitts off my hands, tossing them to the counter, and turn to face him.
Across the room, Benito gives me a quick nod and heads back to his post outside the front door. I swear, I’ve never met a more stoic, work-oriented man. It makes me want to crack hi
m open, see what’s shriveled up inside.
Perching on the end of a bar stool at the island, Luca leans his elbows against the marble counter, schooling his features. His honey-brown hair sits slicked back with some kind of product, making him look older than his twenty-four years. “What the hell are you doing, Care?”
I glance at the dessert on my stovetop, then back at him, brows furrowed. “Baking. Is that not obvious?”
“I mean, what are you doing here?”
“I live here.”
“Yeah, I fucking know. Why? You married my boss, a fucking capo. All for what? A nice new kitchen to bake pies in?”
Frowning, I rest my weight on the cabinet behind me. “This is a cobbler, not a pie. Please respect the difference.”
He rolls his eyes. “Fuck off with that, Caroline. You’re deflecting, and you know it. Why haven’t you followed through with your plan yet? What the hell are you waiting for?”
My insides somersault. I knew getting Luca involved would come back to bite me, but I figured I’d have an excuse for him when he finally showed. As one of my oldest friends and technically family, I thought maybe his insight would be beneficial to my plan. And it was, but he keeps harping on the situation (or, lack thereof), as though he has some personal stake in it.
Only one person besides me has a personal stake in this, and he doesn’t even know it.
Elia’s confession from the other night flashes in my mind, making me dizzy. ‘I like you,’ he’d whispered. A foreign feeling shot through me, trying to reconcile how he can feel that way when he barely knows me.
And why I want him to mean it.
“I’m waiting for an opportunity. Not that it’s any of your business.”
“Oh, so suddenly, your safety isn’t my business?” Standing up, he walks over to me and mimics my stance, crossing his arms over his chest. He’s wearing all-black, a Montalto staple, though the contrast of the dark fabric against his skin is entirely different from Elia’s.
Luca looks unnaturally pale, flushed like he ran all the way here.
The heat from his side collides with my own, burrowing deep. Mystifying. I reach behind me and grip the underside of the countertop, trying to steady myself. “I’m married, Luca. It’s not your place anymore.”
Sweet Surrender: A Dark Mafia Enemies-to-Lovers Romance (King's Trace Antiheroes Book 1) Page 7