Twisted Fate: A Forbidden Romance

by Ella James

  “I want to be the little spoon,” she says, and fuck if I don’t want to give her that and anything else she asks for.

  I settle in behind her, tucking my dick into the crevice between my hip and leg, where it stays for about three seconds before standing at attention. I shift my hips so I’m more reclined, try to tuck my damn erection over to the side, and wrap an arm sort of around her so she’ll lean against my chest, which she does. She sinks deeper into the water, which brings her ass flush with my dick, and then she reaches behind her and wraps her hand around it.

  She gives a tinkling laugh. “I like how this guy is so predictable.” She strokes a few times, leaning against my chest as she traces the rim around my tip. “I like that he wants me…even though he shouldn’t. I’m about that, from him. He follows no rules.” With her other hand, she finds my hand and guides it in between her legs. And holy fuck, she folds my palm over her cunt.

  “I’m predictable, too,” she whispers. “And when you say no one’s been inside your tub, I tell myself it’s not a new tub and that’s not a caveat. And if there’s really been nobody in the tub, it makes me want to be in the tub with you.” Her voice is sultry, and her hand around me is now pumping slowly.

  “Your…foot soldiers deal some really clean H. I found that out. How there’s fewer overdoses, almost like it’s harm reduction. And I liked that. I don’t really know about drugs. Don’t know how to solve that issue, don’t know if there’s a solution. It’s like the Garden of Eden and the apple, and you know…”

  Her thumb tweaks my tip, making my balls tauten. “We all know what happens when you know you shouldn’t do something.”

  “Do we?” My voice is so hoarse.

  “Yes, we do. We both do. People lose control in closets at houses that are not theirs. Or put their jobs at risk. Sometimes…dirty tricks can happen,” she says, turning partway around, so she can work my dick with both of her hands. I reach for her pussy, but the angle makes me just able to stroke her soft thigh.

  “It’s like cat and mouse, with cameras and tracking devices. And you know you shouldn’t look because it’s pointless, but it doesn’t feel pointless.” She scoots closer, guiding my hand so I can press a finger into her. “It feels so good…” She shivers right there, her grip on me tightening…and then she’s reaching down so she can cradle my balls in her palm.

  “I think they’re bigger in the warm water,” she says with a tired smile. “Is that true? Are they bigger?”

  She tugs, and I can’t help groaning. “You remember how I always loved this part of you? One of my favorites.”

  “I don’t think you said that,” I rasp.

  “I believe I said it with my mouth.”

  I’m gonna come if she keeps talking like this. If she keeps tracing the veins in my shaft with her deft, gentle fingertips. I ease another finger into her, and she crawls into my arms, the angle again forcing my fingers out of her, but then her knee is in between my legs and she’s setting us up so we can rub ourselves together while she kisses my throat.

  “You’re so perfect,” she whispers, kissing my neck beneath my ear until my body quivers. “I think you should quit the mob and run away with me.”

  I trail my fingers down her back as she strokes my dick, kisses my jaw. “After I’m done being D.A., we can move abroad. No one will ever know.”

  I catch her jaw with my hand, bring her mouth to mine, and kiss her softly. We go at each other till she’s shivering, until I feel my heartbeat in my cock, until she’s straddling my lap, rubbing her ass over my dick, and we’re hugging.

  “I’m tired,” she whispers, “but I want to be with you while I can.”

  “Be with me in my room. Let me carry you to bed and make you come, and then you’ll sleep.”

  “Will you sleep with me…please?” she asks, the words like silk.

  “If you want. Of course.”

  She feels near limp as she hugs me, lays her cheek under my throat. “I’m sorry I’m causing…upheaval for you.”

  I kiss her head. “You’re not. Well, just a little, but I want it.”

  “I love you.”

  “I regret that.”

  “Let’s go to your bed, so I can show you all the reasons you shouldn’t. And you can show me that you love me, too.”

  I do as she asks, getting out first then wrapping her in a warm towel, carrying her to my bed.

  By the time I have her tucked in, her eyes look sleepy, and she’s shivering again. I wrap her up and lie beside her, holding her close.

  “You’re so warm,” I murmur, kissing her forehead.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Come here…” I hold her against me. “Go to sleep if you can. I’ve got a surprise when you wake up.”

  Elise

  His lips brushing my cheek…his hand on my forehead. When I open my eyes to look up at him, I find Luca frowning.

  “Have you been going to work this week, rosa?”

  “Some.” I swallow, trying to wake up more. “We’re busy.”

  He kisses my forehead.

  “How long did I sleep?”

  “About two hours.”

  “Wow, two hours.” My voice sounds hoarse.

  “Seems like you needed it.”

  I hug him. “I need you.”

  We have fever sex—it’s me who’s sick, but it’s Luca who comes undone, and then falls asleep in my arms. When he wakes, he strokes my hair and smiles and gets off the bed, pulling on a pair of boxer-briefs. “Hang on,” he rumbles. “I’ve got something to show you.”

  A few minutes later, he walks in, grinning, cuddling a little brown dachshund.

  “Oh my goodness! A hot dog doggie… Hiiii, sweet baby.” I laugh, gaping at Luca. “You did it! You got a puppy!”

  He nods. “Last week.”

  I hold my arms out, and he passes the little hot dog to me. Right away, the sweetie starts licking. “Oh, how sweet. You are so soft…” I stroke his doggy head and ears and smile back up at Luca. “Where’d you find him?”

  “Cargo crate.” He arches a brow. “Lots of pets come in illegally. Whenever we see them, if the papers aren’t good, we route them other ways. So whoever ordered them for puppy farms or that shit doesn’t get them.”

  I cuddle the little red-brown darling and he walks all over me, licking my hand and then my arm and finally my neck. “That tickles.”

  Luca slips out, returning a few minutes later with a glass of water and some toast, plus Advil.

  “Thank you so much,” I say as he sets the tray beside me on the nightstand. “What’s this baby’s name?”

  He smirks. “Oscar.”

  I laugh. “Like Oscar Mayer.”

  Luca grins. He rubs the puppy’s ears, and then he scoops him back up. “I should take him outside.”

  “Bye, darling.” I kiss his head and flutter my lashes at Luca. “You too,” I tease.

  I sink back into sleep without touching the toast. Sometime later, Luca’s sitting by me, bathing my forehead with a cool cloth. I look up into his blue eyes.

  “That feel okay?” he asks.

  “Yes,” I whisper.

  He surprises me by leaning down, pressing his cheek against mine. “How’d you pick it up?” His hand strokes my hair.

  “Could be from anywhere, I guess.”

  He lies on his back beside me, then lifts up the duvet, sliding under with me. “I hate that anywhere gets you when I don’t.” He scoots closer.

  We turn toward each other at the same time. He kisses my hair, and I kiss his throat. Then I run my hand down his chest.

  “There’s no way you feel up to this again.” He chuckles. He drops another kiss on my forehead and gets quickly out of the bed.

  “You’re avoiding me,” I pout.

  “I don’t want to take advantage of you being here.”

  “Please take advantage.” Unexpected tears clog my throat. “It could be the last time.”

  He steps back to my side of the bed,
running his hand over my body through the duvet. He leans closer, kissing my eyes, and when I pull him down onto the mattress with me, he gathers me against his chest.

  “We don’t have to,” I whisper.

  But we do. He’s slow and careful, harder when I cry out for it. Afterward, he wraps me in his robe and lets me slide my feet into a pair of his socks.

  “Turn around with your back to me,” I whisper from where I’m perched on the bed. He does, and I climb on his back, wrapping my legs around his waist and my arms around his neck.

  “Does this hurt?” I laugh as he stands.

  “Hell no.”

  And so he carries me into the kitchen. I cuddle Oscar in my lap while Luca makes waffles in a waffle iron. Once, he glances at me, frowns, and asks if I want to get back in his bed.

  “I don’t want to miss this.”

  “What’s this?” he teases, guiding a waffle onto a plate.

  “You and Oscar and the waffles. You in lounge pants with your hair all rumpled like that.”

  He rubs a hand over a spot that’s sticking up. “It’s not.” But he’s smirking.

  “I love seeing you here, in your habitat,” I tell him as he brings two heaping plates of waffles and a pitcher of syrup to the table.

  Instead of setting mine before me, he asks how much syrup I want and whether I want fruit or whipped cream. When the waffle’s piled with fresh strawberries and whipped cream, sprinkled with cinnamon and drizzled with butter and maple syrup, he slides it to me.

  “And a napkin,” he says, setting one on my lap.

  27

  Luca

  “I want to ask you about all sorts of things…so I can know you more. But I’m not sure if I should,” she murmurs, between bites of whipped-cream-coated waffle fragments.

  “Shoot.”

  “How about you maybe just give one-word answers? That way, there’s no pressure.”

  Pressure to lie to her? Pressure to incriminate myself? I muster a smile.

  “Okay,” I say.

  “Are you sure?”

  I nod. “Of course.”

  She takes a bite of waffle, frowning as she chews. Then she sets her fork down. “Does it bother you? The drugs?”

  “It does.” I chew a bite of waffle, trying not to look at her. “Most people in my shoes” —I mean someone who’s distributing product the way I am, the way people under me are— “they think everybody makes their choices, and an addict makes his or hers, too. But I don’t think so.”

  “You don’t?” She looks puzzled. “What do you think?”

  “My father…” I set my fork down, thinking of how to explain. “It’s not as if he wanted to become an addict. He had problems. A health problem. So does it bother me, that people get this stuff via a channel that’s perpetuated by my actions? Yeah, it does.” I have a swallow of my water, to buy myself another moment. When I set the glass back down, I brave a glance in her direction. “Now you’re gonna ask why do I do it.”

  I want her to, so I can tell her—finally. As stupid as it is, I’d rest easier if I felt like she understood. Instead, she looks down at her plate then back up at me. “Do you feel guilty about people who get caught up in the crossfires of what you do?”

  I reach down to pet Oscar, who’s weaving around my chair’s legs. “Yes.” It doesn’t happen every day, but it does happen sometimes. It’s one of the worst things.

  “Do people get hurt?” she asks softly.

  “Sometimes, yes.” I blink up at her.

  “You try to make sure things go okay, though. You watch out for people if you can.”

  “If they deserve it.” I give her a humorless smile.

  “Do you know a lot of people who don’t?”

  “Yes.”

  She subject swaps after a syrupy bite of waffle. “What job would you do if you had your pick? Any job?”

  I blow a breath out, debating for a second before saying, “My degree is in philosophy.”

  “So, what would you do with that?”

  I can’t help laughing. “In my alternate life?” I fuck with the edge of my napkin before looking back up at her. “I don’t know. Professor? Analyst? Advocacy?”

  Her eyes are so wide, I arch my brows. “That shocked?”

  “I don’t—I mean, no and yes,” she says. “I realize you run a business. And philosophy and advocacy are not this. Or are they?” She frowns. “What philosophy is this, anyway…what you do?”

  I have to bite my tongue to stop from saying, “Nihilism.” Instead, I give her “Consequentialism.”

  “Your business…is that? That’s what you mean?”

  “I’m just teasing.”

  “But you’re really not.”

  “I’m kind of not,” I concede. “I don’t really think that one’s the best fit, though.”

  “Which one would be? Which philosophy…best suits you?”

  I shrug. “Deontology.”

  “The study of Deons?” She grins, and I shake my head. “You can look it up.”

  Her foot finds my leg under the table. “Tell me about it. Tell me about college. Did you love the campus? Did you hang out at Riverside Park, or Butler? Bet you didn’t go to the Hungarian Pastry Shop. That place was always way too crowded in a way that I don’t think you’d like.”

  I smile thinly. “I went to the library some.”

  “Did you live there?”

  “On the campus? No. I went some online.”

  “Did you like it?”

  I shrug. “Got a diploma to set in a closet.”

  “You have it hidden in a closet?”

  I smile. “It seems weird to hang it on the wall.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m a mob don, Elise. And it’s a philosophy degree.” I can’t help laughing.

  “I’m going to look up what you told me. If I can remember it.”

  “Deontology?”

  She nods.

  “Remember Kant.”

  “Ahh, Kant.”

  I give her a quick grin I don’t really feel.

  “You got anything else?” I ask her.

  “Isa?”

  “Good friend.”

  “What happened to your mother?” she asks quietly.

  “Cancer got her. She had a good run first, though. Had met a nice guy.”

  “Is your brother doing well?”

  “I would say so,” I tell her, thinking of him asking me to that party.

  “Would you marry me?” She props her cheek in her palm. “In a slightly different life?”

  I can feel the blood leave my head—so fast that I wonder if I might pass out.

  “It’s not another life,” I manage. I watch as she stands up and walks around the table.

  “You should sit back down,” I tell her softly.

  “Please tell me.” She’s frowning down at me, and her eyes are shining. There are spots of color on her pale cheeks. “If the answer’s no—” she starts.

  “It isn’t ‘no.’ But we don’t get another life. I don’t. What does it matter? Do you want to know just so it can hurt?”

  “Maybe.” Her eyes well, and she presses her lips together.

  “You already know the answer to that.”

  “You won’t tell me.” She sounds teary as she drifts back to her chair.

  “I don’t think there’s any point.”

  I still can’t breathe. I get up and get her clothes and bring them to her. Elise changes in a half bath off the kitchen. Then we step outside together, taking Oscar out. When he’s finished with his business, Elise picks him up and cuddles him for what feels like a long while. I try to pretend that it’s not killing me to see her like this—smiling in my yard, as if she’ll be here forever.

  We walk back inside, and she takes Oscar to his crate in the living room. She won’t look at me as she says, “I guess it’s time for me to go.”

  Elise

  He’s quiet on the drive home. I can tell I made him pensive—maybe eve
n angry or upset. I should have never asked about another life. But there are reasons why I couldn’t resist.

  He lets me off near my place, slowing at the mouth of an alley. For a second, I don’t think he’s going to hug me, but then he scoots his seat back and leans over, nearly crushing me against his chest as he clings to me for a long time.

  “Take care of yourself,” he murmurs, kissing near my ear.

  “You too,” I whisper.

  When I’m home, I look up Kant and deontology—and I wish I hadn’t. As it turns out, it’s the opposite of consequentialism, which says the outcome is what matters most…more than the action that propels you toward that outcome.

  In deontology, the action matters. If I had to summarize it, I would say it’s philosophy of duty. After some time thinking as I lie in my bed, I think he was saying he likes consequentialism, but his life has been more a venture in deontology. He did what he thought he had to do. It seems like all his actions, as long as I’ve known him, have been based on things he felt obligated to do.

  He’s lived a life defined by duty, and for what? Does Roberto Arnoldi really give a damn what Luca sacrificed? How he gave up his whole life to run this dirty business empire? I know, I know—so many business empires are dirty, or maybe Luca with his philosophy degree would say the rules don’t even matter. But he’s alone. I bet Oscar doesn’t even sleep with him. I found a weighted blanket on his bed. I still don’t know a thing about that awful scar. He’s out of reach…even for me. If he won’t talk to me, he doesn’t talk to anyone. I just know it.

  I can do nothing. I can’t date him. Loving him will only ever pull me into anguished pieces. I wish I could move away, but I can’t. I drift off to sleep thinking of his hand on my hot forehead. When I wake up, all I want to do is text him.

  I wait till I get to work. Then, at the place where it’s the most forbidden, I ease my phone underneath my desk and open a text box.