Patrick: A Mafia Love Story

by Saxton, R. E.

  It hurt, but also felt amazing. She shivered under the sensation, not certain how she should feel or react. “I promise I won’t fib to you again.”

  He chuckled softly, the sound making his lips vibrate against the skin of her neck. “Let’s just make sure of that, shall we?”

  She wasn’t certain whether she should keep protesting, and she decided to stand still as he unzipped the exquisite gown to let it fall to her feet. It was too beautiful to risk anything happening to it in a frenzied moment or if they were playing rough. After it was off, she stepped out of the pool of fabric and bent to retrieve it. Patrick watched with hooded eyes as she took the dress and folded it over the chair at the vanity table. Then she came back to him, straightened her shoulders, and met his gaze. “Should I have a safe word?”

  He flashed her a grin. “You’re always safe with me, honey. I’m not going to hurt you.” His hand cupped her breast, his thumb and forefinger fastening around her nipple. He suddenly tugged sharply enough to make her cry out. “Much, anyway.”

  She was still fearful, but staring into his eyes, she couldn’t bring herself to actually, truly be afraid of him or what he had planned. Patrick had done nothing but take care of her since she had become his ward four-and-a-half years ago. He had been good to her, and he was still taking care of her even now. She wasn’t certain she approved of or cared for this aspect of his care, but she was willing to see where it went. “If I say stop…?”

  “No.”

  Why did that simple, stark word make her tremble with desire instead of shudder with fear? “Is this a trust thing?”

  “Yes. I need to trust you, and you need to trust me. You need to trust that I won’t hurt you, and I have your best interests at heart.” He pinched her nipple again, eliciting another sharp cry from her from the discomfort in her nipple, even as a spark of pleasure made her thighs clench around her tingling pussy.

  “What are you going to do?”

  He stared at her for a moment. “Stand there.”

  She forced herself to remain utterly still as Patrick disrobed, standing near enough that she could have reached out to touch his body, but she didn’t. She was doing her best to go along with whatever Patrick wanted from her.

  He didn’t stop taking off his clothes until he wore nothing. She was still in lace-trimmed thigh-highs, pumps, and skimpy panties, but nothing else.

  “Lay on the bed, on your stomach.”

  Nibbling on her bottom lip, she walked the distance to the bed in the high heels, torn between kicking them off or leaving them on. Finally, she decided to keep them on since they were so sexy. Anything that distracted Patrick from his little discipline lesson could only help, right? She sprawled on the bed with a dramatic collapse, until she was lying right in the center on her stomach, head cradled by a pillow, with her arms and legs spread wide.

  “I do love that look.” He moved, the rustle of fabric revealing he was doing something, but she wasn’t certain what. The anticipation was driving her insane, and she assumed it was part of her punishment. Maybe it was even the majority of her punishment, to guess and wonder and fear what was coming next, even as she longed for it.

  “This is a new belt.”

  It was on the tip of her tongue to ask why he was sharing fashion information with her, but the realization filtered through her brain at the same time the first sharp sting of leather against her cheeks shot through her. She yelped her protest and went to turn over, but his hand on the middle of her back, lodged firmly between her shoulder blades, prevented her from moving. “I don’t like this, Patrick.”

  “Who likes punishment, my love?” He ended the question by swatting lightly on her other cheek. She realized his motions were far gentler than she had first assumed. The sting was already fading, and it was the sound more than anything that had given her the impression of true pain for a moment. She had expected it, so she had found it.

  As he struck again, this time in a different spot on her other cheek, she felt the sting again, but it wasn’t terribly painful. In fact, her pussy was suddenly flooded with moisture, and she squirmed on the bed, unable to find relief as he continued to spank her with the leather belt. She lost count of how many times he stroked the belt across her ass, too caught up in arousal and need to worry about trivial things like counting.

  She was vaguely aware of his breath growing heavier, his exhales more ragged, but he never lost control. Each lick of the belt hit with exactly the same amount of force as the one before it, and she was surprised at herself to feel the sting of disappointment when the blows stopped, and the buckle made a clanging sound as it hit the floor.

  “Is that all?” Was that really her voice, so thick and full of passion, coarse with need that she had barely been able to keep from screaming aloud, demanding release?

  “Yes.” He walked away from her, and she remained lying still, uncertain if she should move. Was he going to leave her sexually frustrated as part of her punishment? That seemed far more cruel than the belt he had taken to her butt. She whimpered in her distress, relieved to hear him approaching a moment later, his bare feet padding softly across the hardwood floor.

  “That is a beautiful sight.” The flash of a camera startled her, but she didn’t utter a protest. What was the point? He probably wouldn’t listen, and it didn’t matter. Her face wasn’t in the photo. “I want you to see how gorgeous you little red ass is, striped with my belt. Next time, I’ll use my hand. I love the sight of white flesh contrasting with a red handprint.”

  “There won’t be a next time, because I won’t lie again.” She couldn’t believe it, but a dart of disappointment shot through her as she uttered the words. Did she seriously want him to spank her? The tightening in her pussy told her yes, she did. She craved it as a sex game, but not as discipline from her fiancé. That thought still didn’t sit well with her.

  She let out a gasp of surprise a second later when something smooth and silky fell across her ass. She stiffened in surprise. “What’s that?”

  “Lotion.” He smoothed it over her taut cheeks, soothing the reddened areas with gentle caresses. “It should help minimize bruising, if I hit you hard enough to leave more than a fading red mark.”

  She closed her eyes, startled by the realization that she had almost told him she wanted to bruise. She wanted to see the proof remaining tomorrow of what he had done tonight. It was an insane reaction, but she couldn’t deny it made her even more aroused to think of him marring her skin.

  She didn’t want him to actually hurt her in a serious way, but his idea of discipline was sexy and fun, and it touched a side of her she had not known existed until this very night. The side of her that longed for dark and dangerous, probably the part of her that had been drawn to Patrick to start with and wouldn’t be dissuaded by the knowledge he was a mafia man.

  She stiffened when his thumb slipped between her cheeks, probing at the taut rosette there. “I’ve never done that, Patrick.”

  He chuckled softly. “I didn’t think you had. I know it’s somewhat fashionable for young ladies who are saving themselves to offer up their black cherry instead, but I just couldn’t see my girl doing something like that.” His thumb pressed insistently at the resistant ring of muscle, sliding deeper inside her when it yielded. “At least, not with anyone but me.”

  She shook her head against the pillow before using it to muffle a moan as his thumb wiggled inside her. “I’m not going to like it.”

  He laughed again. “That’s what you said about spanking.” No further clarification was needed when he easily slipped two fingers inside her slick folds.

  She writhed under the dual attention of his fingers inside her slit, coupled with the thumb in her backside. He was thrusting them together in concert, occasionally tightening or squeezing his hand in a way that sent her jumping off the bed each time he did it. Her nerve endings buzzed with intense pleasure, and she could feel an orgasm approaching as he continued to strum her with his expert touch.
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br />   She couldn’t stave it off anymore, and her pussy clamped tight around his fingers, drawing them in deeper. Her back passage did the same, and he let out a groan that sounded like he was almost in pain as she cried his name while she climaxed.

  Seconds later, his hand was gone, and he lifted her onto her knees. There was no time to adjust, but no adjustment was necessary as he lined up his pulsing cock with her opening and pushed inside her forcefully. Patrick tangled a hand in her hair, forcing her head backward and her back to arch for him. She screamed as he pounded into her, but it was a scream of primal pleasure, not one of fear or pain. She had never imagined sex could be like this, and she’d read her share of erotic romances. It was animalistic and raw, and she knew he wasn’t holding anything back. Neither was she, and she strove to meet his every wild, deep, and demanding thrust.

  The room was filled with the sounds of their passionate onslaught against each other, peppered with cries, moans, grunts, and the sweet slap of flesh against flesh.

  He jerked harder on her hair, likely without thought, when he started to come. She strained backward against him as much as she could, bringing a hand between her thighs to rub her clit. It only took a couple of strokes to send her over the edge, and she convulsed around him.

  Afterward, they collapsed into a sweaty heap, and she found it almost impossible to move. “Patrick?”

  “Yes, Lauren?” He sounded as exhausted she felt.

  “If that was your idea of punishment, feel free to discipline me anytime.” She said it playfully, because she didn’t want him to think she was actually okay with him punishing her.

  He laughed softly before pressing a kiss to her shoulder and pulling her closer to him. “Let’s just call that fun and remove discipline completely from the picture.”

  She liked that idea, but she hoped fun would still include the occasional spanking, because it had been delightfully wicked pleasure, much to her surprise. The entire experience had been surprising, full of revelations, and she couldn’t wait to do it again.

  Chapter Eight

  They had chosen to have a moderate-sized wedding, since he had people that must be invited. The invitations had gone out, and the ceremony was in four weeks. He had wanted desperately to accidentally forget to send Peretti an invitation, but it was a slight that wouldn’t be easily forgiven. Especially since Alexei Varnakov would be in attendance, having already RSVPed to attend in his father’s place.

  Patrick was reluctant to have the other man at his wedding, not just because he loathed Peretti, but also because he wanted to keep Lauren as far away from the Perettis as possible. He was sweating bullets that the other man might recognize her maiden name. At least he had managed to have the invitations altered at the last minute to remove her father’s name. She had insisted on the invitations reading “daughter of Howard Welsh,” and he’d pretended to go along with it, but there was no way in hell he was going to have that man’s name on the invitations for the Perettis to see.

  She had been understandably upset and disappointed with the final product, when the invitations had arrived without her father’s name on them. Lauren had seemed to accept easily that it was just a mistake on the printer’s part, and when she had suggested they delay the wedding by a week to allow time for reprinting, he had pointed out their deposit was nonrefundable, and most of the invitations had already been sent by his efficient assistant. He’d kissed away her disappointment, hating to cause her pain, but having good reason to shield her connection to Howard Welsh.

  Assuming the matter settled, it was disconcerting to have her come bouncing happily into his study just a few days later, a new box of invitations in her hand. “What’s that?”

  “Mementos for the wedding.” She passed him one. “They’ll double as placemats.”

  He exhaled softly, relieved to find out they weren’t new invitations with her father’s name. The relief lasted until he opened the one she handed him, finding a collage of photos inside. At first glance, it was simply the two of them, but as he peered closer, his stomach dipped with dread to see pictures of his mother and father and himself as a younger man, his younger brothers and his two sisters, and of course, pictures scattered throughout of her with her father too.

  They were small images, and he only prayed Peretti or one of his people wouldn’t pay much attention to the souvenir. After all, he could think of no good reason not to leave these at the place settings for their guests. It was a beautiful idea, a way to bring family that was gone into the wedding too, and he couldn’t destroy the pleasure in her eyes by insisting she not go ahead with the plan.

  As he drew her onto his lap, his hand sliding under her skirt automatically to stroke her thigh, he consoled himself with the knowledge that Peretti wouldn’t find out about the connection, but if he did, it wouldn’t be until she was already a Murphy. When she bore his name, there was no way Peretti would come after her. When she was his wife, she would be safe.

  ***

  Her dress was everything she’d hoped it would be. Lauren stared at herself in the mirror, awaiting the final fitting, entranced by the vision before her. She looked like a princess with yards of lace and satin flowing around her. The seamstress was on her knees to tackle an errant seam that had dared come undone, so she was allowed an undisturbed few minutes to just stare at herself. She was like a princess from a fairytale.

  Her lips twitched slightly as she realized she was probably closer to marrying the villain than the prince charming of a fairytale, but that was just fine with her. She’d always had a soft spot for the bad guys anyway. Not that her husband-to-be was a bad guy. He was good to her, and she was completely confident in her decision to marry him on the upcoming Saturday.

  Lauren just wished she had someone here with her at the fitting. She hadn’t met Patrick’s mother yet, because the other woman was traveling somewhere in India. She hoped his mother would be back for the ceremony, but Patrick had seemed iffy about the idea, claiming she enjoyed her travels. He’d also reluctantly admitted Moira didn’t approve of his lifestyle, and she had divorced his father years before the other man was gunned down because she had discovered his illegal activities. She loved her son, but she didn’t approve of what he did.

  She’d hated seeing the pain in his eyes as he made the admission, so she had taken him into her arms with the intent of comforting him. Comfort turned to something more, but that wasn’t surprising, since they could barely keep their hands off each other. It would have been embarrassing if she cared what other people thought. But when it came to her and Patrick, she didn’t worry about others’ opinions.

  ***

  The day of the wedding dawned sunny and beautiful, and she almost regretted they were marrying in an inside ceremony, followed by an indoor reception. It had been a safer bet, since summertime usually brought excess heat, but could also produce an occasional wicked thunderstorm. The day matched her mood, and she started the preparations cheerfully, being primped and pampered shamelessly by a professional makeup artist and a hairstylist.

  The only part she really hated was being alone through it all. She had made friends in her university in Ireland, but none that had been close enough to bother inviting to fly internationally to her wedding, especially not to act as bridesmaids or maid-of-honor. She had chosen to forego attendants, and she was walking down the aisle by herself. That was the hardest part of all, to think of her father and wish he were there to give her away.

  She wondered what he would have thought of her marrying Patrick. They had been good friends, but would he have been okay with the age difference, or would he have protested? She didn’t doubt her father would’ve initially resisted the thought, and he probably would have assumed horrible things about Patrick, but she was certain he would have come around to the idea soon enough.

  Her happiness had always been important to her father, more important than almost anything else in his life, and it wouldn’t have taken him long to realize Patrick made her happy. She
was sure he would have been the one escorting her down the aisle, and without any reservations in doing so.

  The familiar strains of “The Wedding March” began, and that was her queue. She opened the door to the dressing room provided for the bride and attendants and exited into the alcove. The music swelled louder, and with a deep breath, she held her bouquet in her hands tightly, struggling to appear outwardly calm. What she wanted to do was run down the aisle in the ridiculously high heels and launch herself into Patrick’s arms, but she forced herself to remain dignified and aloof, looking like a proper bride.

  Patrick waited for her in a pearl-gray morning suit with a turquoise and gray ascot. He had no best man beside him, and she assumed that was because she had chosen to forego attendants. She hadn’t asked him about it, but perhaps she would later. She hated to think she had denied him the presence of a support system or a best friend because of her pathetic, lonely existence. The thought faded away as she joined her fiancé, putting her hand in his after he had pushed back her veil.

  Though neither of them were actually religious, they’d chosen to marry in a Catholic ceremony, because Patrick’s mother approved. The other woman had showed up last-minute, and she had seemed pleased, if not more than a little surprised, that her son was having a religious wedding.

  It was a beautiful ceremony, and she had no trouble following along. Every moment was buried into her mind in sharp detail, and she knew she would never forget the ceremony, or the feel of his hand holding hers, or the sensation of the platinum wedding band sliding down her finger to nestle with the engagement ring already there. Her voice was strong and steady when she repeated her vows, sliding on his ring, and she embraced him without hesitation, leaning on her tiptoe to initiate the kiss before he could.