Hidden Worthiness

by Susan Fanetti

  With a foot still wearing an expensive leather shoe, he nudged the inside of her bare foot, and she her spread her stance.

  Watching in the glass, her vision still hazy from back-to-back, mind-shattering orgasms, she saw the diffuse, transparent figure of Donnie Goretti, crime family underboss, tip his head back as he fed himself into her.

  The lube of the condom was a shock of cool against her throbbing, swollen flesh. At the first press of his cock into her, she knew he was bigger, or at least thicker, than average. He filled her, demanded her body open more to take him, but she was soft and loose and soaking wet, and she took him in one sleek slide, until her ass and thighs firmly pressed to the summer-weight wool of his trousers. He was deep, filling her up. At first, he didn’t move. Her pussy pulsed around his hot invasion, and she felt his body heaving with harsh breath, but he didn’t move.

  She found his eyes in the glass. While their mirror images locked gazes, he flexed his hips back and drove them forward, a sharp, determined drive until he could go no deeper.

  “Oh fuck!” she gasped as he backed up. Before he could thrust again, she arched up like a cat, fearing that heavy slam of sensation as much as she needed it. It was like his fingers again—too much, too deep, too hard, but as soon as he backed off, she wanted it again. Now she really was a little afraid, she was tired and sore, but she didn’t want it to stop. That was what scared her—her own reaction.

  She’d never had sex like this. From behind, of course. Standing up, yes. But this feeling, this intensity, this fear and need, pain and pleasure, all eddying together into something she couldn’t resist, with a man she hardly knew—that scared her.

  When she flinched, he stopped. Their eyes were still locked in the shifting reflection before them.

  “Arianna?”

  She loved the way he said her name. It wasn’t the sound so much as the feeling in it. He said her name like he could taste it.

  “Do you want to stop?”

  With that question, he quelled any doubt that she had about him. She still feared the sensation, but she still needed it, too. And now she felt sure she could trust him. He would stop if she needed him to. She could trust him. He would take care.

  “No. I want you. Fuck me, Donnie.”

  Her utterance of his name pulled a harsh, earthy growl from him, and he rammed forward, his fingers digging into her hips, binding her, controlling her. She cried out as he struck deep again, too deep and just right. He pulled sharply back and did it again, a fierce surge forward. Another, and another, and on and on, each one coming faster, fiercer. Ari could only find breath in her shrill gasps. She scrabbled her hands at the window as if she could get purchase there, and she tried to focus on their reflection, his body in hers, his eyes on hers, but it was nothing but shuddering light and shadows.

  The climax storming toward her was enormous. She could feel it swallowing her sense already. “Oh God, oh God!”

  “Don’t come,” he grunted.

  “What?!”

  “Wait. I’m close.” His words came like drum beats, keeping tempo with the strike of his cock inside her. “Wait, and come with me.”

  She’d never stopped an orgasm before. Usually, she did everything she could to help the guy get her there. She chased them, embraced them. She’d been derailed, of course, by bumbling guys or external interruptions, but she’d never tried to hold one off on purpose, and she didn’t have the brain power right now to figure out how.

  This one was too big to learn on, anyway. It clouded her mind and tore open her body. She needed it. “Can’t—wait—need—”

  He changed his rhythm, doubled his pace, grabbed her hair in one hand, and slammed his other hand on the glass beside hers. “Then come! Come now!” he groaned.

  And she did. Whether her body was following his command, or the feral sound of the words was the stimulus that pushed her over, or it was just time, she came right then, came until her throat ached, until her muscles were steel bands, until tears streamed down her cheeks.

  With a long, deep, desperate groan, Donnie thrust a final time and froze there, his body rigid. His hand in her hair pulled and pulled until his release let him go and he relaxed, drooping onto her back, laying his bearded cheek on her shoulder. His body was humid with effort, his shirt noticeably damp. His belly was a bellows against her lower back, swelling and receding as he fought for breath.

  Stunned, Ari sagged against the window and tried to reclaim herself.

  “You’re crying,” he said quietly.

  She was, and she couldn’t stop. “I’m okay.”

  “I hurt you.”

  “No.” Yes, he had, but she would let him do it again. No—she’d want him to do it again. She’d carry the tenderness of that pleasure with her well into tomorrow. “That’s not why I’m crying. I’m okay.”

  He didn’t ask her why she was, and she couldn’t have told him if he had. She had no clue. He’d done something, found something, shown her something of herself she’d never known before. But she didn’t know what it was or what it meant.

  She didn’t know what any of this meant. In some ways, this had been the most intense, intimate sex of her life, and in others, it had been the most disconnected.

  Except for one brief clasp of his hand at dinner, when he’d nearly jumped from his skin, she’d never touched him. Every contact between them had been his hands on her, his body on her, his body inside her—even through all this wild, sweaty, screamy sex. She’d hardly even seen him—just that glowing shimmer of a reflection. It was like she’d been fucked to hysterics by a ghost.

  “I’ll take you home now, if you want,” he murmured.

  That was their agreement in the restaurant, not so directly stated, but clear nonetheless—he’d take her upstairs, they’d fuck, and then they’d decide what was next. Now, while she was splayed naked and pressed against this penthouse glass, his cock still inside her, his clothed body curled over her, he wanted to decide what was next. That felt detached, too.

  Finally finding the end of her tears, she swallowed and searched for a clear thought. “Do you want me to go?”

  The seconds before he answered hung like weights and slowed the clock. “No.”

  “I want to stay.”

  ~ 9 ~

  Donnie sat on a white leather sofa and watched the sky brighten and diminish the earthbound lights below. The windows of this hotel room faced east, and the sky was clear, so he saw a ruddy gold sunrise climb up from the horizon. He watched as the world beyond the window brightened enough to obscure the smeary print of Arianna’s body on the glass. Beside the abstract impression of her body in wild movement was the clear realism of his handprint.

  After a grueling performance on the stage and their enthusiastic romp against the window, Arianna had collapsed almost at once when he’d taken her to bed. She’d let him carry her in his arms and tuck her in. He’d lain with her until he was sure she was deeply asleep, and then he’d come out to sit and think, and occasionally drop into a light doze.

  Sitting here at the side of the sofa, now that morning light flooded the room, he could see her, the fluffy cloud of white comforter that was her sleeping body, the ribbon of her dark hair on the pillows. She hadn’t moved all night, except when he’d slipped her from his arms.

  He hadn’t slept; he rarely slept away from his own bed, and never on the first night with a new woman. For the past twenty years, sleep had been an inconstant and troublesome companion, especially away from the place he’d arranged just right to settle into it. With half a nose, his breathing was more easily compromised than normal, and in the dry air of a hotel, that could become a problem. Of course he could breathe through his mouth, but he snored when he did. Impressively. One of his comares had recorded him one night and played the recording at him the next morning. He’d dumped her on the spot, but he’d never forgotten the sound.

  Though he’d never admit it aloud, he was simply too self-conscious to sleep with new company, so he ne
ver bothered to try.

  There was a lot he was self-conscious about. People thought he had overcome his scars, that he lived as he wanted and didn’t let his disfigurement figure in his life or personality, and it was true, or as true as he could force it to be, as true as he could claim it to be. Those few people who would speak of his scars to him had all, in some way, noted how impressed they were that he was who he was despite what had happened to him, how he hadn’t let misfortune and pain make him bitter or weak.

  But it wasn’t about living the life he wanted. It was about wanting the life he lived.

  He hadn’t overcome anything. He was bitter. He’d simply learned to keep his dark feelings buried deep, where they could torment him only during long night hours alone. He’d learned to accept the life that was left to him.

  The night just past was one when the dark feelings had climbed up from his mind’s catacombs and howled.

  Allowing himself the fantasy of a night with Arianna Luciano had been a mistake. He liked her, more already than he should. She was sweet, and direct. A captivating balance of self-assured and self-aware that he admired. She ... effervesced.

  God, the way she felt in his hands, the sinewy writhe of her fantastic body, the powerful, sleek muscles of her thighs, her ass. Her beautiful small tits, the dark, diamond-sharp points of her nipples, tightened with need. The husky sensuality of her sex sounds.

  Could he make her his comare? What would she think of the offer? What would she think of his rules? Could he be with this woman and not want to love her?

  Why was he asking himself so many stupid questions? Who cared what she thought of the offer? She would accept, or she would refuse. And he wouldn’t love her, because it wouldn’t be returned. He hadn’t opened his heart in nearly twenty years. No reason to think the lock would suddenly fail now.

  But should he make the offer at all? Why not take her home and forget her? One night. One fantasy. Finito.

  Donnie raked his left hand through his hair and cocked his head back and forth, easing out the kinks of a night spent sitting up. The right side of his face pulled painfully, and he put his hand to that cheek. Though he had very little sensation on that side of his head, he could feel its inflexibility, like a sharp pull, that became painful the more inflexible it became. The grafts and scars were far more fragile than regular skin—stiff and, without sweat glands or sufficient pores, prone to dryness and damage. The hotel air that dried out his sinuses did the same to his face, and he hadn’t planned to be away from home. He got up and went to the small powder room off the sitting room, in search of hotel lotion. It wasn’t his prescription ointment, of course, but any oasis in a desert.

  In the bathroom, at the mirror, he noticed the front of his trousers, marked with the remnants of their sex, where her wet, frantic body had slammed against his. He closed his eyes and felt her again, fresh memories rising up and taking shape and tone.

  No. He couldn’t jump down that chute. The time for fantasy was over. Rubbing ginger-scented lotion over his damaged face, he put his mind to plans for the day. Call Nick and tell him he’d be in late—he could do that now; Nick was a habitually early riser. Get Arianna breakfast, and get her home. Get back to Quiet Cove and the life he lived.

  After going to his jacket for his phone, Donnie took up his place on the sofa again. The lump of comforter that was Arianna still hadn’t moved. He dialed Nick’s number.

  The don answered on the first ring. “Donnie. Good morning. What’s going on?”

  “Good morning. All is well. I’m still in Providence, though, and unless you need me, I’m going to take the morning off.”

  “Did you talk with McCauley?”

  “I did, last night. As far as he knows, there’s no new movement of concern in the city, but he’ll talk to Gwynn about it and let us know.” Ned Gwynn was the Providence police chief.

  “Good. And you’re okay?”

  “Yeah. I just stayed over in the city, and I’ve got some personal things to attend to this morning.”

  Nick’s tone took on a sheen of amusement. “Ah, I see. Then take your time. We’re quiet here. I hope you’re enjoying yourself.”

  Donnie laughed, and the night’s dark creatures crawled back into their holes. “I am. I’ll see you later.”

  When that call was finished, he went to the desk for the room phone. Standing beside a riot of orange roses shining in the new sunlight, their blooms a bit bigger and looser than the night before, he called for room service, ordering most of their breakfast menu, a pot of coffee, and a selection of juices and teas, and scheduling it for thirty minutes out, when it might be on the early edge of reasonable to wake her.

  When he turned around, though, he saw it wasn’t a worry. She stood at the bedroom doorway, wearing a black hotel robe that swamped her body. Her hair was a long, wild tangle, swept over her head to cascade over one shoulder.

  “Good morning.” He went back to the sofa and stood before it, facing her. “I just ordered breakfast. It’ll be here in about half an hour. Do you want to shower?”

  She stood where she was, squinting at him sleepily. “Did you sleep?”

  “Some. I don’t sleep well in hotels.”

  “You didn’t stay in the bed with me, did you?”

  “For a little while, I did.”

  “Then why did you want me to stay the night?”

  He could make the offer. Either she would accept his terms, or she wouldn’t. Either way, the questions would be answered, and he could put a wall around what this was or was not between them. “Because I didn’t want you to go.” Donnie sat where he’d been earlier. “Arianna, come talk me.”

  She came to him, gliding gracefully down the short set of stairs from the bedroom. He’d expected her to sit beside him on the sofa, but instead she went to her knees before him, set her hands on his legs and pushed herself between them.

  He was still dressed as he’d been last night—his shirt open, his socks on, his trousers closed again, his belt fastened. Even his tie was still draped over his neck, under the collar of his shirt.

  “This isn’t talking,” he said, but didn’t stop her when she opened his belt.

  “You didn’t let me touch you all night.” She pushed open his shirt, exposing his torso. Scratching lightly through the hair, making swirling patterns that left hot sparks of pleasure on his skin, her hands slid tantalizingly up his belly, his chest, over his shoulders, blazing trails everywhere she could reach. Donnie’s muscles coiled tensely, into wary need. She found the scars on his right shoulder, where the edge of the grill had caught him, and he let her explore those ridges of hard skin. Her touch flowed through him and made him hunger. But when her hands moved in, headed for his neck, he grabbed her wrists.

  “Not my face. Never touch my face.”

  He saw protest and curiosity, a million questions clamoring at once in her eyes, but with a faint nod she conceded, and he let go. She brought her hands down and opened his trousers, accepting the touch he’d allow her to have.

  His cock had gone hard when she’d still been standing in the doorway. When her graceful, soft hand circled it and pulled it free, Donnie groaned and slouched down, giving her more access. She explored him fully with her fingers, every ridge and vein, the full length and circumference, from root to tip. Then, circling both hands around him, she took him into her mouth. Her tongue pressed into the hole at his tip, and he grunted and grabbed her head in both hands, twisted his fingers into her tangled mane, and rocked his hips up, deeper into her mouth.

  She backed off at once, fighting against his grip on her head until she could look up at him again. “No. Don’t fuck my mouth. Let me do it.”

  He didn’t give women control. The reason he could handle having women in his life at all was his perfect control of their place in it. He drew the boundaries. He managed the risk. He said when and what and how much. Only him. When they tried to wrest control from him, tried to make him do what they wanted, tried to manipulate him wit
h fairy tales, he sent them away.

  But Arianna’s beautiful hands were wrapped around him. She knelt at his feet and looked up at him with wide grey eyes, and he couldn’t draw the boundary. He dropped his hands, and she bent down and took him into her mouth again.

  It took forever, because he couldn’t relax. Her hot lips and tongue, her strong fingers, all felt amazing, breathtaking, and he climbed up to the top at once, but he couldn’t let himself go over. She sucked and licked and pumped, every stroke, every touch an agony of need, and all he wanted was to fucking come, but he couldn’t let go. He hovered at the peak until every muscle in his core ached, but he held on.

  He didn’t give up control. Not with women he’d dated for months. He couldn’t give it up to a girl he’d had a single night with. Not even if he wanted to.

  But then she changed it up. She took her mouth off him and brought her hands up to the top. Squeezing his cock to the point of pain, she slid her top hand up and down, just over the ridge of his glans, short, hard, fast strokes just there, while her grip forced all the blood to his tip.

  “Jesus,” he gritted over his choked breath. “Jesus!” His need finally broke its bonds and overran control. The orgasm slammed through him, as much pent-up pain as released pleasure, and he came like a geyser, straight up. It landed with force on his belly.

  Still holding his cock in a slightly eased grip, she leaned in and licked up what he’d spent.

  Donnie grabbed every feeling he had and got them all in a chokehold, because the whole spectrum of emotions was loose inside him and digging into dark earth. What they could unbury would tear him apart.

  When he had control, he put his hands around her head and made her look him in the eyes. “Sit down. Now.”

  She frowned. “Did I do something wrong?”

  Yes. No. Both. He had no fucking idea. He grabbed her arms instead and stood with her, forcing her around to sit on the sofa. Then he went to the bar and snatched a towel off the rod by the sink. He wet it and wiped himself off. When he was cleaned and his trousers were closed again, he returned to the sitting area, but he chose a chair instead.