5
Emilia
My knees buckle when he sets me down. He catches me, but I shove his hands off. Force myself to stand on my own. One of my shoes has slipped off my foot. It’s behind him. I balance on the other foot because he’s already so freaking tall and big and I hate having to look up at him.
He only looks away for a moment to tuck his dick into his pants. I notice the little bit of pink on it. The smear of blood mixed with cum. He does too. I’m not a virgin, but it’s been a long time since I’ve had sex, and he wasn’t gentle. Even if he had been, though, he’s big, and I’d probably bleed regardless. But I want it like this, anyway. I need him to hurt me, so I can come. It’s sick, but I’ve always been like this. I’m sure some psychoanalyst would have a field day with it, but fuck that.
I adjust my panties and dress, but not before feeling his cum slide down my thighs. I press my legs together. I’d be mortified if he saw it, although he knows it’s happening.
“Are you done? Can I go?” I don’t even know why I ask. He won’t let me go. I know that.
He cocks his head to the side. There is nothing casual in the way he looks at me. It’s like he’s studying me, constantly. Like he is really seeing me. Seeing inside of me. I just have to remember we’re enemies. And I can’t bury my head in the sand and hope he goes away. I know that’s not how this is going to go. I can’t roll over, give him what he wants. Because fucking me, it’s just a bonus for him. He wants Alessandro, and I can’t be there when he finds him. Which is a problem, because I’m the link. I’m the only one who can make him come out of whatever hole he’s hiding in. But there will be a price. One I can’t pay. I’m not ready for that.
He touches his thumb to my face. To the corner of my eye. He smears it across my cheek, and I realize it’s a tear.
“What are you thinking?”
“That I don’t like your cum sliding down my thighs.”
He chuckles at that. “Bathroom’s in there,” he says, pointing down the hall. “Make it quick. I’ll wash you properly later.”
“I’d rather just go home and have a shower.”
He steps back, snorts as he turns away, and walks into the living room. I watch him. He goes directly to the bar, and I know I’m not leaving, not just yet. I slide my foot into my sandal, and my heels click across the marble floor as I walk by the ornate staircase to the door beneath it.
The house is huge and quiet, so I assume it’s just him and maybe that driver. Maybe more soldiers, who knows? It’s pretty, too. Expensively done and from what I can see, extremely modern while maintaining the original design of the house. The bathroom is big and brightly lit with warm, flattering lighting. Marble from floor-to-ceiling, and the pedestal sink must be original, even though the fixtures are new. I run the tap and look at my reflection as I wash my hands. The soap smells good too. Sandalwood, I think. Like his aftershave.
“Dummy.” I look away as I clean myself up.
I am a dummy. I am attracted to him. I want him. No, more than that. I just fucked a man I’ve known for two days. Without protection. A man who has told me he will hurt me if I don’t deliver what he wants. And here I’m standing, thinking about how he looks. Thinking about how he looks at me.
I meet my reflection when I’m finished and brush out my hair with my fingers. I never wear it down, but I heard the pins fall to the floor when he pulled out my bun. Since I don’t have my purse, I have nothing to secure the thick mass.
Most of the makeup I was wearing has worn off or been fucked off. I wipe the last trace of lipstick off the side of my mouth. When I’m done, I go back out to meet him.
I walk through the archway into the living room where I find Giovanni sitting on an armchair with a tumbler of whiskey in his hand. There’s a second glass on the coffee table. He gestures to it. I take a moment to look around the space. Huge and dark, with charcoal, black, or stark white furnishings. Three large windows overlook the street, and while I can make out lights from passing cars it must be soundproofed because I can’t hear any city noise. Sheer curtains provide some privacy, the heavier ones still secured to their holdbacks.
I walk inside and take a seat on the couch. I pick up the glass, sniff it.
“Do you have something else? I don’t like whiskey.”
“You drank it the other night, and you have a good collection of it.”
“My father used to drink it. It’s more of a memory, I guess.”
He nods but doesn’t make any rude comments. Instead he gets up and walks to the bar behind me.
“I’ll take vodka if you have it,” I say without turning around. I am looking at the paintings on the walls. They’re also modern, and dark. Almost violent.
Ice clanks against crystal, and a moment later, I’m sipping vodka.
He resumes his seat. Resumes studying me.
“Did you eat dinner?”
I nod and concentrate on my glass. As uncomfortable as I feel, he seems to be the opposite.
I clear my throat. “We didn’t use protection.”
“You told me you were clean. I am too. I don’t make it a habit to fuck without condoms. You?”
“None of your business.”
“It became my business the moment I stuck my dick in you. But from how tight you are, I’m guessing it’s been a while.”
“Are you seriously saying that?”
“You bled.”
“You didn’t exactly give me time to adjust to your…size.”
One corner of his mouth curves upward. “You came, Emilia. You liked it. You like my size and you like it rough.”
I blink, unable to hold his gaze. He sees too much.
“What happened to you?”
I drink the last of my vodka, then swirl the ice around in the glass. He gets up and comes back with the bottle to refill my glass, then leaves the bottle on the coffee table before sitting back down, that same commanding air about him. Like he’s the fucking king.
“Do you need to be hurt to come?”
I take a large swallow and refuse to look at him when I reply.
“Are we going to do a breakdown of the act? A moment-by moment-examination?” I ask, trying to keep my expression icy.
“Do those lines on your back have anything to do with it? Because those are something.”
I don’t answer. What can I say?
His expression is serious. “Who did it?”
I take the bottle and concentrate on pouring a third glass because the buzz I’d been working toward at the club is now gone.
“And more importantly, why?”
I look at him. “Did you bring me here to interrogate me?”
“No, I brought you here to fuck you.”
I stand and fist my hands. “Well, since that’s done, can I go now?”
“Not done,” he says with a grin. “That was round one. Now sit down.”
“I’m fine.”
“Sit down.”
I exhale loudly, then sit. Because it’s kind of stupid to keep standing there.
We drink our drinks, him watching me, me feeling the burn of his eyes on me. “Who whipped you, Emilia?”
I flinch at the word. Whipped. Like it’s the Dark fucking Ages.
“Why do you care?” I ask, swallowing more vodka.
“I’m curious, that’s all. It’s in my nature.”
“You said you’d hurt me if I don’t find Alessandro,” I say, wanting to change the subject.
“I said I don’t want to hurt you.”
“But that doesn’t mean you won’t.”
He leans his head back, his eyes slanting as they devour me. The longer we sit like this, the more anxious I feel. I pour my fourth vodka.
“Slow down on that.”
I shrug a shoulder.
“When was the last time you saw him?”
“A month after my father was murdered.” My voice breaks. I hope he thinks it’s because of the painful memory of the attack on my father.
&nbs
p; “You were close with him? Your father?”
I nod.
“And it’s just the two of you, you and Alessandro now?”
“Yes.” I imagine he’s done his homework and knows my mother died in childbirth.
“Were you daddy’s princess?”
I hope he can read the hate in my glare. I think he can. “My father was a good man. He was a fair man. An honest one.”
At that, he laughs outright. “He was a cartel boss. I’m pretty sure he was none of those things, however much you like to deceive yourself.”
“You don’t know anything about him. Don’t judge him by how you are.”
“I’m not denying who I am. I don’t hide from what I do. I mean, you’re the one who lives in the lap of luxury and pretends you do it off the money you earn managing events at a hotel. The one who went so far as to change her name to get away from her past, yet isn’t too good to use the blood money earned from the exact thing she’s running from. At least I don’t run from who I am.”
“You don’t know anything about me. I paid for everything. I paid for every fucking thing.”
“With the skin of your back, you mean?”
I feel hot tears sting my eyes. He’s not going to stop until he finds out. He won’t stop until he knows.
“Did I hit the nail on the head? Huh? Is that it, Em?”
Rage burns inside me, starting at my core, spreading through my veins, pumping adrenaline through my body. I’m on my feet before I know it, and that smirk, that fucking smirk, is back on his face. I hate him. I hate him and his intrusion into my life. It’s taken me so fucking long to get here. So long to be this okay, and he’s just going to stroll in and blow it all to hell. And what’s worse is I’m letting him. I’m so fucking weak. So fucking damaged that I can’t do anything but fucking cry.
I fist my hands at my sides. He must see something inside my eyes because he rises too.
“You think you can hurt me? Damage me, somehow? You think you can break me as you sit there and judge me and push me and push me until I tell you what you think you want to know?”
“Sit down.” He’s not smiling anymore as he takes a step toward me.
“And for what? What fucking business is it of yours? What you have with my brother, whatever that is, it has nothing to do with me. He owes you something? Take it out of his fucking skin. Not mine.”
“Be careful.”
I look at him, then around the room. I don’t know what I’m looking for. Something to throw? Something to hurt him with? I know how that ended last time. But I do have one weapon because I’ve done my homework too.
I step toward him, poke my finger into his chest. “You think you can sit back and judge me, judge my father, from your high horse, when all you are is a liar. A betrayer.” I feel how strange my smile must look. How unnatural. “I can find things out too, you know. Things about you. Why isn’t there a single family photo in your house, Giovanni? Why not one single fucking picture?”
“I’m warning you.”
But I go on because I can’t stop. I don’t even want to. It’s like I want to push him.
“I know why. You want me to tell you? You want me to tell you how much I know about you?”
He takes my wrist, twists it. It hurts, but I can’t let that stop me.
“Please do.”
“I know you put your father in a wheelchair. I know you pay to have him looked after. Have been for years. I guess you’re not a good shot if you didn’t kill him, huh? I know why, too,” I say as he walks me backward until I feel something hard at my back—the dining-room table. I know from the look on his face that I should stop. That I should shut up now. But I don’t. I don’t want to. “He fucked your girlfriend, didn’t he?”
The change in him is instantaneous.
He whirls me around, pushes me down over the table, and is shoving the skirt of my dress up to my waist and, as sick as it is, I want it.
So I keep pushing.
Because I’m nothing if not self-destructive. I’m like a time bomb waiting to go off. Have been for a long time. I wonder how I’ve kept it together for so long, actually.
He leans over me, and I feel him, his hardness, the only barrier between us the thin material of my panties and his pants.
“She was my tutor, actually,” he whispers, his hands in the waistband of my panties, pushing them down and off one foot as he kicks my legs apart. “Not my girlfriend. I was fifteen when I first fucked her.” I hear him undoing his jeans, and it takes all I have not to arch my back. To push back into him because I need this. I need this so fucking bad. And when he thrusts into my wet passage, I suck in a loud breath and scratch my fingernails into the polished wood of the table.
“And no, I didn’t want to kill him. I wanted him in that fucking chair.” He lays down over my back, licks the side of my face. His breathing is ragged too, his face wet with sweat. “And you know what else? You look just like her.”
I stop at that, process his slowly, purposefully spoken words. It’s hard, though, hard to think. But one glance at him tells me he’s processing too. Like he hadn’t intended to say that. But then he talks, and he’s just an asshole.
“But if you wanted to know, all you had to do was ask,” he whispers at my ear as he pulls out of me, draws back. When I try to straighten, he shoves me back down and takes both my wrists into his one hand, holding them at my lower back.
“You want it, don’t you?” he asks, slapping my ass. “Admit it.”
“No.”
“Look at me.”
“Fuck you.”
He slaps my ass again, three sharp spanks on my right cheek. “Look at me,” he repeats.
I do and I’m gritting my teeth. When I meet his eyes, he smiles wide and just as he does, he pushes his finger first into my pussy, then slides it up to my asshole.
“You want it.” It’s not a question. He sinks his finger into the tight passage, and it hurts, but fuck, it feels good too and he knows it. He can see it on my face.
“You think you can wound me with this pathetic crumb of information?” he asks as his thick cock stretches my pussy, sliding in once, twice before he pulls out, and I feel him trailing it up to my asshole. “Let me teach you about hurt.” And he pushes the head of his cock inside me without warning, making me cry out.
It fucking burns, and I can’t breathe for a minute. I’m fisting my hands, digging my nails into my own palms.
“How’s that for hurt, Em?” He pushes a little deeper. I whimper, and I hate myself for it. “You have a tight ass. You gonna be able to take all of me?” He pushes again.
“Please.”
“What’s that?”
“Please. It hurts.”
He leans down over me again. “I’m only about a third of the way in, Sunshine. You’ve got a long way to go. I’d try to relax if I were you.” He claims another inch, and a sound comes from inside my throat, a wail or sob. A wound.
“I’m sorry,” I cry out.
“No, you’re not.” He pulls out a little, affording me the smallest relief, the rest almost momentary because when he pushes in again, he takes more of me. “Not yet, at least.”
I gasp, my eyes bulging at the next inch.
“But remember how I told you I didn’t want to hurt you?” he asks, and I feel one hand snake around, fingers finding my clit. “Do you, Emilia?”
He’s rubbing my clit, and I know this sensation. Pain and pleasure. I mix them up, he’s mixing them up, and I’m arching back against him.
“Do you?”
I nod my head. This feels good. I don’t want him to stop.
“That’s it, relax. Good girl.” He draws out a little, pumping in and out, small movements as he claims more of me, and it hurts but it feels good, too, and I’m going to come soon. I squeeze my eyes shut, and I hear him behind me, hear him give me his permission—that bastard—and I obey. I come with his dick in my ass and his fingers rubbing my clit, and when I do, he pushes all th
e way inside me and it’s like I’m tumbling from orgasm to orgasm. My knees give out; I can’t stand on my own. I can hardly breathe, and that noise, that animal like wail, it’s me. It’s coming from me because he’s fucking me now, fucking me hard and deep, and when I hear him come, feel his release, feel him fill me up, I can’t hold on anymore. I can’t breathe. I can’t speak. I can’t beg him to stop. Beg him to never stop. Stars dance before my eyes. I lay my head down, and all I can do is feel. Feel him inside me. Feel him possess me. Hurt me. Own me. Feel myself being owned by him.
I must pass out because when I open my eyes again, I’m in his powerful arms and my head is bouncing against his chest. He’s carrying me up the stairs. I look up at him. His face is stern, serious, and he doesn’t look at me as he takes me up yet another flight. I let my eyes close. I don’t open them again, even when I feel him lay me on a bed.
It smells like him. I’m in his bed and he’s taking off my dress and I just lie there and let him. I’m going in and out of sleep, but it’s not just sleep, the pull is more powerful than that. He’s gone one minute but back the next. He’s cleaning me and the water is warm and he’s gentle.
I protest, I try to, but he tells me to shush. When he’s done, he pulls the blankets up over me and leans down close to my ear. I don’t know if he thinks I can hear him or not when he says what he says. It’s the smallest whisper. But I do hear it. And I wish I didn’t.
“To answer your question, no, I don’t think I can break you, Emilia. I think you’re already broken.”
6
Giovanni
She’s sleeping so deeply, she barely stirs when, two hours later, I climb into bed. She’s lying on her side with her back to me. I push the blanket down to her waist. I look at her back, I study it, feel the texture of scar tissue beneath my fingers. Count the lines. Twenty-one. Her back was nearly opened. It was in some places. It speaks of violence and hate, and it’s strange to see it on her. On her skin. She must take pains to hide it. And the strange, sick thing is, I find it beautiful. I find her more beautiful for it. Stronger. Even if I do want to kill the bastard who did it.
Giovanni Page 5