The question startled her. She paused from unbuttoning her coat and looked up, finding his attention still on her. Her breath caught as she remembered.
"They followed me. Never approached, never spoke," she whispered. "When I left class, someone would be ambling behind me. When I went to the library, or out for coffee with friends, even when I took a taxi, I'd come out from my destination and someone would be waiting."
"Not always the same person?"
"No, but after more than a week of it, I started to recognize them. There were four or five different men."
Danny growled, a deep rumble in his chest. "Give me your phone," he said.
Lucia frowned. "I got a new number and a new phone," she told her, her voice sharper than she'd intended.
He didn't even blink. "Lucia, give me your goddamned phone. And unlock it," he added.
Reluctantly, because she couldn't see any alternative that didn't result in a physical confrontation she wasn't prepared for, Lucia pulled her phone from her pocket and tapped in the pass code. She handed it to him and removed her coat, deliberately ignoring him as she walked past him. Her room was on the ground floor and faced the street, accessible from the foyer, while the main living area opened in the opposite direction toward the back of the house. She might be almost twenty and living at home, but her parents did try to give her as much privacy as she desired. The other bedroom she could have taken shared a wall with the master upstairs. The thought of sleeping in that one made her cringe – her parents were still very much in love and Lucia did not want to be so close to them when they thought they were alone.
"What the hell?" he uttered behind her. She ignored him, walking through her bedroom door and hanging her coat on the back of it. Across the room, the blinds were tipped partially upward to the front garden and street, allowing light to stream in. "This is your room?" he asked, anger now spilling over.
Lucia turned and raised a brow. "Yes," she enunciated clearly, in case the dramatic walls weren't enough of an indicator. She'd spent her first weeks in this house painting flowers of all types and colors on the plain palette – the walls were less expensive than canvas. The thought of painting over them when they left – or losing her father's security deposit – actually pained her, but it couldn't be helped. She glanced around, noting the garage-sale furniture she'd acquired and painted a cottage white, the pristine bleached white bedding, and the open door to the bathroom. "At first glance, I don't see anything out of place."
"Jesus, Lucia, this room is like an advertisement for a damned peeping tom. It's right on the fucking street." Lucia glanced at him, noted his fists were clenched.
She shrugged. "It doesn't share a wall with my parents' bedroom, who still have an active sex life," she noted dryly, walking to the closet door and pushing it open.
He came up behind her, his big body almost pressed against her as she flipped on the switch. She knew what he'd see. Her clothing was neatly hung by style and color with a closet full of matching dollar store hangars. But around the floor of the closet on shoe racks were the defining characteristic of her wardrobe.
He grunted. "Fuck me. Pink boots. I suddenly have a goddamned fetish for pink boots." He cleared his throat and went on gruffly. "I've dreamed about the ones you had on at Jimmy's wedding. But the pair in the corner? I want to bend you over my bed and fuck you from behind wearing nothing but those."
The words settled in her stomach. Lucia shivered. She owned one pair of traditional black heels – her mother had insisted pink boots were not appropriate for funerals – and a pair of pink running shoes, but she was well aware that pink boots defined her sense of fashion. The particular pair he referenced were hot pink faux leather with a five-inch stiletto heel. They came to just over her knees with top edge that folded over and buckles across the top of the foot. She'd added sparkling bling to them with a hot glue gun. She liked them, but they weren't her favorite.
"We should check the rest of the house," she murmured, thinking to dodge the inevitable.
It was a pointless feint. "If I'm going to be damned to hell and back, I might as well be condemned right here in your own bedroom, surrounded by your soul poured out on these walls," he growled, clasping her hips in his hands and turning her to face him.
Lucia didn't know what to say to that. She couldn't remember what he was talking about anyway, and could only think of breathing. His hands skated up her sides and squeezed the outside of her arms, then cupped her face and tipped it up. Heat washed through her head and down her spine, and his eyes met hers, the blue so brilliant that she couldn't look away.
Then his lips were on hers and any remaining reticence was washed away by the magic. Lucia knew about kissing, even about making out. She was a young, beautiful woman. Boys and men had always looked at her, chased her. Kissed her, too. But none of them had kissed her like this. Danny kissed her as if he already owned her. His hand cradled the back of her head, holding it in place as he pressed his tongue between her lips and laid claim to hers. He pushed it down, holding her tongue hostage.
Almost before she knew what was happening, she felt him unbutton, then unzip, her jeans with his other hand. He moved, keeping her against him, until she felt the bed behind her. Only then did he break the kiss, moving his mouth over her cheek to her ear. He released her head so he could use both hands to shove the denim over her hips.
She felt him stiffen again when his hands cupped her bottom. "Christ, I'm going to have a heart attack before I get inside you, Lucia." The words were low and wicked, a response to the simple fact she wasn't wearing panties, but was already so wet that her juices were leaking from her and into the pocket between her thighs and labia. His fingertips grazed there, picking up the liquid.
He tumbled her back on the bed, sideways across it, and knelt to strip off her booties and jeans.
"You fucking need someone to dress you. It's winter in goddamned upper New York state. You aren't wearing socks, your feet are freezing, these things aren't keeping you warm, as sexy as they are, and you're walking around without any fucking panties."
Lucia wondered what he would say about her bra. She struggled up on her elbows and stared at him as the catches on the lace ankle boots came free and he slid the shoes away and jerked the jeans off, dropping them on the floor. He stood, then, hovering over her and she met his gaze evenly. "Take off the sweater, now," he demanded.
The man apparently didn't know the meaning of the word seduction. He didn't coax, didn't ask. He just ordered. Lucia started to stiffen, but he unfastened his belt and unzipped his own black jeans in a move so blatantly aggressive and sexual that her muscles stopped working. Lord, she wanted this cretin. It was more than the chemistry raging between them. She wanted to see this man as uncontrolled and uncontrollable as she felt inside.
Lucia put her fingers to the tight white cardigan and started unbuttoning it. As she did, he rewarded her acquiescence by stripping off his jacket and the black t-shirt beneath, revealing a god-like chest. Danny was no boy, but a fully-developed muscular man, with dark hair dusting over his abdomen and down to where his jeans now flared open, revealing the abdominal muscles above his iliac furrow. Her non-art-educated female compatriots would call it his Adonis belt or Apollo's belt, Lucia reminded herself. No matter what anatomical term was used, every straight woman and gay man on earth would lust after his.
Instinctively she reached out, wanting to trace that rarely seen physique between a man's abs and his pelvis.
He paused. "Take it off," he said again, sliding his thumbs into his waistband and hiding the skin she wanted to see again.
Immediately, as though his voice reverberated as a command in her brain, she undid the last three buttons. He reached down and opened the cotton sweater, and sucked in a breath so harsh and guttural that her world shifted.
What she wouldn't give to see that reaction on his face, again and again and again, ad infinitum.
And she hadn't even tried to shock him.
B
ut rational thought exploded again when his palms descended and cupped her breasts through the sheer tulle demi bra. The cups didn't conceal her nipples at all, but only held her full breasts in place so she didn't jiggle as she walked.
Danny shifted, and the jeans dropped from his hips as he sat beside her on the bed. He twisted his fingers, squeezing her nipples. Pleasure whipped through her. "God have mercy," he muttered, bending over.
She cried out when his mouth came down on her nipple through the tulle, tipping back into the bed. Her reaction didn't deter him. He sucked and licked, then transferred his attention to her other breast and repeated the action, until she clutched his hair in her fingers and tugged.
He only reached up, dragged her hands from his hair and pinned them to the bed above her head, shifting them both further onto the bed and climbing between her knees. "You're so wet I can smell how much you want this," he accused.
"It's not my fault you want to fuck me," Lucia managed.
"I'm going to want to fuck you all the damn time," he returned. He kept one hand on her wrists and used the other to open her, lifting her leg up so that her knee hung on his shoulder. She looked down between them, wanting another peek at him, wanting to see –
His cock slid into her, heavy and wide, stretching her open. She screamed, but his mouth hit hers as the sound came out, smothering the noise. He froze, then broke the kiss. Deadly still, he just looked at her, dazed and shaking. His mouth moved, but nothing came out, then he licked his lips. "Were you a virgin, pequeno lírio?"
Automatically she shook her head. She'd had sex. Once. She'd been seventeen and out on his prom night and her date had been kind, funny, wore glasses and had used a condom. She'd liked Abraham, even though they'd both known he wasn't going to be the love of her life. He'd been destined for a nice co-dependent Jewish girl, and she'd been a loud-mouthed Italian with a Catholic baptism and a list of curse words she practiced in her sleep.
"But it's been a long time," she said. "More than two years, and he was just a kid." Lucia swallowed, blinked at him. "You're… not."
"No, I'm not," he agreed through gritted teeth.
He started to back out, but she shook her head wildly. "Stay," she insisted. "Just, just give me a second." Danny did, releasing her hands and lifting her other leg up against his chest. The position eased some unfamiliar pressure inside of her.
"Hold onto me," he ordered, waiting until Lucia dug her fingers into his arms and thrusting his hips back and forward.
This time, the sensation was wickedly erotic. Lucia moaned softly and lifted her hips so that he could go deeper. He obliged, bearing down with each thrust. His hands grasped her upper thighs, fingers spread so that his thumbs could press against her waxed mound and slide inward until they hit her clit.
She screamed again, this time as bliss sizzled along her nerve endings and exploded in the back of her head. He roared his approval as he came, too, leaving his seed in her without even asking.
Lucia shivered as Danny eased away from her. The house was chilly, he realized. He'd not thought of it before, when he'd come inside dressed in his jacket and boots. At least he'd discarded those by the front door so as not to track slush and salt through the Venezia home. Lucia, on the other hand, hadn't needed to worry. The sidewalks and front walks of both houses had been shoveled and perfectly cleaned off.
She still wore that transparent excuse of a bra, but nothing else. He reached down and lifted his jacket from the floor, understanding the notion of wrapping her up in it was ridiculous when an entire closet of her own warm clothes waited only a few feet away.
She was still too fucking young, but it didn't matter. She was his.
He'd not just fucked her, but he'd fucked her bare. Danny hadn't even thought to use a godforsaken condom, and he had one in his wallet. He didn't often go out hunting pussy, but the urge had occasionally hit him over the years. Nonna and his dad had both reminded him when he was a kid to keep his dick clean, and he'd seen enough of the world to not get caught.
Until now.
Lucia had caught him without even trying, whether she knew it or not.
"You want to shower, florzinha?" he asked her, not really wanting either of them to get off the bed. But they couldn't spend the day there, no matter how much he'd like to.
"I don't know that word," she bit out. "I thought you were all Italian."
Why would Lucia be pissed off, he wondered. He was still there with her, next to her. He wasn't walking away, leaving her to recover from a hook-up on her own. He'd pulled her against his side and was resisting the urge to smoke, something he usually only did when he had sex. "My mother was Italian," he explained. "But my father was a Brazilian who moved to Puerto Rico as a teenager. I have his blue eyes. Mom died when I was little – breast cancer. My father raised me, with help from Jimmy's mother, who I call Nonna even though she's not my grandmother. Dad knew more Portuguese and Spanish than Italian; he'd only picked up a bit of Italian from my mother before she died."
Beside him, Lucia sat up and rolled away, dropping the jacket and striding across the room. He admired her bottom for three steps before he rose to follow her. "Tell me what you need," he demanded.
To his surprise, she closed the bathroom door in his face and clicked the lock.
It wasn't that he couldn't get in. Such locks were child's play to pick. But the point of it? She was shutting him out.
That was unacceptable, even if she didn't know it yet. "Open the door, Lucia."
"No," she said. "I'm going to clean up and I'll meet you in the family room."
Danny frowned.
It was obvious to him that she wasn't sexually experienced. Sharing the shower probably wasn't something she'd done with the boy from two years ago.
That thought was immediately followed by a wave of hot outrage that she might ever consider sharing something that intimate with anyone but him. "I'm fucking screwed," he muttered under his breath. He jerked on his jeans, noting he hadn't even taken the time to remove his socks before he'd fucked her. Like Lucia, he was commando, and tucked himself carefully inside the zipper after wiping himself off with his own t-shirt. He had more clothes in his car for emergencies. He'd change after he fixed whatever nonsensical notion was in her head.
Still, he didn't like being told what to do. He waited for her in the bedroom, sitting in a wicker chair in the far corner so she wouldn't see him when she came in the room, unless she looked.
She was wrapped in a white fluffy towel when she came out of the shower, her hair pinned up on the top of her head. She hadn't washed the lush length of it. Without looking in his direction, she walked into the closet and studied the contents.
On silent feet, he came up behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist. She started, giving out a small cry of surprise, but leaned back against him. It was a small mercy. "What's wrong, florzhina?" he asked, nuzzling the back of her neck.
"Everything," she snapped. "Let's start with the fact that Mrs. Savaggio is going to know that I've been over here screwing you. I'm never going to be able to look her in the face again. And I liked being her companion."
Danny couldn't argue much with that. Nonna was one of those older women who was astonishingly insightful and verbally outrageous. She'd seen the way he'd looked at Lucia, and she'd been angling for nipoti – grandchildren – since she'd decided Jimmy, Danny, Max and Mario were old enough to marry. They'd been twenty-four at the time. He was thirty-eight now.
"That was not screwing," he said instead. "That was letting off explosive steam. Later we'll do it properly and take our time."
She turned and hit him on the shoulder with a closed fist, a move that honestly shocked him. Danny couldn't remember the last time anyone had struck him, let alone an impertinent young girl who … who had tears in her ears. Meu Deus. He cradled her against his chest. "Sweetheart, tell me what's really wrong."
"I didn't fuck you so you'd help my family," she muttered.
"Of course not. Yo
u fucked me because you were more turned on than any woman I've ever seen and you didn't know what to do with all that arousal. If I'd just left you to stew in it, you'd be miserable until we let it out together. Now you'll be able to concentrate on the matter at hand, at least for a bit."
To his astonishment, she just hit him again. This time, he didn't have to demand an explanation. She spat the words at him. "You didn't use a fucking condom, I don't know your fucking last name or your fucking phone number, and I've never in my life fucked a stranger," she practically wailed.
He'd never in his life heard so many f-bombs from a female's mouth in one breath. "Oh, florzinha, it is not all that bad," he managed, kissing the top of her head and wondering why he wasn't running fast and hard for the street. The girl was nearly crying, and he was trying to comfort her. He didn't comfort people. He tortured them – or rather, he didn't torture women but he didn't cuddle them either. But he kept talking, regardless. "I'll never use a condom with you and I'm clean, but if it's important to you, I'll take us to the clinic tomorrow and you can have me tested and get birth control. I'd rather you stay off those chemicals, but I can wait on babies if you insist." She choked into his chest at that pronouncement, so he rushed on before he could accuse her of not answering her other complaints. "My name is Daniel Bellucci Cuba – Bellucci was my mother's family name. My phone number is in your phone already, that's what I was programming in when you gave it to me. And I'm not a stranger. Not anymore."
"Oh my god," she whispered. "You're a lunatic, you must be. You're talking about me having your babies and we've known each other less than an hour."
"I'm an expert at evaluating people and making a decision," he told her, rubbing her back through the towel and wishing he could just pull it off her. "Nonna likes you, and she hardly likes any girls, ever. You have a beautiful mind. Just look at this room you've made for yourself. It's a masterpiece, and you created it even while you've been here worrying about your parents and your own future. You're fucking sexy as hell. Without even expecting a man to come along and sweep you off your feet, you went without panties and wore the sexiest fucking bra on the planet. And this closet full of pink boots says something important about you, too. You know yourself. You have developed a sense of style and flare for yourself. I'm pretty sure that anything else we can learn along the way."
The Don's Enforcer Page 2