Mafia Romance

by Aleatha Romig, Skye Warren, Annika Martin, Natasha Knight, Kaye Blue, Michelle St. James, Renee Rose, Parker S. Huntington, Alexis Abbott, Willow Winters

  Perfect in a different way now.

  Until I can’t stand it anymore and I grip her arm, the one that’s rubbing her pussy, and raise her to her feet.

  She keeps rubbing, and I know she’s close. I should whip her to orgasm, but I can’t wait. I press her to the mirror, her breath fogging it instantly, and shove her panties down. She’s still rubbing, and the wet sounds of her pussy make me harder.

  I push my pants and briefs down and lift her dress and bend my knees to get under her, the leather still coiled around my fist when I lift her off her feet and impale her on my cock.

  She slaps both hands, one wet, onto the mirror as I fuck her, both of us panting, breath damp and hot, her cunt dripping, greedy around me, sucking me up, squeezing me hard.

  Within moments, she’s coming and then I’m coming. My mouth is pressed against the side of her face. I can hear her breathe, hear her come, and fuck I want to fill her up and keep her full of me, put my seed inside her, make her hold it there, keep a piece of me inside her because with her, I can’t ever get enough.

  I can’t ever get close enough.

  Deep enough.

  I hold her to me as I slide out, take two steps back, and we sit on the floor. We’re out of breath. She’s cradled between my knees, and I push hers open. We watch our combined cum leak out of her pussy, the sound of the TV—an infomercial selling a miracle face cream—finally coming into focus as our breathing settles.

  She looks at me over her shoulder, and hate is inside her eyes. Hate and rage.

  I like her like this. I like her angry. Feral. And when she spins and lunges at me, her hands claws, like a cat, I grab her wrists and laugh and topple onto my back. She’s on top of me, and we’re a half-dressed, sloppy mess.

  She’s battling me. I think if I let her go, she’ll claw my eyes out.

  “Not like this,” I say, flipping us over so her back is on the rug. I know it burns. I know the fresh stripes on her back burn like hell, and I push her down into the rough carpet. “A notch,” I say.

  She stops. I let her up a little, let her go, and she leans against the bed, legs still wide, knees up so I can see her cunt, the dress a rag held to her waist by two buttons.

  “You said no notches. Not here.”

  “But you said you didn’t want that. And then you proved it. You want it rough. You don’t want me nice.”

  “You’re not nice,” she says.

  “No, you’re right, I’m not. And now, I get a notch.”

  She swallows. I stand, go into the other room where my cell phone is in my jacket pocket, and dial the front desk. I order a bottle of champagne and a paring knife. I know they think I’m crazy, but when I’m spending this kind of money, I could give a fuck.

  I hang up. She’s standing in the doorway, nearly naked from the waist up, her hair a mess, cum sliding down her thigh and over the inside of her knee. I give her a grin. Fuck. She’s beautiful like this. Fucking crazy. Feral.

  That’s the word. Like a cat. A wild, feral cat.

  I take her into the bathroom. She doesn’t fight me when I strip off her clothes and mine and run the shower—cool because I’m considerate of her fresh wounds—and we step inside. I wash her and kiss her and want to fuck her again.

  When we’re out and dried off, I walk into the living room where the champagne and the paring knife have been delivered. She follows me. We’re both naked. I pop the cork on the champagne and pour two flutes but leave them on the tray and pick up the knife.

  She backs up a step.

  I take hold of her, pull her to me, look down over her naked body, and hold out the handle of the knife to her.

  She looks at it, cautiously looks at me.

  “My notch,” I say, holding out my arm, the one scarred by the last notch.

  She takes the knife, eyes still narrowed like she’s expecting me to pounce, to turn the tables.

  Holding her wrist, I guide her hand to me. “Carve it out.”

  “You’re sick.”

  “Do it.”

  She shakes her head no.

  “Do it, Willow Girl,” I say through gritted teeth. “And make it hurt.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Helena

  A hint of red comes through the gauze on the inside of his arm. I look at it as he puts on a dress shirt.

  He had to make me do it. I couldn’t. Like the last time when I held my pocketknife to his belly and couldn’t do it. He looks at me as he slides the cuff links through the slits at his cuffs. Raw, unpolished diamonds, the color of charcoal. Like his eyes.

  I’m still naked, holding a flute of champagne, not having taken a sip. He pours his second glass. “Don’t you like champagne?”

  “It’s for celebrations. We’re not celebrating anything.”

  “Sure we are. You and me, Helena. We’re celebrating the fact that we understand each other.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Isn’t it obvious? Our sexual compatibility—”

  I snort.

  He grins.

  “Sweetheart, when I fuck you sweet, your orgasm is a fucking murmur. But when I fuck you hard, when I whip you, fuck. Your cunt swallows up my cock like it can’t get enough.”

  I feel my face burn and can’t hold his gaze. “I don’t.”

  He chuckles, takes my jaw in his hand, and makes me look at him.

  “You like it rough. Big fucking deal.”

  He lets me go and walks over to the dresser to pick up the other cuff link. He’s wearing a tux. Right now, with his shirt hanging open, I can see the cut of every muscle on his abs and chest. I can’t stop looking.

  My dress is hanging in a garment bag he had delivered sometime this afternoon while I was out, but he won’t let me see it yet. He also won’t tell me where we’re going.

  “You never told me how you found me this afternoon,” I say, taking a sip. I don’t know if I like champagne or not. It’s my first time drinking it, and it does go down smooth.

  “I had a man on you.”

  “What?”

  “It’s not a big deal. I couldn’t bring you with me to my meeting, and the alternative was leaving you on the island with my family. Would you have preferred that?”

  “No. But you had someone watching me? Did you plant the money too?”

  He doesn’t reply to that but puts the cuff link on the other sleeve then buttons his shirt bottom to top before tucking it into his pants.

  “Sebastian?”

  “Drop it, Helena. It’s done.”

  “But—”

  “Drop it.”

  I do because he’s right, it’s done. And I can’t be surprised he did it.

  Sebastian briefly disappears into the bathroom, returns with a bottle of lotion, and sits on the edge of one of the chairs. “Come here.” His knees are wide, and he’s pointing between them.

  I drink the rest of my champagne and go to him, sit on the floor between his legs with my back to him.

  Like earlier, he lifts my hair off my back. I should hate this. I should be repulsed by him, by his touch, but I crave it. Crave his hands on me. And it’s not just sexual. I like him taking care of me. He can be so gentle, more tender than anything I’ve ever felt before.

  I remember what he said about cocooning me when I sleep, but at that moment, he touches a line on my back, I wince, remember what he did just an hour ago. It should harden me.

  “Do you always have to hurt to get off? I mean, with other girls too.” Wow. Do I want to know?

  He doesn’t answer right away. He’s rubbing lotion onto my back, massaging it in, and it feels good.

  “I like rough sex. Like you do.”

  “This is different than rough sex.”

  He considers, and I wait, his hands moving back and forth so tenderly, I want to moan.

  “I want you like this,” he says, his voice level.

  I glance back. He’s watching me, no mocking look, no smile. Something else. Something deeper. Darker. />
  “Why?”

  He shakes his head. “I just do.”

  “Is it because I’m the Willow Girl?”

  That was the wrong thing to say. His face shuts down, and he gets up. “Fuck the Willow Girl.”

  He goes to the garment bag and unzips it. I get to my feet. Inside is a floor-length evening gown in a deep purple satin draped beautifully on the velvet hanger. I can almost feel how that material will glide over me, move with me, like I’m wearing nothing.

  “This is the color of your eyes when you’re about to come. Almost black, but not quite. Like the edge of midnight.” He touches the gemstone belt. “The stars inside.”

  I look at him. “You say the strangest things sometimes, Sebastian.”

  Like he sees everything. Like he thinks in poetry. Like he feels…something he can’t feel. I clear my throat and turn to the shoe box. I couldn’t care less about what’s inside or how beautiful the dress is. I just can’t have him keep looking at me like he is.

  He picks up the box, opens it. Inside is a pair of high-heeled gemstone sandals to match the belt of the dress. I reach out to gingerly touch them.

  “They don’t bite.”

  I give him a sideways glance, wonder at the cost of everything, wonder why he did it. I pick up the shoes and try them on. They’re so uncomfortable but so beautiful, I don’t even care. I’ve never worn anything like this.

  When I look up, I see how he’s looking at me.

  “I should get dressed.”

  He nods, takes the dress off the hanger, unzips the tiny zipper low on the back.

  “People will see my back.”

  “Let them. Let them want what we have.”

  What we have. What do we have?

  He slips the dress over my head, and I turn my back to him to zip it. I look at myself in the mirror, wonder how it’s such a perfect fit.

  The two upside-down triangles of cloth leave as much of my breasts exposed as they cover. The high empire waist makes me look taller than I am, and I realize the dress is split from the ankle all the way up to the waist. The back has slightly more material, so the split isn’t as obvious. I pull the two sides apart and can see right up to my navel. I turn to him.

  “I can’t wear this out.”

  He draws my hands away and the dress drops and covers me to almost midthigh.

  “Only I’ll see,” he says.

  His eyes are darker, and when he looks at me like that, I want him again.

  He checks his watch. “Ready?”

  “Where are we going?”

  “Dinner and the opera.”

  “Opera?” I can’t help but smile.

  “Faust. I hope you’ll like it.”

  “A man sells his soul to the devil for love.”

  “You know it?”

  “I’ve just read the book. I’ve never been to an opera.” I feel suddenly very Midwestern.

  “We’ll have to drop in at a friend’s party between dinner and the opera.”

  “A party?”

  “Drinks, really.” He opens the door.

  “Oh.” I try to seem more confident than I feel. “Okay.”

  He slides his hand under my hair and caresses my back lightly, like he likes to feel the welts he left or something. We ride down on the elevator. This time, we don’t take a taxi. The driver of a waiting sedan opens the back door when he sees us, and I climb in with Sebastian close behind.

  Nighttime Verona is very different to how it looked earlier today. For one thing, I feel a little more at ease. How that makes any sense is crazy, but I glance over at Sebastian, who is listening to a message on his phone. That’s just how I feel. Like I’m not alone out there and uncertain and lost.

  That’s how I felt this afternoon, I guess. And I’m very aware that tomorrow, we’ll go back to that island, to his horrible family, but I can’t think about that, not that or what it means for me. Not tomorrow or the day after or the years after.

  Dinner is more relaxed than I expected it to be. As fancy as we look, Sebastian takes me to a small pizza place just outside of town.

  “This is my favorite place to eat when I come here. I hope you don’t mind.”

  “Why would I mind?”

  “That it’s not a nicer restaurant.”

  I look around at the brightly lit place, at the man standing in the kitchen which is visible over the counter, at the people in jeans and T-shirts eating pizza.

  “This is actually exactly my kind of place,” I say, smiling.

  Sebastian walks me into the kitchen where the man rolling out dough stops to hug him, surprised at seeing him. He gives me a wink and says something to Sebastian that I don’t understand. This is probably the most relaxed I have ever seen Sebastian as he pats the old man’s back and laughs loudly.

  We go out back, and I am surprised to find a small plastic table with two plastic chairs set along the river. Lanterns hang overhead, and it’s all very romantic.

  Or it would be if it weren’t us.

  We sit on the rickety chairs and within a few minutes, we’re eating thin slices of pizza more delicious than any I’ve ever tasted.

  “You like it?” Sebastian asks me.

  “I’m on my third slice, so yeah, I like it.”

  He nods, drinks from the can of grape soda.

  I chuckle.

  “What?” he asks.

  “I don’t picture you as a grape soda kind of guy.”

  “You don’t know me yet.”

  Yet. “I guess not.”

  When we’re done, we say good-bye and thank the owners.

  Twenty minutes later, we pull through the tall gates of an old mansion where soft yellow lights illuminate the large double doors of the entrance. Two men in uniforms open them for us. I can hear the soft sound of a piano from outside as well as the tinkling of glasses, the murmur of conversation.

  I don’t need to see the elegantly dressed men and women who turn in our direction when we enter to know I don’t belong here.

  The women are dressed like I am, but differently. They wear their dresses where suddenly, I feel like mine wears me, if that makes any sense. Their hair is elegantly done, and I’m sure I’m the only woman here who isn’t wearing any makeup. I think how much more I liked the rickety-old chairs at the pizza place.

  But one look at Sebastian tells me how comfortable he is in this company. How at home.

  An older couple come toward us, smiling at Sebastian. With them is a girl who’s maybe a couple of years older than me or my age but a hundred times more elegant. The women cast a glance at me, do a quick once-over, and turn their attention to Sebastian. The younger one’s gaze hovers maybe a moment longer, and I’m immediately on my guard. She’s prettier than me, without a doubt, with her dark hair in an elegant twist, false lashes accentuating her soft green eyes, and breasts jutting out, seeming as if they want to tear through the fine material of her white Grecian goddess dress.

  And to top it off, they speak in Italian. At once, all three turn to me, and I hear my name.

  “Helena, this is Mr. Vitelli, his wife Alexa, and their daughter, Alexa.”

  They share the same name? Maybe that’s an Italian tradition? Whatever it is, I decide I don’t like them. Especially the younger Alexa, whose dark nipples are almost poking a hole through her dress.

  “Pleasure to meet you,” Mr. Vitelli says. “I hope you’re enjoying our lovely city.”

  “I am, thank you. It’s beautiful.” I notice the two women only give me half a smile.

  A waiter comes with a tray of champagne. Everyone takes a glass, and we’re led deeper into the room. I awkwardly stand at Sebastian’s side while they continue their conversation.

  The younger Alexa laughs at something Sebastian says and touches his shoulder flirtatiously. I raise an eyebrow and finish my drink. In the next room, I spy a long dining table loaded with food.

  “Excuse me.”

  Before Sebastian can refuse, I slip away and walk toward it, s
wapping out my empty glass with a full one from a passing waiter. I find a place where I can watch them. I notice Sebastian’s eyes on me even as he speaks to the Vitelli family.

  Although I’m not hungry, I pick up a piece of bruschetta and bite into it, not caring that the people near me turn to look at the loud crunch, and work my way around the table before I find Sebastian standing beside me.

  I face him and stuff a fat olive into my mouth.

  “Where do you put all the food?” he asks. I did eat six slices of pizza, but in my defense, they had a thin crust, and I hadn’t eaten all day.

  I shrug a shoulder.

  “Okay?” he asks.

  “It’s not my kind of crowd.”

  “Ah.” He looks around, slides a hand around the back of my neck, holding me there, his thumb rubbing one of the welts. “Well, we don’t have to stay long. It’ll be over before you know it.”

  “It’s okay. I’m fine. Go talk to your friends.” With their see-through dresses and pointy nipples.

  Sebastian turns to me, studies me, situates us so he’s blocking me from view. He cups the back of my head in one hand and slides his other hand between the layers of my dress and cups my sex.

  I gasp.

  He leans in close. “You and me, we have a secret. Lots of secrets between us. These people, they’re an obligation. You’re what I want.”

  I look into his eyes, and it feels like the island is so far away, so long ago. It feels like we’ve been here forever, and it feels like he means what he says.

  I nod, but I’m not really sure why.

  He drags his hand away. The dress drapes back into place, the satin soft against my naked skin.

  “I need to go talk to Vitelli for a few minutes. Some family business. We’ll leave after. You going to be okay if I leave you here? No treks to the train station?”

  “No treks anywhere in these shoes. I’m a big girl. I’ll be fine.”

  He nods and walks off in the direction I see Mr. Vitelli waiting, looking more serious than he had a little bit ago as he leads him into a room off one of the three hallways.

  I spend a few minutes holding up a wall before deciding to hunt for a telephone, but I find only locked doors. Nowhere to slip inside and make a phone call unnoticed. I’d love to talk to Amy, even for a few minutes.