“God doesn’t send signs like that,” he rasps.
“He didn’t. But maybe he knows what’s in your heart and mine. Maybe this is his way of absolving you.”
Savio winces. “Hardly—”
“You’d have killed without thought before. Now it’s sanctioned.” My tone is resolute, as is my resolve. Each word pounds through me, forcing me to believe more than I did at the start.
Those words were the beginning of my journey.
They were the catalyst that led me to this point.
To him.
And now?
This is the next phase of our lives.
He’s already said he doesn’t want to be a priest anymore. But for this to happen today? For it all to go down as it has?
I know in my heart this is right.
Though his eyes are loaded with doubt, I reach up on tiptoe and press my mouth to his. “I love you, Savio.”
He tenses beneath my kiss. “Y-You can’t.”
“I do.” I’m resolved about that also. “I’ve needed you for so long, and now you’re here.” I let my arms slip around his neck, and I whisper, “I’ll be everything you need too.”
He bites his lip and stares down at me, but the doubt is receding, and I can feel his dick start to harden against my belly. I’m not sure why, not sure what I said to get him horny, but I’m not about to complain.
“Everything?” he rasps, and he looks at me like a kid who’s just realized Christmas comes with gifts, and Easter comes with chocolate.
“Yes,” I promise, staring up at him with all the crazy, fucked up love I’m capable of.
His nostrils flare at the sight, then he connects our mouths and, God help me, it feels different.
Last night, the first time he kissed me felt like a revelation, but now?
Something’s changed.
For him.
Not for me. I already knew I loved him. I’ve been feeling this way since I saw his picture on a TV screen all those years ago.
Savio kisses me like he loves me though, and I just have no choice but to melt into him.
My tongue thrusts into his mouth, and I let my body melt into his even more. It’s incredible how my slenderness somehow fits all his hard planes, but it does. We’re like two jigsaw puzzles, and at last, we’re coming together.
I have no choice but to climb him like he’s a tree. I hook one leg around his hips then jump so I can hook the other around him too. He grabs my ass, pulling at my butt cheeks through my jeans, and when he leans me against the kitchen counter, I envision him taking me there, and I’m not averse to the idea.
But he doesn’t do that.
If anything, his hard kisses turn a little softer. A bit gentler.
He grabs a hold of my thighs and carts me out of the room. Before I know it, we’re climbing up the stairs like that, and he doesn’t stop to breathe, or pant, just carries on until we’re in his bedroom.
He places me on the bed, and only then does he pull back. I watch as he tears out of his shirt, unbuttons his fly, then steps out of his priest garb to turn back into the man I love.
When his boxer briefs are out of the way too, he turns to me. I’d been quite happy with the show, thank you very much. His muscles are kind of excessive, rippling with every move, so I know his training is another coping mechanism. I vow to make him less ripped, an odd sacrifice for sure—and as that thought crosses my mind, he grabs my legs, tugs me toward him, then gets to work on my skinny jeans.
I don’t help. I just lie there, letting him do this, then I laugh when he grumbles, “What the hell are these? Torture devices?”
My lips curve. “The last time you had sex was everyone wearing flares?”
His eyes narrow, and he nips my calf through the denim. “How old do you think I am?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. Ancient?”
He snorts. “The BeeJees weren’t famous when I was born, so that should reassure you.”
My grin is sassy, but I squeak when he works off my jeans, revealing my thighs, and surprises the hell out of me—four slaps to one thigh, five to another, nine total. Again. Nine.
What’s with the nine?
But before I can say a word or ask a question, he pushes my legs back so they’re against my stomach. He holds my ankles even as he leans down, swipes his tongue through my folds, which are smushed together thanks to the hold he has me in, then rasps, “Why do you taste like raspberries?”
I blink. “Do I?”
He snorts. “Yes.”
“I have a very good sense of smell and I can’t smell raspberries.”
“You don’t shove your nose in your cunt though, do you?”
Oh, Lord, he did not just say that word.
I have no idea why, but it sends molten heat soaring through me. It’s rude. It’s crude. It’s everything Savio isn’t, and I think that’s why I love it.
He can be dark with me.
I want that.
I want to bathe in his darkness.
He must see what that does to me, because he lets out a growl, swipes his tongue through my lower lips again, and thrusts into my pussy once before he gets to his feet and uses the new position to press a finger into me.
“How are you feeling?” he demands, as he gently explores me. “Sore?”
I blink at him. “Huh?”
His lips twitch. “Are you in pain?”
My mouth watering, I shake my head. If this is pain, then I want to feel it often.
Snickering a little, his mouth hitches up on one side, and at that moment, the shadow of grief, the pain of the past, and the torment in his soul has gone.
Lightened.
He only sees me.
And I’ve never wanted to be seen as much in my life.
He leans over me and pushes my legs harder into my stomach, but I don’t mind. Especially not when his dick presses against my thighs. My ankles are bound together, so I can’t move, and I’m okay with that. I’m okay with all of this.
His mouth collides with mine once more as his fingers unerringly go to my pussy. He plays with me, teasing and taunting, titillating me with each caress until I’m wriggling underneath him, my arms digging into his back, the nails arcing into claws that grow slick with his blood as I fight the desire he’s making me feel.
When he lifts up slightly, a rictus of pain from my touch twisting into outright bliss, I moan when his cock lands against my pussy. He rubs it along the crevice, then slowly pushes inside me.
I see stars, because the decadent thrust is nothing like I expected. There’s no rush, no pressure, no nothing. Not because the urgency isn’t there, but because he’s showing me something important.
That he loves me.
He’s making love to me. It’s Savio style, but love nonetheless.
I shudder into his kiss when our mouths reunite again, and slowly, he takes me how he needs me, how I need him to take me.
It’s slow and soft, gentle. But also deep and hot and so arousing that I can’t seem to catch my breath.
I know to be quiet from last night, but he swallows any sound I make, and I much prefer that to a gag. Maybe he does too, because as he thrusts into me, filling me to the hilt, his tongue never stops tangling with mine.
My eyes ache with tears that begin to fall, because this?
It’s more than I ever expected, more than I ever thought I’d get.
I feel cherished.
Adored.
I never expected to feel that way.
The orgasm isn’t like last night. Instead, it’s like a slowly building mushroom cloud. But once it overtakes me, it’s as sudden as a summer storm.
Going nowhere fast.
My body strains as I experience a passion so pure, I want to shout out hosannas, but I can’t.
So I don’t.
Instead, I internalize it, and that only makes it ten times hotter.
When he comes inside me, he rests his forehead against mine and continues stroking me thro
ugh my never-ending implosion.
“Thank you,” he whispers, when I sag beneath him, but that doesn’t stop me from pouting when he pulls out. Like he can’t bear to be parted for long, he rearranges my legs swiftly, then moves beside me. There’s no space between us though. My body touches him all the way down, and there’s nothing sexier than him being naked, yet me being fully dressed except for my crotch.
Like before, I feel decadent though.
I don’t care that my pussy is on display and that I’m leaking cum onto the sheets.
I’m happy. And I know that’s wrong.
Gianni just died. Tonight, we’re going to get justice for him.
But I’m with Savio, and that’s all I need.
His hand comes to my stomach, and he whispers, “Do you think—”
I place mine above his, knowing what he’s saying without him having to finish the sentence. “I hope so.” I dig my fingers into his, bridging them, tying us together. “Are you okay with that?”
He audibly gulps. “I never thought I’d be a dad.”
“Why would you? You didn’t know I was looking for you, did you?”
He releases a shaky sigh, perhaps taken aback by my candor. “No. I didn’t.” A pause hovers between us before he eventually murmurs, “Thank you for finding me.”
I grin up at the ceiling until a thought hits me. I turn my face into his throat. “You can show me your thanks by being safe tonight. He’s a dangerous man.”
“I know.”
Neither of us say a word though. He could get hurt tonight, and I’m still not turning him back from this path I think we’re both destined to be on.
I just have to have faith. Faith that God will protect us and guide us where we’re supposed to be.
I kiss his throat, and whisper, “You need to get ready for the service.”
“My last one.”
I hum. “Make it count.”
He shuffles off to his bathroom, leaving me in bed. I stare up at the ceiling and hope I’m not wrong, and that this truly is a journey we’re destined to take.
Later, after he finished the service, we discussed our intentions, and he told me of the capo’s base in a piazza a short drive from the church.
His intention was to go in, to demand to speak with Corelli, and to bring him outside.
He said he didn’t need me there.
But I knew he did.
How couldn’t he?
This was my sanctioned kill.
I knew this was righteous.
But I agreed to stay back. To merely watch in case he needed me.
And as I watch him wander into the restaurant that is Corelli’s front, I have to admit, he looks calmer than I expected.
I don’t know if this will go wrong, and I have to think that Corelli won’t be eager to come outside like Savio plans, but I figure this isn’t Savio’s first time. He knows what he’s doing.
He’s surprisingly slick, after all. Yesterday, I watched him manipulate Paulo Lorenzo. I watched him get him drunk, befriend him, and lubricate the situation until the man was at Savio’s mercy.
I have faith in my man.
And I’m not disappointed.
When Corelli storms outside, shouting, “What the fuck, Father? You think you can come into my restaurant after I invite you here and—”
“And what, Marco? You didn’t come to confession speaking the truth,” Savio interjects calmly, as I watch from the car I didn’t know he owned, which is parked just off the piazza as he starts to herd Corelli forward.
I have no idea what went down in the bar, and to be frank, I don’t really want to know. I’m scared, even though I know this is a justified killing, because I’ve only just found him.
The last thing I can handle is losing Savio before I’ve even had a chance to have him.
To hold him.
In truth.
I shudder at the thought of him being taken from me, but when Corelli grabs something from his pocket, I almost die. I’m so certain it’s a gun that, for a second, I don’t even register that he’s grabbed a cigarette he’s shoving in his mouth.
The windows to the car are open, and I’m close enough that the faint tang of tobacco slips in through the gap.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing, Father?” he demands, the cigarette drooping from his bottom lip.
I watch as Savio’s finger is suddenly in Corelli’s chest as he pushes him back.
It’s clear that Corelli sees no threat in him—his mistake. If anything, there’s no fear in the mobster’s face, just outrage.
“You lied in confession,” Savio repeats on a rumble, sounding so convincing that it surprises even me.
Corelli’s frown appears, and I stare at it, sensing his bewilderment, and move my hands under my butt to stop myself from leaping into the fray. “I paid my dues,” he grinds out.
“You gave a false confession. You said they were enemies. You never said it was a—”
“A what?” Corelli snaps, and as he peers in the restaurant, whatever he sees has him waving a hand.
I imagine that’s him dismissing the guards.
The idiot—thank fuck!
As Savio grinds out a reply, each finger prod in Corelli’s chest takes him back a step, but it angers him too.
In the rearview mirror, a sharp blue light catches my eye. I can’t even tell you why I saw it, why it suddenly appears in my line of sight, but it’s there.
A bright, glittering presence that I can’t ignore.
I don’t even see Savio pull the dagger he said Corelli was renowned for carrying in a holster on his shoulder. Don’t see him shove his hand against the capo’s throat as he pushes him into the wall.
I just see the lights.
Plural.
There are many now.
Many.
Too many.
And they’re coming this way.
Had the guards called the cops on Savio? Somehow, I doubt it. But their presence has me tensing, because I know, without a shadow of a doubt, they’re coming to the bar.
Maybe they’ve cracked a case and found that Corelli’s at the center of it, maybe something implicated him in Gianni’s death, but even a lifetime in jail isn’t enough for Savio.
I’ve seen the desire to end Corelli throbbing inside him all day. It saddens me, to be honest. This is one stain that may have been avoided, but it’s too late now.
We’re here.
But I won’t lose Savio.
With the certainty that the cops are coming our way riding me, I leap out of the car. My body’s tired after so little sleep, because even though I could have rested today, I was on edge, knowing we were going to commit murder tonight.
A strange plan enters my head, and though it’s imperative I warn Savio, that I get him to act now, I know what I must do.
I checked out the restaurant on Google Maps today, so I know the layout. The alley Savio’s gone down has an open end, and I run around there, going faster than my body wants.
When I see Corelli is in the mouth of the alley by this point, I rush forward, and yell, “Now.”
Savio’s eyes glance at me, and Corelli takes that split second to leap for the knife.
It’s too late for him though. Savio slices his throat. The arterial spray is intense, it coats him, but he doesn’t even blink an eye.
Me?
I feel queasy.
This is different than last night.
This is black blood.
Tainted blood.
I don’t want it on him, even as I know what I must do. While Corelli clasps at his throat, I surge toward the man I love and grab the knife. Just as his eyes flash with surprise, and the lights and sirens make themselves known, I can hear the stirring of humanity from the bar, as if rats are leaving a sinking ship, and I thrust upward, just like I would if I was a man of similar height as Savio, and slice into my man’s belly before pulling the dagger free and tossing it on the ground.
Then,
with the sight of his eyes loaded with betrayal, and as he staggers to his knees, I scream, somehow louder than the sirens, loud enough to draw attention our way, and I don’t stop.
Because no one has pipes like an angel.
Savio
I wake up in a hospital bed.
At first, I wonder what the hell happened, then it hits me.
I remember.
It isn’t the first time I’ve landed here, but it’s the first time there’s been someone sitting at my bedside.
She’s curled up like an angel, her hands propped under her chin as she sleeps like a child would. Innocent.
My brow puckers as I remember the events of last night—drawing Corelli out of his busy restaurant by calling him a murderer, where he dealt with me personally rather than having his guards handle me simply because I’m his priest.
Catholics...
So foolish.
I recall little else, save for snatching his dagger, then us being just in the mouth of the alley with brick walls on either side of us beyond the bar’s windows.
Like her wings carried her, Andrea appeared out of nowhere.
I sliced Corelli’s throat at her urging, then took a knife to the belly once Corelli lay sputtering on the ground.
My brow puckers at the memory of her screaming, of her drawing interest our way, and then I remember nothing, because I passed out.
With the blood loss from the evening before and then her stabbing me?
It’s no wonder I lost consciousness.
Even now, though I’m awake, I feel half asleep.
Why did she do that? Why would she—?
Her eyes pop open like she knew I stirred, and the love in them takes me aback. It’s hard to think, hard to even speak as I realize I’m pain free for a reason, but I distinctly remember those eyes on me as she stabbed me.
“You’re on a lot of codeine,” she whispers, her brows crumpling. “For your back too.”
My tongue feels thick, like a sponge in my mouth, and she shuffles in her seat once more, then drifts over to a nightstand.
The hospital room is plain, and by decor alone, I know I’m in a regular one, not a convent or a clinic that’s attached to the church. It’s not painted white with an uncomfortable bed, nor is there a crucifix gracing any of the walls.
That’s clue enough.
She pours me something that makes a clacking sound, and I tilt my head to see ice tumbling into a plastic cup.
The Vows We Break: A Twisted Taboo Tale Page 18