What he says is not untrue, but that just makes it more annoying. I did ask him to lend me his sartorial expertise. And truth be told, I used my husband’s advice only today, when I tried to make small talk with those guards at Tino’s house. And it worked, kind of. On my way out, they gave me a respectful nod and said, “Mr. D’Amato,” as a goodbye.
“It’s not just the clothes,” I admit now. If Finch ever uses this information against me, I can always say he was addled from the drugs he accidentally overdosed on. I’m still not fully convinced it was an accident, but I’ll let it go for now. “Tino pointed out that my people skills could do with some…refining.”
Finch starts laughing at that, his uncontrollable laugh that forces tears to his eyes. This time it just starts him coughing, and the nurse eventually comes in to glare at me.
“I’m okay,” Finch wheezes, as she tries to check his vitals. “I’m laughing, that’s all.”
“Mr. D’Amato,” she says, turning to me with the kind of glare my Nonna used to give me. “Someone much higher up the chain than me allowed you to be here with your husband, even though it is not protocol in the unit to—”
“Oh, please don’t send him away,” Finch pleads, and I don’t know how he does it, but within sixty seconds he has Nurse Ratched twisted all the way round his little finger.
Speaking of fingers, I grab his hand and glare at him, and then the nurse. “Where is his wedding ring?” I demand. I’m appalled at myself that I’ve only now noticed its absence.
Immediately, the nurse is bristling again at my tone.
“I’m sorry,” I say, the words coming out stilted. “Only my husband is very precious to me, and that ring is a symbol of my…regard.”
At that, she actually smiles. Perhaps I’m benefiting from Finch’s training without even realizing. “Of course, Mr. D’Amato,” she says. “We had to remove it when he came in for safety reasons. But it’s right there in the drawer next to his bed.”
I pull open the nightstand drawer and see Finch’s ring sitting in there, as she says. “Thank you,” I tell her, dismissal in my voice, and at that, the smile wavers, but she finally leaves us alone. Once the door is closed again, I grab up the ring and ram it back on his finger. “This stays on. Always,” I tell him in a low, insistent voice. “Understand?”
He makes a face. “Why’re you so worried? Think someone’s gonna snap me up if you don’t keep a ring on it?”
I hold his hand up in front of his face. “This ring shows you’re mine. It’s a sign that anyone who touches a hair on your head will have me to answer to. As long as you wear this ring, no one will harm you—unless they want to die themselves Understand?”
Finch goes pink. I can see it even in the dim lights of the room. “I understand,” he says at last. “I’ll keep it on. Only I’m not the one who took it off this time.”
“Then don’t ever do something this dumb again, so they have to take it off for you,” I growl.
His green-gold eyes search my face. “Alright,” he says at last. “No more drugs.”
“I’ve heard that before.”
“Well, this time I mean it.”
“Do you?” I ask. “Because if this shit happens again, you’re going to rehab. And not fun rehab, like a retreat or something. Real rehab, where they dry you out for a month before making you go to twelve-step meetings for another six months, and then you go to a halfway house. Understand?”
“I understand,” he says after a moment. “But I have a condition attached to my sobriety.”
I shake my head. “You don’t get to make conditions on this one, angel.”
His face lights up with a grin. “You don’t even know what it is. Maybe I just wanna blow you or something.” At my raised eyebrow he says, “I want you to keep telling me what your Don said, about where you need to improve. What’s he expecting of you?”
I give an irritated snort. “Who knows. That Sam Fuscone, he’s a fool, but he’s got a nice traditional family, and his wife makes a mean scaloppini. Tino likes his Capos to have wives who can entertain.” We’re one of the smaller Families, but one of the richest and most influential. And a lot of that influencing seems to happen over private dinner parties.
“Oh, baby,” Finch says, a slow, wicked smile spreading over his face. “I was fucking born to entertain. Only we can’t have big shots over to that shitty apartment,” he adds.
I press my lips together, wondering if I should tell him this last bit. Am I really going to accept Tino’s offer? He pressed the townhouse on me again, and it took every bit of cunning I had to ask for time to think it over without insulting him. But negotiating the complex web and expectations that come along with gifts and favors has defeated better men than I, and I wanted to be sure to think through the implications.
But I see now that Finch has a point, and I wonder if this was also Tino’s point.
“So, about where we live…” I begin with a sigh, and Finch’s eyes light up.
Once we’ve moved into the new place, my clothes look even worse, hanging there in the wardrobe next to Finch’s suits. Even I can see the difference in the quality, feel the difference when I take one of his cuffs between my fingers and rub the material. It makes my cheeks burn to think that I’ve been going around in my suits telling people they’re designer. Anyone with a passing knowledge—anyone who’d ever actually touched something classy, like Finch’s clothes—they must have known.
Finch is in his element. Watching his eyes glow with relief and joy when we drew up in front of the new building made it worthwhile to know I’d have to waste my time debugging the damn place, and then again regularly every time one of my crew comes over.
You can never really tell where allegiances lie in this business.
But after Finch has run up the front steps and burst into the place like a kid on Christmas morning, Frank comes over to give me his initial report and I get my first surprise.
“It’s clean,” he murmurs. And at my skeptical look: “I’m telling you, bro. It’s clean. I checked it myself. Not a peep on the scanners.”
I love my brother, but I don’t trust anyone to do as thorough a job as I can do myself. So I take the scanner and I spend the first three hours going through the whole place, upstairs and down. Where Finch is rejoicing over the furnishings, I’m checking under lampshades.
But what Frank says is true. Not a single camera, wire, or bug to be found.
“Thank God,” Finch breathes, as we come to the master bedroom. There’s a massive bed with a half-canopy, the whole room a subtle blend of shades of chocolate, walnut and beige. Finch grabs my hand and pulls me quickly to the bed, falling backwards on it so his bodyweight drags me down with him. We’re alone up here, but Frank and Mikey are downstairs, and I don’t want either of them seeing or hearing anything from down there.
But Finch’s face is so close to mine where I’ve fallen on top of him, I can’t help it—I’m half-hard in my pants already.
“This is where we’re meant to be, honey,” he murmurs, and his clever hands are already stroking over my back, my neck, holding on to me in a parody of lovemaking. He wriggles his thigh between mine so I can feel he’s hard, too. “This is the place our dreams start to come true.”
“A few curtains and pillows and you think you’re in fucking paradise,” I sigh. “This might be a gilded cage, baby bird, but it’s still a cage.”
“But not literally,” he says, pouting. “You’ll let me out from time to time, won’t you? Even if I have to have a gigantic Italian shadow tagging along behind?”
“Occasionally,” I say, because I find I can’t deny him anything when he’s this close to me. All I can think of right now is our honeymoon, and the copious amounts of sex we had. I haven’t touched him since we got back; haven’t had a chance, between the fight we had our first night back and then his hospital stay.
What surprises me even more is how much I want him—my appetite for him is growing instead of waning. Us
ually I tire of a lover after two, maybe three go-rounds. But Finch is different. I’ve tasted every inch of him, come in him, on him, even just near him while we were on that yacht together, and I’m still hungry for him.
I hear heavy footsteps coming up the stairs, and leap off the bed. Finch just stays as he is, disheveled and smiling.
“Hey, Brother Frank,” he greets the intruder. I mean…my brother.
“Hey, principessa. You settling in?”
I don’t know if I like the easy rapport that’s developed between these two. It’s dangerous. Besides, Finch is my husband, and Frank should show him some fucking respect.
“Knock it off with the princess stuff, Frank,” I growl, but he just chuckles.
“Ah, Georgie, it’s meant with love. Well, guards are outside and swapping over at midnight for second shift. You should be safe enough. Guess I’ll leave you two to christen the bed.”
“Fuck off, Frank!” I snap.
“Ciao, Brother Frankie!” Finch trills.
I’m too irate to say anything more as Frank leaves, waving a hand over his shoulder. The front door slams, and I go down to lock it after my brother. When I look out the curtains at the front entrance, I can see Mikey and another soldier smoking there on the stoop, standing guard.
Mikey is off Finch Duty for sure, but Frank persuaded me to give him a second chance as a house guard. Mikey’s life will be forfeit if he does screw up, and I made sure he understood that. Finch’s new bodyguard, Marco, starts tomorrow. He was my first choice anyway, and I think he’ll be able to handle Finch’s charms.
Speaking of which…
I go back upstairs to the bedroom and find Finch lying naked, stroking his cock in a nest of pillows on top of the satin sheets.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
FINCH
Luca stops in the doorway and leans against the jamb, looking me over. I just keep playing with myself. I’ve waited far too long to have the man again, and what with my hospital stint and the guards always tramping through the old apartment and the way we haven’t been able to fuck since the honeymoon…I’m full to bursting.
“You certainly seem to approve of the place,” he says in that sardonic voice I’ve come to love.
“Oh, I do,” I tell him. “And now that we’re finally, really, truly, fucking alone again, I think it’s time we get on with the business of being married.”
And what do you know, Luciano D’Amato is not entirely made of stone-cold marble. I can see the interest building in his polyester suit pants.
I wave my dick towards him. It’s wet and shiny already, glistening in the overhead lights. I don’t have the world’s largest cock, but I’d bet my family’s fortune it’s one of the prettiest. And the way Luca is staring at it, I can see he thinks just the same. “Come on, baby,” I beg. “All this chastity play is only hot when you let me pop at the end.”
He comes towards me slowly, unbuttoning his shirt, tugging it over his shoulders and throwing it on the floor. I give myself another full, slow stroke as I take in his chest, his silky pelt, his defined abs and the sculpted V-dips that point invitingly into his pants. I want his body; I want him more, but I’ll settle for the flesh if that’s all he’s willing to give right now.
“You said,” I pout. “On our honeymoon.”
“What did I say?” he asks, and his fingers play over the button on his pants.
“You said we’d have an arrangement for our physical needs.”
His fingers stall, and if I weren’t watching his face so closely, I’d miss it: the flash of regret. Yeah, I’ve wondered about that. I wasn’t sure at the time, but now I know. He didn’t mean those cruel words.
He was just trying to keep my feelings at bay.
I lift my hand to my mouth and give it a long, slow lick, tasting myself, getting my palm wet, and then go back to stroking. He watches every movement.
“I did say that,” he acknowledges. “I did indeed say that.”
His fingers are moving again, flicking open the button, unzipping his pants, letting them slide off his hips. He’s wearing boxer briefs underneath and I can see his cock, full and heavy, pressing against the cotton.
I slide my feet up so my legs are bent, falling open, and reach down with another hand to stroke my balls, pet them, lift them up so he can see my hole.
“Well, do you want this?” I ask him softly.
He palms his cock over his underwear, rolling it under his hands, looking me up and down. “It’s tempting,” he breathes out.
It’s as close an admission as I’m going to get. “Come on, then,” I say. “Come on and make me scream your name.”
His eyes light up with determination. He spins around and for just a second I think he’s walking out on me, but he slams the door shut, locks it, and comes back, shoving off his underwear impatiently as he does. Fuck, I love watching his cock swing as he walks. He’s thick and still filling out, so it wags like a tail as he crawls onto the bed, on top of me.
My hands go up automatically to his arms, one closing over the scar and the bird tattoo, and I pull him in to kiss. He almost-but-not-quite hesitates, but he gives in, and I celebrate my little victory by slipping him the tongue.
Luca kisses as hard and reckless as he fucks; he’s all-in with tongue and teeth, sucking on my lower lip. He pushes my head back so he can nibble his way down my neck, bite my earlobe, sink his teeth into the dips around my clavicle… He’s hungry for me, and he can’t hide it.
I can feel his dick slapping into mine as he moves above me, and I wrap my legs around his hips and wriggle into position until I can feel his cockhead against my hole. “Fuck me,” I beg.
He shifts position, reaching out with a hand to the nightstand, only the bed is so fucking huge he can’t reach. He curses, and I laugh. “Just push in, baby,” I say, feeling a perverseness. “Hurt me.”
He shakes his head, and crawls off me towards the nightstand, where I guess he’s already stashed the lube. I shuffle down to grab his hips as he snakes past me and nose around his cock, gobbling it down when he pauses to rummage in the drawer.
I hear him let out a groan, and he freezes in place to let me give him a good sucking. He’s stacked down here; even his ballsack is big and meaty, and I give it some attention too, just about gargling on the damn thing. My spit is going everywhere, and my own cock is aching at the thought of having him in me again.
“Come on,” I mumble, my face mashed against his junk. “Fuck, I need this inside me. Come on, husband.”
I think he actually likes it when I call him that, because his dick quivers against my lips. Or maybe it was just him, moving, because he pulls me back up on the bed, manhandling me into position. “Pull your legs up,” he demands. I’m on my back, so I wrap my arms under my knees and oblige him.
My precum is dripping all over me, as usual, and he swipes a hand through it, adds lube, and then turns his attention to my asshole. It’s like he’s fascinated by it, he’s staring so hard. He presses two fingers straight in, without warning, just to see if I can take it.
I can. Who does he think he’s dealing with, here?
“That feels good, baby, but I bet your cock would feel even better,” I tell him.
“If you’re going to try to flatter me, be better at it,” he snaps back.
I grin. Okay. If he wants to explore my butthole so bad, why not? It’s his right, after all. Now that we’re married and one flesh and all that jazz.
I like thinking about that.
“You want to tease me, baby? That’s fine. But give me something to suck on while you do,” I say.
“At least it’ll shut you up.” He swings his long legs around, crouching over me. His cock is long enough that I can suckle on the tip of it like a pacifier while he stays up on hands and knees, playing with my hole.
His fingers are working me, but it’s not to stretch me, or not only. He seems genuinely bewitched by my ass, by how deep he can get his fingers into me, how sensitive my ri
ng is, how hard I can clench. “You’re a pretty little thing,” he sighs at last, almost begrudging.
“You’re a lucky son of a bitch,” I agree, and it makes him snort. I wish he’d laugh more often, this husband of mine. He’s got a wicked, dry sense of humor that creeps out from time to time.
I give his shaft some strokes, pulling him into my mouth like I’m milking a cow. His hips dip lower, and his cock fills my mouth, presses my tongue down, slipping in until I can taste his musk at the back of my throat. He’s at full hardness now, the skin hot and taut. I can feel his heartbeat pulsing against my tongue.
All at once, he’s had enough foreplay. He pulls out of my mouth, spins around, and lines up his crown with my eager hole. His eyes catch mine as he starts to push in, and I groan as he breaches me. It doesn’t hurt at all, not after all his stretching of me, but it hits me somewhere non-physical this time.
It’s the same way I felt that night on our honeymoon, that connection beyond our bodies. Like his soul is staring out at me from those cool ocean eyes.
He closes, squeezes them tight like he’s in pain, and he doesn’t open them again while he fucks me, not until he shoots, snapping his hips hard against me, his eyes wide and staring into mine.
While he’s still in me, he reaches down and jacks my dick. It’s a lazy hand job, but it does the trick, and it’s not long before I’m making a mess all over myself, arching up into his grip, gasping out his name.
Afterwards, when I roll onto my side and try to put an arm over him, he slides out of my embrace and off the bed, grabbing his clothes off the floor.
“I have to shower,” he tells me. “And then I’m going out.”
“What? Where are you going?”
“Business.” He won’t look at me. “I’ll be back late. Don’t wait up for me and don’t hold dinner back.”
Married to the Mobster Page 17