The driveto the former De Luca mansion—now mine—gives me far too much time to think. To mull over how I got here, and what I’m going to do going forward.
I have a driver now. It feels ridiculous when I get into the town car and give the man—Carlos—directions. In Chicago, I used public transportation. I had an apartment. A bank account with four figures in it. One good suit.
Now I’m a billionaire. I have a driver, a mansion, the ability to buy or rent other properties if I don’t want to live there full-time. I have security, a staff. An unreasonable amount of wealth and power.
I can do and be almost anything I want. And yet?—
When I think ofwant, the first thing that pops into my mind is Annie’s face. The stunned look when I walked into Ronan’s office, the movement of her throat as she swallowed, the quick intake of air into her lungs. That last sound—god. I remember how that felt against my lips, that small gasp of shock, and my cock swells against my thigh instantly.
She’s the one thing I can’t have. No matter what I want, no matter even ifshewanted it, Ronan would never allow it. He warned me off from exactly that before I left his office. Annie is not for me, and never will be.
But I can’t get her out of my head. Can’t stop thinking about how beautiful she looked, how coming back here means never being able to fully escape her.
I’ll never stop wanting you.The promise of a boy who didn’t understand what a vow like that could mean. But as a man, it hasn’t changed. I still want her, desperately.
The car rolls to a stop in the courtyard in front of the De Luca mansion, and I get out, straightening my jacket as I do against the January cold. It’s bleak and sharp, snow still thick where it’sbeen cleared away from the driveway and courtyard, the trees around the mansion bare against the coldly grey sky.
I feel like I’m in a stage play, like I’ve been cast in the role of don. The feeling only intensifies when I reach the front door and am greeted by the house manager, a tall, severe-looking woman who introduces herself as Flora. “I will show you around the house, Mr. Cattaneo,” she says, her Italian accent thick. Her tone is professional, but I can hear the displeasure at the edges of it—she isn’t pleased about Rocco’s fate, then. I make a mental note to consider whether or not I should replace her.
By the time we get through the tour, I’ve decided it doesn’t matter, because there’s no way in hell I’m living here full-time. The architecture of the mansion is Italianate, a clear attempt by the De Lucas to bring the old world into the new, and it’s a beautifully designed structure, if a little over-the-top. There’s an excess of marble for my tastes, and the heavy furnishings, endless art and antiques, and ancient rugs and fixtures make me feel as if I’m on a museum tour. It’s beautiful, and certainly historic, but I know I’d feel as if I were rattling around in a display at the Smithsonian.
I make a mental note to do some research into whether the historic nature of the house could get it onto the Boston registry, offer tours perhaps, and give Flora instructions for keeping it up while assuring her that I’ll check in regularly and pay for a full staff for upkeep.
Then, I text Ronan, asking for a recommendation for a realtor who can meet me today. Within a half hour, my driver is taking me downtown, where I’m taken on a whirlwind tour of several eye-wateringly expensive apartments, penthouses, and brownstone homes throughout Boston.
By the time the sun starts to set, I’m thoroughly exhausted. I promise the realtor I’ll call them tomorrow, take the file of prospective homes with me, and have my driver take me back tothe Godfrey hotel, where I’m staying. As soon as I’m in the room, I order room service—a steak dinner with the best bottle of red wine that they have—and get in the shower, eager to wash off the exhaustion of the day and settle in for the night.
But it’s impossible to release all of the tension knotting my muscles, even under the hot, beating spray of the showerhead. Impossible, because at least half of it comes from the fact that I can’t stop thinking about Annie.
Fuck. I suck in a sharp breath as I replay the moment when I saw her over and over again in my head, my cock stiffening until the swollen tip is brushing the taut skin of my abdomen. I reach down and give myself a squeeze, trying to resist the urge to do more. But the moment my palm touches my straining flesh, a jolt of white-hot pleasure races down my spine, and I can’t stop myself from running my hand down my shaft in a long, slow stroke.
God help me, I can’t stop myself from thinking about Annie as I do it, either. Her perfect, heart-shaped face, milky skin studded with freckles, her bow-shaped mouth full and as luscious as I remembered it… more so, actually. That soft, wavy hair that I’ve ached to run my hands through, the body that I’d give just about anything to rediscover. The look on her face when she saw me—I come back to it again and again, the way her lips parted and her eyes widened, the rush of realization, the momentary heat of desire that I know I saw there as she took me in.
Before I know it, I’m stroking myself in earnest, and I can’t stop. I have no business thinking about her like this after all these years, fantasizing about a woman who was never mine to have in the first place. But I can’t fucking stop.
I suck in a breath through gritted teeth, bracing a hand against the tiled wall in front of me as I start to work my cock in earnest, giving myself over to the churning lust that hasn’t letgo of me all day. My mind races forward without my permission, picturing Annie in a different office—myoffice, an office I don’t even have yet—backed up against it as I slide her clothes reverently off of her body.
Every inch of imaginary exposed skin sends a fresh jolt of pleasure through my aching cock, my balls drawing up tight as I hover on the edge of release. Her smooth abdomen, the curve of her waist, the small swells of her breasts—I imagine pink-topped nipples, tightening in the cool air as her bra drops away, taut and stiff against my lips as I bend down to run my tongue over her breasts?—
My cock erupts in a spasm of pleasure so intense my knees nearly buckle, a pained groan echoing in the shower as I feverishly stroke myself through my orgasm. Cum sprays against the tiled wall, spurt after spurt, harder than I can remember coming in recent memory, even with an actual woman. The orgasm is so intense it leaves me dizzy, my hand still running along my length chasing that pleasure even as my cock starts to soften.
“Fuck,” I breathe out, sagging against the wall next to me, as my hand drops away. I feel spent, my heart racing as if I just ran a marathon.
This was a bad idea.For the first time, the thought solidifies in my head, and I wonder if I was wrong to accept Ronan’s offer. I knew she’d be here, but I hadn’t realized what a temptation she’d be. I thought after this long, after all these years…
I thought she’d be married. I hadn’t imagined that at twenty-eight, the only daughter of the most powerful Irish mafia kingpin on the East Coast, she’d still be single. Single, and beautiful, and so impossibly off-limits.
I hadn’t prepared myself for this. Forher. For the way she’d make me feel.
And now, as I stand in the luxurious shower of my outrageously expensive hotel room, trying to catch my breath after the most intense orgasm I’ve had in years, the feeling of having gotten in over my head only intensifies.
I should have stayed in Chicago. As far away as I could possibly get from Annie O’Malley.
3
ANNIE
Iend up going through four different outfits before I finally settle on one. I haven’t been on a date in a long time—probably going on a couple of years now, and I can feel the butterflies in my stomach already starting up. Butterflies made up entirely of nerves.
