He produces a handkerchief, of course he has one, and carefully cleans between my thighs, then his face. His touch is gentle but possessive, lingering longer than necessary.
"My panties."
"Are mine now." He tucks the lace into his pocket with a dark smile. "You'll spend the rest of this luncheon bare under your skirt, pussy still swollen from my mouth, knowing I can smell you on my lips."
The thought makes me clench around nothing, empty and aching.
He takes his time straightening my appearance. Smoothing my skirt, fixing my hair, wiping away smeared mascara. Each touch is deliberate, claiming, a reminder of what just happened.
"There," he says, stepping back. "Beautiful. Though you look properly fucked."
"I can't go back out there."
"You can and you will." He takes my hand, threading our fingers together. "With your head high. With your pussy bare and still throbbing from my mouth. Because you're not nobody, Emma. You're mine. And that makes you untouchable."
"What about Mrs. Rourke?"
His eyes go cold, though his cock still strains against his pants. "I told you. She'll never speak to you again. I promise you that."
He opens the door, keeping my hand firmly in his. The hallway stretches before us, and I'm hyperaware of my bare pussy under the skirt, of how swollen I still am, how one wrong move will reveal everything.
We enter the ballroom together. Heads turn immediately. Conversations stop mid-sentence. They all see it. My swollen lips, my flushed skin, the satisfied smile Alessandro can't quite hide. They know. They all know he just had his face buried between my thighs.
Mrs.Rourke still holds court at my abandoned table, no doubt sharing more poison about the nobody who married above her station.
Alessandro guides me directly to her.
"Mrs.Rourke," he says pleasantly, though his eyes promise violence. "I heard you had some observations about my wife."
She straightens, trying to maintain her composure. "Mr.Rosetti, I was simply."
"Simply being a dried-up old bitch who wouldn't recognize true beauty if it slapped her across her lifted face." His voice never rises above conversational, but the entire table goes silent. "My wife's pussy tastes like heaven, by the way. Something you'll never know. The devotion of someone who'd kneel for you."
Several women gasp. Mrs.Rourke turns crimson.
"How dare you."
"How dare I?" He laughs, the sound sharp as breaking glass. "You made my wife cry. Do you know what I do to people who hurt what's mine?"
"Alex," I murmur, but secretly his crude defense makes my bare pussy clench.
"No, stellina. She needs to understand." He leans closer to Mrs.Rourke, voice dropping. "Three phone calls. That's all it took. Your husband's contracts, your son's license, your daughter's husband's accounts. All under review. That was just what I managed while making my wife come. Imagine what I'll do with real time."
The color drains from her face completely.
"But I'm feeling generous," Alessandro continues. "Apologize to my wife. My brilliant, beautiful, perfect wife. And I might reconsider."
"I… I apologize, Mrs.Rosetti." The words seem to physically pain her.
"Louder."
"I apologize, Mrs.Rosetti!" She nearly shouts it.
Alessandro's smile is all teeth. "Good. Now leave. And remember. I know exactly where you live."
Mrs.Rourke flees, practically running in her designer heels.
"Anyone else have observations about my wife?" Alessandro asks the room at large.
