My mind is a disorganized collection of strings, the thoughts threading themselves together until they’re tangled and knotted. Having received the call earlier from Maximus that Rafael is safe, and in my home with his fiancée, removes some of the heaviness weighing on me. But Octavia’s appearance has fucked up any peace I might’ve had from the knowledge my family is out of harm’s way.
Images of my mother emerge and press against my skull. I breathe deep to remain in control while they continue to bombard me. The pictures of her never quite captured the shine of her dark blonde hair, when compared to my memory of her. And they didn’t convey the tenderness of her smile or the way her eyes lit up with pride when she looked at me. Or the way her gaze went soft at the appearance of my father.
The tattoo on my hand, the one I had done in memory of her, itches my skin. The crow is considered a watchful creature that has a sharp and powerful foresight, which I liken myself to, while others consider it a harbinger of death or an ill omen. I chose it to represent the contract of revenge I’ve mentally written for those involved with her disappearance and presumed murder.
Only I’m not sure she’s actually dead.
However, I won’t allow myself to entertain the thought that she's alive. That could lead to disappointment or me wanting to kill her. I haven’t forgotten the years I was forced to watch my father deteriorate from the sorrow of missing her, nor have I discarded the mantle placed on me—which should’ve been hers—to care for my brothers at the age of ten.
The same year I killed someone and became a made man, a member of the mafia, now referred to as a crime syndicate.
These thoughts are nothing new. I can’t begin to count how many times I’ve traveled through this line of thinking. But what I haven’t considered is the notion of my mother having relatives somewhere besides those residing in Italy. The same family members who shunned her for marrying my father.
Octavia has to be related to my mother in some fashion. I’d bet my life on that. Waiting for Octavia to call grates on me. I haven’t followed anyone’s order since my father died and left me in charge of the family, so my aggravation is high because of this current situation.
And that only worsens my sexual frustration.
However, that’s not due to Octavia, despite the fact she’s an attractive woman. All of my thoughts start and end with the young woman currently lying in my bed. But she’s not naked with her thighs wide, begging for me like I want.
In fact, she’s not fucking saying anything.
Hearing the sound of my name on her full lips that one time… I’m surprised I didn’t take her then and there. That tiny breath, infused with the syllables and cadence of my name, nearly disintegrated my restraint.
It’s for the best that Violetta didn’t speak and take me up on my offer earlier. That’s a complication I don’t need.
But her refusal hasn’t removed my intense need to fuck her.
At the feel of my fingers wrapping around my cock, I groan. My hand tightly fists the length and I let my mind conjure the fantasy of Violetta being the one who’s stroking me. She’d need both hands to match the strength of my grip and then she’d almost kill me with her inquisitive gaze as she watches and studies my response.
From base to tip, I stroke myself, increasing my speed and squeezing the head on occasion. My entire body is strung out and unmoving, except for my chest as it funnels my labored breaths and my hand as it clenches my cock to the point of nearly strangling the fucker. My punishing grasp only heightens my need to come and the muscles in my arm twitch with the simple but repetitive motions.
I don’t stop even when the pleasure becomes almost unbearable. Or when I sense another’s presence, one whose gaze is on me. I haven’t lived a life of crime, nearly dying on several occasions, and not developed the ability to know when I’m being watched. The air around me isn’t filled with the threat of violence or anything to indicate I’m in danger, but to confirm I lift my head.
The colorful hues of Violetta’s eyes are easily discernible in spite of the droplets on the glass wall between us. Our gazes meet and I twist slightly so that she can watch without impediment. The head of my cock is engorged, as is the length, so when she drops her gaze to it and her lips part on a gasp, I’m done.
With my nostrils flaring, my hips jerking, and my low groans echoing around me, I come with a force that’s nearly staggering. I pump my fist faster than before to enhance the sensations, imagining that I’m fucking Violetta’s cunt, and my cock driving into her is the reason her eyes are wide with wonder. It could be all in my mind, but the sound of her voice, a breathy whisper, is as real as my attraction to her.
The physical release is sublime and renders me weak, although my uneven breathing and the roaring in my ears has yet to subside. Eventually, I slow my strokes and then halt them, all without my gaze ever leaving hers. My body shakes, a minuscule trembling that I dismiss, but I can’t ignore the way Violetta shifts her stance and presses her thighs together. I keep my hand on my cock and squeeze until pain shoots through it and down to my balls.
I can’t have her, but how I fucking want to.
“You saw what you wanted,” I say, “now get the fuck out.”
I don’t need to raise my voice, but it’s as though I did because she spins around and disappears from sight. I let my head fall forward to thump against the tiled wall and blow out a harsh breath. In no way do I feel relieved, even though I just came hard as fuck.
There’s absolutely no substitution for a tight, wet cunt.
Violetta
Ican’t remove the image of Tristano’s cock from my mind.
My face is flushed beyond measure and I hope it cools off so he doesn’t think to take my temperature and check me for a fever. However, I would be feverish, but only because of my intense arousal. I’ve been sitting on the bed and fanning my cheeks ever since I ran from the bathroom doorway and I’m not sure it’s helped whatsoever.
The doorbell rings, startling me. I hesitate on whether or not I should see who it is. Being in a foreign country with only strangers for traveling companions is not exactly the type of environment that encourages feelings of security. If I didn’t speak Spanish, I wouldn’t even consider answering the door.
With a towel wrapped around his waist and a pistol tucked into the material at his back, Tristano exits the bathroom and opens the door, one hand near the firearm. The hotel’s staff member in the hallway blinks at him once as her mouth drops open. I can’t say I blame her.
And she hasn’t even seen what’s under the towel like I have.
