“He’s intensified the search. Offering a reward for any proof of life.”
“Can I get word to him?”
“What would you say?”
That shuts me up. What could I say that Victor would allow? “Wanted: tall blond hitman. Likes to torture people. If spotted. . .” I hesitate.
“Shoot to kill?” Victor dries his hands on a dish towel hanging neatly on the oven handle. The dish towel is a creamy white, decorated with little yellow ducks because why not?
“Maim,” I say. I don’t sound certain. Victor prowls over, holding the wine bottle. He tops me off, then sets the bottle down and scoops me up, only to sit with me in his lap. And I let him. I’m more worried about spilling the wine.
I settle into his arms like we’re a couple decompressing after a long day’s work. A half-naked couple, him only wearing soft slacks and me in nothing—no bra, no panties—but his shirt. And a butt plug.
For a while, Victor does nothing but stroke my back and watch me sip my wine.
Maybe I’m tipsy, but this is nice. The plug is still annoying, but its presence makes my pussy wet.
“Do you like it?” He tips his head towards the glass.
“It’s good.” It’s my turn to turn to him and hold the glass to give him a sip. Which might be a mistake because it leaves his hands free to roam. He trails his fingers over my hip and into the cleft of my bottom, finding the flat end of the plug. He does nothing more than tap it, but I feel the vibration deep in my core.
He just watches me, noting every twitch of my facial muscles, every catch in my breathing.
After a time, he leans in, stirring my hair with a silky whisper. “Do you like your plug?”
I won’t dignify that with a response. He doesn’t need one. His roaming hand finds my bare pussy and the dampness there.
“If you don’t tell me, I’ll have to check.” He’s thorough, too, his fingers dancing from clit to plug and back again. My mind goes blank from the wine, from his touch.
He only stops to pour me more wine. Only a quarter of the bottle left.
“How does this end?” I ask the open air.
He’s drawn down my shirt to play with my breasts, and he brushes his lips across the top of my shoulder.
“Victor,” I call his name to catch his attention. “Will you ever let me go?”
“You know the answer to that.” His long fingers trail over my curves, dipping between them. His callouses catch on my nipples, and my stomach muscles tighten. “We belong together.”
I scoff.
“Can you imagine your life without me?” I open my mouth, and he pinches my nipple in anticipation. “No lies.”
“I’m a lawyer. I twist the truth for a living.”
“Then let this be the time and place you tell the truth. Not only to me but to yourself.” He loosens his grip on my nipple, rolling it between his fingers instead. “If I disappeared tomorrow, would you miss me?”
I imagine it. The empty rooms, the unlocked doors. I’d get my escape, but. . . “I’d be pissed.”
“Would you hunt me down?” He sounds amused, as if predator and prey is a game we play.
Maybe it is.
“Yes.”
“And when you caught me, would you kill me?”
I try to imagine my life before Victor. Nothing but long hours of work for La Famiglia. Nights I spent alone with my resentment and my red wine. Bad wine compared to the heady ambrosia I’m drinking now. “No.”
