“WHAT.”
I can only gasp for breath, my chest heaving, my mouth hanging open. His cock still inside me, he smirks, his eyes dark, eyelids heavy.
“You want something in your mouth? Open wide.”
There are two bowls of cannoli filling on the counter, one almost full and ready for a special dessert later and one only partially filled. He grabs the one with less filling in it and I breathe a sigh of relief. It’s a special recipe, and I cannot wait to share it with Vin later.
“Wider.”
I obey without thinking, and he smears the rich cream across my lips, my chin, my cheeks. It drips down my neck, degradation in its sweetest form as he rubs it into my breasts, pinching and pulling my nipples. But when I open my mouth wider and moan, “More, please,padrone,” his answering groan tells me I’ve won this round.
He fucks my ass harder, one hand fisted in my hair while feeding me cannoli filling with the other like I’m his personal fucktoy. My legs are shaking, so wet that I’m dripping down my thighs, my hips sore from the counter and the way he has my ankles practically by my ears. Vin yanks at the apron ties around my neck until they come untied, my breasts spilling out, then slaps my breast so hard I gasp.
“Little cumsluts don’t get treated nicely. They get slapped,” he slaps my other breast, the sting shooting straight to my clit. “They get fucked.” He pounds into me, my ass bruising against the counter. “They get treated the way they deserve.” He spits in my mouth and on my face, then smears it all over, mixing it with the cannoli cream. “Like a worthless hole only good for fucking.”
I groan, snaking my hand in between us, and rubbing my clit hard and fast.
He slaps my hand away then slaps my face grabbing my jaw and jerking me toward him. “I didn’t fucking tell you to do that. This isn’t about your pleasure, remember? This is about me fucking any hole I want, coming anywhere I want, using you like the whore you are. Understood?”
“Sí, padrone.” I can barely get the words out before he squeezes my face so tight that it forces my mouth open and he spits down my throat then slams his palm into the side of my face, forcing me to look away from him while he fucks me.
As he’s railing me, pounding me, I can’t even think. I’m gone. My body is nothing but his, my brain is just… bliss.
Time blurs. Sweat drips down my body, mixing with the sticky sweet cream and his spit and sweat. His insults rain down on me with his slaps and feel like praise. I’ve never felt more beautiful.
He pulls out and strokes his cock fast, leaving me to practically melt onto the counter. My legs fall from his shoulders down around him and I have to lean back on my shaky arms trying to hold myself up.
Vin shoves the other bowl of my cannoli cream, the one that’s almost full, into my lap before I can process what’s happening.
“Hold this. I need somewhere to come.”
I blink, dazed, trying to find my bearings, to find words, to protest, but it’s too late.
Vin jerks off into the bowl of cannoli cream, thick spurts of cum, emptying himself until there is nothing left.
For a moment, I don’t move. I stare at the bowl, at my nonna’s recipe, at the cream that was supposed to be something amazing—
“CHE CAZZO!”
The scream tears out of me before I can stop it. I never curse but WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK.
I grab the bowl and fling the entire thing at his head. Ricotta and sugar and his cum splatters across his face, his chest, dripping down to the floor.
His expression goes from shocked to furious instantly. Wiping his face, he advances on me with murder in his eyes.
I lean away from him, my hand closing around the handle of my chef’s knife. When he reaches for me, I bring it up between us, absolutely fucking furious.
He stops and stares at the blade, then laughs, the sound harsh and mocking. “What are you gonna do with that, princess?”
The knife is an extension of my hand, balanced perfectly, honed to a razor edge. I’ve held knives since I was old enough to stand on a stool beside my nonna. They’re my tools, my livelihood, my art.
And once, they were my salvation.
“I scarred your father’s face when I was 12,” I say quietly. “The first time I picked up a knife in anger. Imagine what I’ll do to you after 23 years of practice.”
The laughter dies on his lips. His eyes go wide, then narrow, searching my face for any hint that what I just said was a lie. He won’t find it.
“What did you just say?”
