The word hits me like a shot of warmth down my spine, radiating through my limbs, straight to my cunt. With a desperate moan, I come hard around his cock, crying out his name as I shatter. I’m barely aware that he’s carried me over to the bed until I realize I’m on my back, the duvet soft beneath me, Armani positioning himself over my body.
“Mine,” he says again.
He moves closer, bringing his dick to my mouth. Gripping him, still awash in the aftershock of my climax, I open up eagerly, tasting myself as I deep throat him to the base. He rocks against me, taking his pleasure from my lips. He grips the headboard for support as he gently fucks my mouth, groaning as I lick and suck at him until he swells, the fat tip filling my mouth. Pulling out, he rocks back on his knees and I wait for him to spill hot cum all over me. But he isn’t finished with me yet.
Instead of finishing, he lifts my legs high, resting my ankles on his shoulders, then leans forward and drives back into me. I cry out at the impact, the friction of his thrusts reawakening my still-sensitive nerves. Hands fisting the blankets, I meet him thrust for thrust, our eyes connecting as he lets himself go, moaning with pleasure as he pounds hard and rough.
“Armani!”
I cry his name as I come again, harder this time, faster. With one last groan, he spills into me, following it with three more hard thrusts until he collapses next to me on the bed. My vision blurs as I come down, trying to slow my breathing.
My thighs ache, and I’m pretty sure they’re bruised from his hips. I’m going to feel this tomorrow. I can already tell.
Armani moves onto his side and puts an arm around me. “Will you stay?”
He sounds disinterested, but I know it must be an act. Because him asking me the question at all means he’s hoping I won’t leave. And I won’t.
Not until I find out exactly what he’s up to.
Sighing contentedly, I snuggle against him. “Yes.”
His eyes close and I think he dozes off. It doesn’t last though, as the air cools over our bodies and he suddenly stirs and sits up.
“Should we raid the kitchen?” he whispers, sounding for all the world like a little boy.
I laugh. “Isn’t it a little late for dinner?”
“That’s why they call it a midnight snack. I’m starving. You took everything out of me.”
“In that case, we’d better fix that.”
He slips into a pair of grey sweatpants and waits for me to throw on a tank top and shorts before we head downstairs. But I can’t stop thinking about the cellar. The damn cellar. Going down there really did a number on my mind.
I don’t know enough about Armani, or the rest of the Bellantis, really. I know the basics of their wine business, but not the nuts and bolts of it. Maybe I’m not getting good information because I haven’t asked the right questions. Maybe I need to ask Armani to teach me more about the behind-the-scenes of the business, encourage him to let me in a little more. How can I learn how their wheels turn when I barely see the wheels in motion?
When we get to the kitchen, Armani forgoes the lights and instead sets up a candelabra with real candles on the island. Gallantly pulling out a stool for me, he pours me a glass of Moscato and then quickly puts together a plate of various fancy cheeses, crackers, fig jam and roasted almonds, sopressata, and prosciutto with sliced melon.
He pours himself a glass of the wine and then settles onto the stool next to mine.
“Salute.”
We toast, and then attack the goodies. He watches me as he eats. I try not to let my paranoia show. I still have the nagging fear that he somehow knows I was in the cellar earlier.
“So how was your day?” he asks. “What’d you do?”
Is this Armani Bellanti getting all domestic on me? Or is this an interrogation? I’m so flustered I almost freeze in the middle of taking a bite of cracker, but I quickly recover.
“Not much. Worked on some purchase orders, chatted with a few new distribution leads. Talked to Frankie for a while. Nothing much after that.”
He chews thoughtfully, then asks, “So what prompted you to pack your bags? You acted like you’d seen a ghost.”
Shit. Shit, shit, shitty-shit.
This is where things get tricky for me. I’m not a good liar and if put under extreme pressure, I’ll probably crack. It wouldn’t take much for him to muscle the truth out of me, probably the same way he or one of his men muscled the blood out of whoever was in that chair.
“Well, um, I guess talking to Frankie made me think a lot more about, you know, all the things that have happened to your family over the last few months,” I babble. “It’s scarier now that I’m sort of a part of it all. Even temporarily. Being here puts a target on my back, too.”
Thing is, I didn’t talk to Frankie about anything of any importance. She’d easily verify that if Armani asked her about our conversation, so I continue to weave with the thread I started.
