“You’re not gonna keep her around forever,” he wheedles. “Let’s make a deal for when the time comes. I’ll take care of her, you know.”
Take care of her?What the hell does that mean? Does it mean what I think it means, or—
“Okay, okay. I’ll entertain your offer. What kind of deal we talking?” my husband says.
My gut sinks with dread. Is Armani actually contemplating this? Loaning me out like he’s some kind of pimp? Is that what he did with his ex-girlfriends?
Or is he just pretending to consider it to be diplomatic? I know as well as anyone that maintaining good relations with mafia people requires a person to step lightly. But what if Armani is serious?
“Ahh, you see!” the other man crows. “I knew you were a man of sense!”
The eagerness in his voice makes me want to vomit. My hands are shaking, the remainder of my Long Island sloshing in its glass.
Trying not to look too obvious, I glance across the room at the men’s table trying to figure out which one Armani is talking to. But before I can figure it out, the man with the scar calls the other women over to the men’s table. They obey eagerly, each of them finding someone to drape over. Esme, of course, wastes no time settling herself on Armani’s leg again.
“Candi! Come here,” he says, whipping his head over his shoulder to look at me.
Slowly, I walk toward him, my drink held tight in my hand. I’m tempted to throw it in his face, or dump it down Esme’s dress. Instead, I stop a few feet away and give him an icy glare.
“Do you need something?” I ask coolly.
“No. But this part of the meeting isn’t for your eyes, so you’d better go to your room,” he says.
There’s a derisive chuckle from the men around the table.
Armani grins easily and adds, “Unless you want to join in?”
Fuck no. No, I do not wish to take part in a gangbang on my honeymoon.
A few of the girls giggle, all of them watching me stand there silently, my rage simmering. I ignore their gazes, ignore Armani’s invitation, and stalk up the stairs to the main deck in a hot fury. The sound of laughter follows me as I go.
7
CANDI
The mattress sinkswith the weight of Armani dropping onto the bed next to me.
The room is dark, so I can’t see his face, but the scent of his cologne gives him away. A rush of power surges through me, because he came to me after all. He may have talked a big game around his associates, but when it came down to it, he left those other women in the dust. I roll over and look up at him, glad I wore my lacy new babydoll nightie and matching thong to bed.
Suddenly, his lips are on me, kissing me everywhere. My neck, my lips, my breasts. His hands run over me, easily removing my underwear with one rough tug before pushing up my nightdress and whisking it over my head. He positions his body over mine and then takes his time swirling his tongue around each of my nipples, pulling with hard little zings exactly the way I like. My whole body is instantly awake, my desire rising hot and fierce. Opening my legs, I welcome his hand as he gives my pussy a firm squeeze, knowing exactly how to use his thumb to circle my clit.
“So wet for me already?” he teases, and then he plunges his fingers inside me.
I buck to meet the thrust, urging him on, softly begging for more, which he delivers like the expert he is. Breathless with want, I grapple with his clothing, clawing at the buttons of his shirt, but he fends me off, grabbing my wrists with his free hand and pinning them over my head. I struggle against his grip, but it’s mostly for show. There’s no place I’d rather be than right where I am.
“Tsk, tsk. Not so fast,” he growls.
His fingers pump into me harder, deeper, and it’s so delicious I just relax against the pillow and give in to him. Closing my eyes, moaning softly, I trace my bare foot across his thigh. Slowly, I inch my way toward his crotch until my toes make contact through the fabric of his pants. His cock is hard, standing straight up and straining at his zipper. Mmm. Exactly what I wanted.
“So hard for me already?” I tease back, using the sole of my foot to stroke his erection.
He presses himself into the bottom of my foot, but remains where he is, doggedly working between my legs until I feel the first stirring of an orgasm start to take hold. In this moment, it’s easy to forget that I’m angry with him, forget how he treated me in front of his friends. In fact I forget everything except the flutter of excitement in my lower belly, the hot pulse at my core, how good my husband is with his hands. Besides, he owes me for leaving me high and dry in the fitting room at that boutique. I’m simply collecting what I’m due. I can be mad at him again afterward.
The pleasure builds stronger and higher, the buzz inside me heightening with every finger thrust. I’m so wet I can feel the fluid leaking out of me, my whole body strung tight as the sweet tension increases, the pump and glide of Armani’s expert fingers pushing me closer by the second. He finally lets my wrists go and pushes my foot off his crotch, repositioning himself over me so he can wrap one hand around my throat while his other hand continues to fuck me.
He chokes me lightly, constricting my airway just enough to flood my nerve endings with a fresh wave of adrenaline and arousal. I’m close—so close. But I don’t want to come like this. I want to come around his cock in hard, clenching waves, hear the sound of his groans as he releases inside me.
I reach for him again, grabbing his shirt, pulling him toward me. He doesn’t budge. Groaning in frustration, I pull harder, growing confused as the fabric fills my hands while Armani only seems to move further away from me. I grapple with his shirt, tugging and tugging, but it settles over my head like a sheet and then Armani is gone. I thrash against the fabric covering me, losing the golden thread of my approaching orgasm as I snap awake, tangled up in the bedsheets I’m sleeping in all by myself.
