Page 67 of Revenge on the Mafia

“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.”

His lack of control was my undoing. I flew into a frenzy of movement. Slid his zipper down. But I must have been too slow for his liking because he shoved my hand off. Then he yanked his boxer briefs down and pulled his erection out. He didn’t even give me a proper look before he pulled me up and pushed me down on him.

I groaned. Goosebumps erupted all over my skin. “Dios mío… qué grande…” My insides were splitting, aching at the size of him.

He made a sound of pain. I pulled my gaze from where we’d joined to his. He was gritting his teeth, watching how I’d taken him through half-lidded eyes. His jaw ticked. His body was captured with tension. His hand on my hip trembled. I whimpered. Arched. Tested him by rocking my hips.

He gripped my hips tight. Nails biting into my skin. Muttered something in Italian. It sounded like he cursed his ancestors to hell and back.

I jiggled my breasts. He groaned. “You asked for it,” he growled. Then he lifted off the chair, carrying me with him like I was nothing but air. I landed on my back on the sofa with him still inside me. I barely got a hold of the back of it before he caged me with his knees on either side of me.

He rocked once and hissed. “So fucking tight.”

Then he fucked. Oh, Dios mío, the man knew how to fuck. He thrust in and out of me like he couldn’t fuck me deep enough. Like he wanted to break me and cherish me at the same time. I saw stars. I saw colors that didn’t exist. He ruined me, entirely. Something scraped, and I was pretty sure it was the sofa moving. I lost my sense of reality. I couldn’t keep the lid on the pressure building inside me. He handled me like I was made for him. The heat of his hands, the strength in them, the fire in his eyes, the helpless groan spilling from his mouth. Just like that, I was done, bursting into a million pieces. His hips faltered. A scream echoed in the room, and I knew it had come from me. I didn’t even have the energy to feel embarrassed about it. It spurred him on because he fucked me harder. Deeper. Then, with one last thrust, he finally, finally lost his control. His entire body jerked before he spilled inside me with a harsh grunt.

We were a mixture of sweat and heated breaths. My pulse still pounded like the wild ocean in my ears. I struggled to regain some kind of control, any kind, after losing it entirely. Taking a breath felt like pushing against a pressure lid.

What have I done?

The harsh realization hit me like the thud of a brick slamming into me. I went completely still. Stopped breathing. I’d not only allowed him to fuck me… I’d fucked him… and liked it… My eyes burned. I squeezed them shut. I’d even begged him… my father’s murderer. Guilt burned in my chest. I’d wanted to test his control, but I’d lost mine entirely. Wetness touched my cheeks. I’d let him win again.

His thumb trailed my tears. It was as harsh as sandpaper. When he leaned closer, I shrank away. But only his words touched me. An icy shiver ran all the way to the ends of my toes. “Seven hundred and twenty-six.”

My thoughts muddled. I fought to find the meaning. Then I understood. He was giving me a countdown. For some reason, that only made my heart feel heavier.

Así, sin más... se usó mi cuerpo. Peor aún, se lo permití. Perdóname, Papá.

Just like that... he took my body. Worse, I allowed him to. Forgive me, Papá.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

NICO

I’d miscalculated this entire thing. Defined parameters. A fixed timeline. A controlled outcome. It should have worked. But somewhere between losing myself in her and bringing her to bed, I’d discovered the gaping hole in my strategy. Once or thirty fucking times wasn’t enough when I wanted a hundred thousand nights. I’d followed the model exactly. Except I’d forgotten one equation in it. Every time I had her, I had to reward her. Each fucking reward would bring her closer to the truth. I may not have pulled the trigger, but I was the sole reason her father ended up dead. Not a miscalculation. Not a shipment gone wrong. Me.

The day she learned that, her hatred for me would consume her. She’d never forgive me for his death, but when she knew I was the cause of it… she’d never forgive me for the lost years and memories.

So I’d done the only thing I could do. I’d left her behind and put an entire ocean between us. I couldn’t be near her without wanting her. To have her hands on me. To have mine on her. Fuck. Three thousand six hundred miles in between, and I could still smell her. Taste her. Feel her. Hear her fucking moans when she’d come with the touch of my hands on her breasts.

I’d held on for four fucking days. What was she doing… was she sleeping in my bed where I’d left her… did she sleep naked? Did she think of me? Did she… Christ… I couldn’t handle the pressure in my chest. Like a fucking drug addict, I succumbed to my weakness. One hundred and twelve hours later, I was back.

Jesus. I was a fucking mess.

And as if she knew it, as if the scent of my failing had carried to her… she came prowling for the kill. The thought entered my mind that it might be easier to yield to a cardiac arrest than acknowledge her presence hovering in the doorway of my office. My gaze lingered for far too long on the two-euro coin I spun mindlessly on my desk. I knew with certainty that if I looked up, I wouldn’t survive her. It was bad enough that my memory was seized with the vision of her. Her breaths, her moans. The way she had fucking tasted. I had to fight the urge to run my tongue over my lips to relive that particular flavor. The coin rattled and fell onto the desk. The sound of metal rang in the room like an alarm bell. It was suffocating.

But she remained, refusing to take the hint. I forced my gaze up, nasty words hovering on my lips. They left me with a hiss of my breath.

Jesus.

She was wearing one of my shirts.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Naked legs. Messy curls. A challenge in her eyes.

I wanted to tie her up, put her in a garbage bag, and throw her to the North Pole.

She took a step forward.