Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 91389 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 457(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91389 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 457(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
“Come on, baby,” he coaxes, fingers fucking me, two of them nice and thick and filling. “I want to taste it when you lose your mind. I want to taste you when you shatter on my fucking tongue.”
I’m done, I’m finished, I’m beyond all rational control, and when his tongue grazes my clit in glorious, back-breaking circles, I give him what he wants. I give him what I need. I come, vision tunneling, muscles trembling, like an explosion breaks in my core and every new stroke is utter ecstasy, until I can’t take it anymore.
He leans back as I sit there panting. I blink and try to focus. He’s looking at me like I’m a painting hanging on a gallery wall, like he’s having a religious moment or a spiritual experience. His hands stay on my knees, and I cover his hands with my own, and if it hurts his injured arm, he doesn’t show it.
“Wow,” I manage to say, which isn’t the most eloquent post-orgasm comment.
But his smile gets bigger. “You liked that.” Not a question. Not bragging. Just a statement of fact.
“Yes, Angelo, I really, really liked that.”
“Then baby, you are really, really a good girl.” He leans forward and kisses me.
And fuck, I smother his mouth, because I love being his good girl, especially if it means coming like that.
It doesn’t last forever. The glow, the intimacy. Eventually, I emerge from my little orgasm-cave and see the light of the world again. I get dressed and he watches me, and I fuss around the kitchen feeling awkward and a little embarrassed, because I haven’t gotten off like that with a man before—well, ever.
“Tomorrow,” he says, stopping me as I try to start loading our wine glasses into the dish washer.
“What about it?”
“I’ll see you tomorrow at Cage. You’re working.”
I think about Kayla and Serena in the bathroom. “Yeah, I’m working.”
“Good.” He leans in and kisses me. “I won’t do that again if you don’t want me to. I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable.”
“No, I mean, it’s okay.” I take a deep breath and let it out. A mafia guy making sure things are good after getting me off? This must be a first. “It’s been an emotionally taxing evening and I’m out of practice.”
“Then we’ll call it a night.” Another kiss. How can a man this big, this scary, be so damn gentle? “But I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Yeah, you will.” One last kiss. Do I want him to stay over? I’m not even sure what that would be like, and I don’t get the chance to find out. He walks to my front door and steps into the hall.
Then he’s gone. I’m alone again with a wildly satisfying ache between my legs and the lingering ghost of his kiss on my lips.
And the memory of Serena’s words in the bathroom seared onto my brain.
Chapter 18
Angelo
Ihuff in a pained hiss. “You said you were going to be gentle, you fucking malicious—”
Laura deadpans and smacks me upside the head. “If you don’t stop whining, I’m going to do some serious damage.” She bows her head toward my injured arm again, prodding at the stitches I put in myself. “This is awful. Truly terrible work. Why wouldn’t you get a doctor?”
I grimace as she jabs at a particularly ugly gash barely held together. “I don’t want Simon poking around my business. Besides, it’s fine, I learned how to do stitches on myself in prison.”
“Yeah, no kidding. I can tell.” She shakes her head and sits back. We’re in her living room and she looks extremely unhappy. “I need to fix a couple of these.”
“What? No, seriously—”
“You can either let me do it or I’m going to go ask the Famiglia’s doctor to come pay you a visit. And I’m sure you don’t want that.”
I lean my head back. Coming over here was a mistake and admitting to my injuries was even worse, but Laura doesn’t bullshit. This isn’t a threat: she’s just telling me what she’s going to do.
“I despise you, sister of mine.”
“Save the tears for the stitches, you big baby.” She hops up and walks off. I hear her banging around in her upstairs bathroom while I pour myself a massive whiskey. When she returns, she’s got a black bag filled with what look like torturer’s implements. Long, gleaming metal pincers, a sharp knife gleaming in the recessed lightning, a spool of medical-grade thread. I eye them, dubious.
“Are you sure that’s clean?”
“You’re an idiot.”
I slam back my whiskey as she gets to work. Taking out my makeshift medical care isn’t all that bad. Just some tugging, a little bit of blood, but I’ve healed enough that the wound doesn’t immediately break apart again.
The stitches are worse, but bearable. Laura’s hands are sure and she makes quick work of me while I drink and glare at the far wall, remaining absolutely still for her.