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Fucking gross.
I only pull my eyes away to drain the last of my glass and reach for the bottle, topping my flute right back up again.
Massimo laughs coldly. “Ahh yes, my lovely wife the drunk,” he sneers. “Planning on floating to bed later, dear?”
I don’t respond. I’ve learned not to communicate with him when he tries to goad me into banter during one of these sessions. He wants me to talk back. He wants me to vocalize how much I hate this.
So I don’t.
It might be a pathetically small act of disobedience. But I consider it a win nonetheless.
Massimo grunts, his ass lifting from his chair as he continues fucking the girl’s mouth.
“Try not to get too fucked up, wife,” he snarls. “We have an early morning tomorrow.”
Mild curiosity ripples through me. But not enough that I’ll break my silence and ask him what that means, or what the hell we’re doing. Mostly because it doesn’t matter, and I don’t care.
We all do things we don’t want to do when we have to. It’s one of the reasons I can sympathize with the woman Massimo is using in front of me. I mean, sure, maybe this girl is doing exactly what she wants with her life. Maybe she woke up one morning and realized her superpower was not having a gag reflex or being bothered by blowing mafiosos with huge egos and tiny dicks, and decided she could make a living with that.
But I doubt it.
The far more likely scenario is that this girl is merely doing what she has to in order to survive. Like I am. Again, mercifully, the things I have to do to survive don’t involve touching Massimo.
But they do involve being married to him. They involve being a part of his demented world and giving up whatever dreams I had left for my own life.
I take another heavy swig of champagne, trying to block out the sounds of Massimo’s approaching…ugh…climax. Whatever the hell we’re doing tomorrow, I’ll get through it the same way I get through everything: by retreating inward, smiling bitterly, and numbing everything with a drink or five.
“That’s your last fucking glass,” Massimo snaps at me, ripping my attention back to him. “I don’t want you walking into the Crown and Black offices tomorrow looking like hungover trash.”
Something glitches inside of me. My entire body stiffens, and the sip of champagne rolling over my tongue gets caught in my throat.
“What?”
Massimo’s gaze is all on the girl between his knees as his pace quickens to a manic level. “I’m…” he grunts. “I’m interviewing new potential legal representation tomorrow. Crown and Black.” He grunts again before his eyes raise to mine. “You went to school with two of the partners, I think. Gabriel and Alistair Black.”
A knife twists inside me. A vicious wave of nostalgia, pain, ache, and anger surges through me, knocking the air from my lungs. My head feels droopy, like it’s suddenly too heavy for my neck.
My hand drops to clutch at my heaving stomach as I stare at Massimo.
Gabriel Black can be classified as “someone I went to school with.”
But Alistair?
That’s something completely different. Something elemental. Something ingrained into my very DNA. Something painful, like a wound being ripped back open just as it’s healing, over and over.
Something I’ll never be able to forget, or escape.
I don’t realize I’m still staring at Massimo until I realize he’s groaning and wildly thrusting his hips. His eyes lock with mine, and I see the sadistic glee in them as he starts to come before I rip my gaze angrily away.
My pulse thudding. My skin tingling.
My heart aching.
“Oh, fuck yeah. Take it. Take it all, bitch,” Massimo snarls. “Swallow it. Yeah, fuck yeah.”
Revulsion washes over me, sweeping away the confusion, the ache, and the vivid memories that come whenever Alistair Black enters my thoughts. But after Massimo’s grunts and groans die down, those thoughts come rushing back with a vengeance.
They always do, no matter how hard I try to keep them at bay.
