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I grunted, an involuntary sound, and tried to reach up to kiss him, but he moved so his nose touched mine while he twisted and squeezed my clit.
“I should punish you for trying to run off.”
He reached down and bite-kissed my lower lip.
“You won’t,” I said, closing my eyes as he squeezed harder. “Fuck.”
“You like that?”
I curled my hand around the back of his neck and looked up at him, watching him watch me, knowing my vulnerability, knowing he saw it, the fact making me hotter. “Fuck, I’m going to come.”
And beneath his gaze, I did, his fingers working as I panted and moaned, knees giving way so that he had to keep me upright, the orgasm quick after what we’d just done, and when he released my clit, I cried out, my eyes flying open to watch him lift me up only to impale me on his thick shaft.
It seemed the only word I could say was fuck again and again and again. Dominic chuckled, but his face grew serious as he took both of my wrists up over my head and brought his mouth to mine, his eyes wide open, fucking me harder, faster, until we both cried out with the release, my third, his second, the walls of my pussy clenching around the throbbing of his cock before he pulled out, again covering me with his cum.
I don’t remember the rest of the shower. All I know is that by the time he tucked me into his bed and climbed in beside me, I was half gone, exhausted, thoroughly spent and empty. And when he turned to wrap his body around mine, I drifted off to the deepest, most restful sleep I’d ever had.When I woke the next morning, Dominic was already gone. I got out of bed, shamefaced at the soreness between my legs, the memory of the previous night at once humiliating and arousing.
I’d wanted him. I’d wanted every inch of him. And I’d had it.
I picked up the clothes I’d worn on my getaway attempt—which had almost succeeded—and crept out the door and down the hallway to my bedroom. Mine at least for the moment. I chose clothes out of Lucia’s closet, thanking my lucky stars she and I were similar in size so most things fit well enough. It felt weird wearing a stranger’s underwear, but I did anyway. After choosing today’s outfit, I went into the bathroom to dress. I wanted to check how the brand was healing, since the scabs had started to peel off.
Standing at the mirror, I turned to my side and looked at my hip, picking at the crusted, raised skin, hating the mark, this permanent brand Victor had burned into me. It would remind me always of that night. Of his power over me. I knew it was stupid to think of it as weakness. Me alone against him and several of his men? I’d had no chance. I’d fought anyway, though, knowing I’d lose. Knowing I’d pay. That’s what had earned me all the bruises, which were mostly faded by now. Victor was a bully. A thug. But it didn’t mean I didn’t feel shame every time I looked at the damned brand.
It was a circle containing what appeared to be a family crest maybe. I half expected it to be the Scava family crest, actually, and was surprised when it wasn’t. I knew their symbol. It had been on a necklace James had given me after we’d been dating for a month. This wasn’t it.
A B stood at the center of this mark, large and decorative. Spears protected that B and the Famiglia beneath. A lion’s mane acted as backdrop and anchor of the design.
I leaned down to have a closer look, confused. What the hell kind of mark was this?
Would Dominic know? He seemed to know a lot about the mafia world. He’d called it “our world.” He was an insider. I had assumed a foot soldier at first, then maybe a mercenary later, after I had gotten to know him a little more. He’d know what it was.
“Gia?” Dominic called out sharply from the bedroom.
I startled, grabbing a nearby towel and holding it up against me when he came into the bathroom, fully dressed in jeans and a tight-fitting, black-cashmere sweater. My eyes fell to the edges of the tattoo the V-neck left exposed. He stopped when he saw me, his blue-gray gaze sliding over me then rising to meet mine.
“What?” I asked once I could get my voice to work. I sounded annoyed, like him. It was an act, though. Was it an act for him? Did he act tough and cruel when he wasn’t?
No. It would be a stupid mistake to think that.
“I want to go,” he said, walking inside. He stopped, and it seemed to me he had to force himself to keep his gaze on mine even though he wanted to act like he didn’t give a damn. Like he was unaffected. I knew he felt it too, this insane physical pull charged and sparking like a live wire between us.
