I look past his stunned expression and instead take in his broad, strong shoulders adorned with black and grey ink that peak through his tank top. There is ink splashed all over his body that it is difficult to decipher where one tattoo ends, and another begins.
“Ah, Sienna, I wasn’t expecting you yet,” he says as he outstretches his arm on the wood trim that surrounds the doorway.
Once again distracted by the murals of ink on his skin, I swallow hard trying to remind myself of what I came here to do.
“I know. I figured I would take you up on that offer for a drink sooner than we discussed. I’m feeling rather thirsty this evening,” I say flirtatiously.
He grins, immediately picking up on the vibe I am throwing his way.
“Sounds good to me, please come in” he says motioning for me to enter.
I walk through the doorway and stand in the dimly lit foyer as he locks the door behind us. Following his lead, we make our way in silence to the study toward the back of the brownstone.
“I’ll make you a drink to enjoy while I finish getting dressed” he says about to head to the bar cart when I reach my hand out, stopping him.
“What’s the point?” I say as I bring my index finger to the exposed skin on his forearm. I know I’m putting the charm on heavy with the intention of getting him going, but as my skin is touching his, I feel the effects start to work their way through my center instead.
He looks at me with a ravenous grin. This is going to be a lot harder than I anticipated. “Very well, Ms. Ricci. What will you be drinking this evening?”
“I’ll have a Manhattan.”
He nods, surprised that I deviated from my usual drink order. Honestly, I wasn’t even in the mood for a Manhattan, whiskey is not my favorite but it’s the first drink that came to mind. It’s like my subconscious wanted me to honor Leo in some weird way, considering that I came here with the intention of confronting his killer. Leo’s Titi Rose always made herself a Manhattan to relax in the evening and she would make him one from time to time. Manhattans became his favorite drink because compared to the cheap Coors we would drink at parties; it was a welcomed change. Tonight, honoring him with his once favorite drink feels fitting.
“Manhattan, interesting choice. You continue to surprise me,” Carmine says, and for some reason, he looks uneasy.
“I guess I’m full of surprises; what can I say? Truth be told, I’m not much of a whiskey drinker, but it was a good friend of mine’s go-to drink.”
“I see,” he says with palpable apprehension.
He hands me the drink. “I will be right back.” I walk toward him, grabbing the loops on his pants. “Like I said, what’s the point in getting dressed?” I repeat myself.
Anger surges through his perfectly sculpted face as he takes my hand, spinning me around and forcing my freshly made drink to the floor. In a swift rush, he pins me against the bookcase, forcing multiple books to fall from its shelves. Still pinning down my hand, he takes his hand and works his way between my legs. Panic sets in, not wanting him to see my gun, but thankfully his hand travels to my other thigh.
“Someone is horny tonight,” he says as he curls two fingers inside of me, working them in and out at a slow torturous pace.
As his rough hands enter me, I feel myself starting to drip onto his fingers.
“Now, tell me, what’s a pretty girl like you doing with this?”
Before I could even answer him, he pulls the gun from my garter as he moves his fingers faster. He brings the gun to my temple as he continues to fiercely fuck me with his fingers.
“What’s the matter, Sen? Suddenly speechless,mi reina?”
The way “queen” in Spanish rolls off his tongue as he whispers it in my ear is enough to bring me to release at this very moment.
“Stop calling me that,” I say in between panting.
“What, Sen orreina?” he grunts.
“Both, I don’t know, just stop.” I say flustered, as anger and arousal battle each other inside of me.
“Why?” he presses. “Say it!” he demands once more.
“Because he called me that.” I admit, feeling a tinge of defeat knocking at my heart.
“Who called you that?” he roars, as he continues to press me for answers that I don’t want to give him. This is a sick game he is playing; I should give into the anger I feel and stop him. Though the way his fingers feel inside of me is clouding my judgement.
Before I can answer, he continues working my center as he brings me to an explosive end. My walls tighten around his fingers as the aftershock of my release courses through my body.
