Something hot and hard pokes against me down there. It feels much thicker than his two fingers. I remember how large it looked in the shower. I don’t think the glass door was messing with my perception either.
“Nico?” I whimper, shifting beneath him.
“Have you changed your mind?”
“Could you stop if I said so? If a man is this close to-”
“A man can always stop,tesoro.” He kisses my forehead tenderly. “One word from you, and no matter what I’m doing, I will stop.”
Drawing comfort and courage from those words, I whisper, “Don’t stop.”
His hips thrust forward, and he pushes his way inside me. The air leaves my lungs with the invasion, and I grip his shoulders tightly. “Goddamn, you’re tight,” he huffs, sounding pained. I mumble gibberish in response. “Try to relax. Loosen your muscles if you can.” I nod, knowing I can’t do either thing and wondering if he can even see the nod in the dark. “Do you want me to eat you again?”
What he did in the bathroom was fantastic, but this is too new and uncomfortable for me to relax. “No.”
“If you prefer, I can finish quickly.”
I have no idea what I prefer yet but getting this over with sounds preferable at the moment, so I nod again.
He moves his hips back and forth, an advance and retreat, almost like a dance. Slowly at first but picking up speed. Then, he slips his arms under my shoulders, holding me closer. Hot and dirty whispers in my ear with his body covering mine. I focus on his masculine scentand the feel of his muscled shoulders, biting back another whimper when he moves faster.
But the immediate discomfort soon fades, and there’s something lyrical in this joining. I hoped I might like it. Now, I believe I could come to love it with some practice. I wish that he would kiss me, but his breaths grow quicker. Instinct tells me he’s close to his own precipice. The sensation of fullness reaches its climax when he grunts suddenly. I don’t join him in the leap, but I’m full of effervescent bubbles, like a glass of champagne, with the final few pumps of his hips.
After, he rolls off me, catching his breath. In the shadows, I see him fiddling with the condom, and my belly flips in a funny way when he stands. The light in the bathroom comes on, and I hear the faucet running. I frown. Is that it? No final kiss, no sweet words?
But he returns a couple of minutes later with a warm washcloth. He slipped on a pair of underwear while he was away. “Here,” he murmurs, pressing the healing heat to my tender pussy. “There’s some blood. Would you like to shower?”
I shake my head, too stunned by it all to move. He carefully cleans me before pulling the covers up to my chin. Then, he strokes my cheek. I press my face into his palm, craving a smidgeon of affection. He draws his hand away, making my heart wince.
“Your sister and the children will be here early tomorrow, and I have a meeting with Vicini and some of the underbosses before they leave town. We should get some sleep.”
I want to protest. I want to talk, to touch, to understand this man fully. But it’s been a very long day, and just like all the other possibilities in our marriage, we have time to figure things out.
26
Matilde
Only the morning sun filtering in and the painting above the headboard greets me when I wake in his bed that feels too big.Sorrow’s Cascade.Tumbling waters over jagged rocks, treacherous and lonely.
While showering, I trace the mark his mouth left on my neck and fantasize about my husband walking in at any moment, gruffly saying he’s hungry for another taste of his bride.
He doesn’t walk in.
I braid my hair and sift through my clothes, looking for something suitably chic for a Capo’s wife to wear. Settling on a burgundy angora sweater and blue jeans, I go in search of Nico, wincing as I descend the stairs. I’m sore from last night, yet the memory of his powerful body covering mine has tendrils of heat piercing my belly.
The clatter of pots in the kitchen lures me in that direction as Nico doesn’t have a full-time staff. But when I push through the swinging door, the cook is there with two men and a woman I’ve never met.
“Good morning, Mrs. Morelli,” the cook says, affably. How odd it feels being called that.
“Good morning, Nunzia. Please continue calling me Matilde,” I reply, wondering why she’s here so early. Past fifty with dark gray hair and features softened by many laugh lines, she usually drops by twice a week to meal prep for Nico unless he’s hosting a dinner.
“This is Ersilia, the housekeeper.” Nunzia motions to the woman standing across from her.
Unlike the cook, Ersilia is tall and her features are sharp. She wears her long white hair in a bun so tight it gives me a headache just looking at it. She notes the love bite on my neck with a prudish frown that reminds me of my stepmother before briskly dipping her head in greeting.
“I did not know Mr. Morelli had a housekeeper.”
“I was here before when he was married to the first Mrs. Morelli,” Ersilia informs me. “The master says I’m to help you with the children. What is their schedule? What time would you like them up and dressed every morning?
