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I should turn away from life itself… Except, that’s not what Xander would have wanted. It’s for him that I will continue living… Doesn’t mean I have to let myself feel, though. It’s for him that I will support my family and help Michael consolidate his position as the new Don of theCosa Nostra.
Michael killed our father… Too bad I never had the opportunity to do so. I should feel some level of satisfaction, considering it was our father who was behind rigging the car, the reason that Xander had died, but all I feel is a numbness. Like I’m not in my body. Like nothing else matters except trying to get through life. Trying to swallow down the grief that threatens to overwhelm my every waking moment. And her… How dare she try to infiltrate the nothingness that I have surrounded myself with since Xander died? Why is it that thoughts of her occupy my mind when I should have only enough space to mourn Xander?
"And if I don’t?" She tips up her chin. "What if I disagree?"
I move so fast that she flinches. I wrap my fingers around her throat and haul her up to her toes. "If you value the life of your family then you'll do as I say." I tighten my grasp, "Besides, I don’t recall giving you a choice, Flower."
She swallows, and I feel the movement against my fingers. Such a slender throat. How would it feel to have my cock sliding down it, hmm?
I tighten my grip, and the color fades from her cheeks. A soft sound emerges from her mouth. She parts her lips, and I take in her flushed features, the contours of her pouty lower lip, and my balls throb. Fuck this, why the hell should I deny myself when I’m going to marry her anyway? Only temporarily, of course. Still… Soon, she will be my wife, and I’m going to take full advantage of it. I pull her even closer until her breasts are flush against my chest, then I lower my mouth to hers.
4
Aurora
He fits his mouth over mine, and he takes and takes. His kiss is exactly what I’d expect from a macho, chauvinist pig like him. He thrusts his tongue between my lips and swirls it against mine. His fingers around my throat tighten. He grips my hip, fits me in the cradle of his thighs, and his thick, hard cock stabs into my core. My belly trembles, my nipples harden into pebbles, my belly flip-flops, and What the hell?
I shouldn’t get turned on. Why am I turned on by his rough handling? I don’t feel anything for him. I don’t want his hands on me, and yet, I can’t stop myself from responding to how he expertly swipes his tongue across the seam of my lower lip, over my teeth, how he drinks from me as if he’s trying to suck down the very essence of me, consume me, possess me, ravish me—claim me…
"No." I try to pull away, but his grasp on my hip tightens. Surely, I’m going to bruise there? I slap against his shoulder, and he widens his stance. He yanks me even closer to him until it seems like every part of me is pinned to him, connected to him, reliant on him, already. My pussy clenches, and moisture laces my core. Heat flushes my skin, and I know I have to pull away from him. If I don’t, I’ll lose myself in his dominance, his mastery, his ability to play my body like a musical instrument. A piano whose keys he’ll caress, and strike, and hammer at until it plays the tune he wants. And I’m not going to do that. No way.
I bring down my foot on his boot. I’m only wearing wedges, but it must hurt a little, for he grunts. His grip loosens, but before I can pull away, his lips soften. He stares into my eyes, and in the depths of his, I see something flare. Something hot, something needy… Something almost helpless and vulnerable… Vulnerable? Hah! There’s nothing weak about this man; not in how he holds me, or in how the powerful columns of his thighs bracket mine, or how he rubs his thumb across my throat in slow circles. Goose bumps pop on my skin. I draw in a shuddering breath, and my breasts push further into the hard planes of his chest. It’s as if every sculpted ridge of those unyielding pecs is imprinted into my skin.
He pulls back, still holding my gaze, his mouth so close to mine that we share breath. Untouching. He simply stares into my eyes, his own even darker, somehow blacker, a shiny polished mirror in which I can see myself. The skin across his cheekbones stretches tight, and there’s a furrow between his eyebrows, as if he’s somehow confused by what just happened. His eyes, somehow, reflect some of the confusion I’m feeling. I reach up to touch his cheek, and he flinches. His lips firm and his jaw tics. He releases me so quickly that I stumble. But he doesn’t right me. He puts distance between us, and I manage to steady myself.
My lips throb, and I can’t stop myself from taking in his mouth, a mouth that I know now could bring me to dizzying heights of pleasure. Too bad they are attached to a man who is part of an institution I abhor. An organization I plan to break away from as soon as possible. I’ll do anything to get my freedom, including pretending to be his wife.
"Fine," I say in a low voice, "I’ll do it."
"If all it took was a kiss to get you to agree, then I wonder what else you’ll submit to when I have you completely."
"I won’t."
"Oh?" Something glints in the depths of his eyes. "You sure about that?"
Oh, hell, the last thing I need is for him to see me as a challenge. Still, I can’t stop myself from tipping my chin in defiance. "Absolutely."
"We’ll see." He raises a shoulder. "Not that it matters to me either way. There are enough women out there who’ll willingly spread their legs for me."
"So why choose me for this…this farce?"
"Because you owe me." He dusts his sleeves as if he’s wiping the feel of me off of himself. "Thirty days, Flower. For thirty days, you’ll do as I say."
I pivot, switch off the flame under the Bialetti, then scowl at him over my shoulder. "I agreed to be your fake wife, not your slave."
His lips kick up. "Those are my terms, sweetheart. Take it or leave it."
"Jerk." I turn on him. "What else do you expect from me during this time?" I curl my fingers at my sides. "You may as well lay it all out now."
"We’ll be married in a proper wedding in church—"
"What?" I stare at him in horror. "No, no, no, no, no. I agreed to pose as your fake wife—"
"The imperative word there is 'wife.'"
"I did not agree to marry you in a church ceremony," I protest.
"The only way for this to work is if the rest of my family buys into the story."
