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The later into the evening we get, the more into the drink Effie gets. She’s on her third martini and I am quickly realizing she is a lusty drunk. She’s well in control of her senses, only a touch past tipsy, but her eyes as well as her hands keep roaming.
My blood is on fucking fire with every graze of her fingertips against my thigh or up my arm. My jaw aches from clenching it so tight in restraint. She makes it look like they are accidental touches but the heady look in her eyes after is a dead giveaway.
We’re seated at the table, just the two of us. The rest of her family is mingling while everyone waits for the auction to begin. This particular one is infamous for being a battle of the riches. People drop obscene amounts of money on things not nearly worth it, just to be seen doing it. It’s a multi-million-dollar dick swinging contest.
She idly plays with poker chips left on the table from a previous game while I drum on the rim of my drink. Her eyes catch on the movement. “You have nice hands.”
“Thank you?” I cock a brow at her.
“They would look good around my throat,” she says hushed over her glass as she takes another sip.
“Jesus Christ, Ef…” I breathe.
“You’ve told me plenty of times where my hands would look good. I’m just returning the sentiment.” Her pink tongue darts out and wets her lip as she gazes up at me. “Do you not agree?”
“I—”
“She totally got a boob job,” Renzo plops down across from me.
“No, she’s always had massive tits,” says Gianni as he also sits.
“Who are you talking about?” Effie asks her brothers.
“Marcella DeGrossi,” they answer at the same time.
She leans back in her chair and smirks. “You’re both wrong.”
“No, I’m not—
“How do you know—”Are these fuckers capable of speaking one at a time?
“She’s pregnant. And I know you both have fucked her…” She wiggles her eyebrows and both brothers’ jaws fall open. They exchange curious and amused glances, and then Effie bursts out in laughter. “Jesus, you two are so fucking gullible.”
The three of them heckle back and forth, and I tune them out, instead watching the light in Effie’s face, the brightness of her smile. Being able to witness her like this, without the weight of stress or fear, is a fucking gift.
Their debate on Miss DeGrossi’s boobs is cut short when the MC announces the start of the auction. Numbered paddles are distributed along with a pamphlet on the night’s items.1Effie twirls the toothpick from her olives between her teeth, giving me a look that sends blood straight to my cock. She proceeds to wrap her lips around an olive and pull it off with her teeth. Then has the audacity to pretend she has no idea what she’s doing, looks at me innocently, mouthing, “What?”
The auction begins, and I’m having trouble focusing on anything other than the rise and fall of her chest against the brilliant green of her dress. Tension crackles between us like we are both waiting for the other to strike. I’m finely attuned to each subtle shift of her seat or tightening of her lips that tell me she is still feeling my gift. I could watch her all fucking night and still find things that mesmerize me.
Strands of her neatly styled hair have fallen loose, and I idly twist one around my finger. I brush my thumb across the tiny scars by her eye. She blinks at me, her eyes rich and moody like whiskey. I bracket my hand around the back of her neck and tug her to me, kissing the scars and breathing into her flushed skin. “I can’t believe you’re my wife.”
Her hand drops to my thigh and ghosts over my groin, she looks up at me with a pouty bottom lip and hooded eyes. “To do with as you please…”
I shudder, my skin becoming electrified and my hunger for her claws at me.
A laugh flutters out of her lips and she tries to scoot away, but I keep her locked at my side, hand grasping her thigh. She gets a wicked glint in her eye like she’s about to come back with some smartass comment but then the auctioneer announces some random French name and Effie nearly jumps out of her damn seat.
“Oh my god,” she says awestruck as helpers bring out an impressionist painting on a canvas the size of a twin bed. I have no idea who the artist is, and quite frankly, don’t care. All I care about is her reaction to it.
“We will start the bidding at a half million—”
“Six hundred!” Someone calls out immediately.
Effie’s eyes ping-pong around the room as a bidding war quickly drives the price up to five million. Soon it’s down to the governor and one other man.
“You want it?” I ask, and her head snaps to me.
“It’s too much, no way.” She shakes her head and fidgets with her dress.
