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“Maybe you can’t cook, but you’re great in other ways,” Dante teases, putting his hand in my long hair.
I look up at him with a grin and lick a stripe up his plumping cock, right along a vein there. Dante groans, biting his lip as I take him into my mouth.
I’m slow and just enjoy the taste of him on my tongue, how heavy he feels in my mouth. I make sure there’s plenty of saliva to lubricate him, and cover my teeth as he starts to thrust in my mouth.
I should have known: Dante isn’t the type of man to let a woman take control. He ends up fucking my throat, my eyes watering as I gag a couple of times, his hand fisted loosely in my hair. He doesn’t tug, just rolls his hips into my mouth.
I think I might have to tap out after a few moments, but then Dante freezes, his hips stuttering as he spills into my mouth.
I gasp in air as he pulls out of me and Dante’s face is instantly concerned.
“Fuck, I didn’t hurt you, did I?”
“Of course not,” I say hoarsely. “I wanted to make you feel good.”
“You succeeded,” he says with a laugh, kissing my forehead.
He adjusts himself back into his pants and goes to check the food and I’m hot between my legs and aching, wishing that we had time for more.
Surely, there would be more tonight.
Dante sets the table and we sit at one end of the huge table. His ziti is indeed, amazing, and I moan when I take a bite.
“I take it that means you like it?” he asks, and I nod eagerly.
“I love a man that can cook,” I admit, and it’s true, especially since I can’t do it myself. “But don’t you have a cook?”
Dante shakes his head. “No, not really. Marisa used to cook for Papa, but since he passed, she hasn’t really felt like it.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” I say, looking at him sympathetically.
Dante’s face goes blank just for a second before he smiles back at me. I tilt my head, looking at him. There’s something just under the surface with Dante. He puts on a brave face, acts as if he’s taking his father’s death in stride, but I can sense the pain behind his eyes.
“It’s okay. I don’t mind cooking,” Dante says easily, and I clear my throat.
“Your father’s service,” I start. “You want me to come, right?”
Dante looks at me. “Of course I do. You’re going to be my wife, and it was Father’s wishes that we marry.”
I swallow some ziti too hard and cough, sipping my chilled white wine.
I keep coming back to that. How it was his father’s wish that he marry me and not exactly his idea.
“Besides,” Dante says, as if he can hear my thoughts, “I want you there.”
“Of course, I’ll be there,” I say. “My father extends his respect, as well.”
“I’ve invited Luca,” Dante says tightly, spearing some more ziti, and I sense something there, too, between my father and him.
It’s probably work related, and I know nothing about that.
I mean, of course, I know that my father and Dante are both famiglia, that they don’t exactly operate inside of the law, but as to the specifics...I’m in the dark, and I don’t mind staying that way.
When we finish dinner, Dante clears the dishes, taking them to the kitchen and leaving them there for the housekeeper.
“You’ve got your own bedroom for the time being,” Dante says suddenly, and I blink at him.
“What do you mean, my own bedroom?” I ask. I’ve already moved all my things into the master bedroom.
