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Yes, that was why. Not because my gaze drifts far too often down to her juicy round ass or her tits that strain against the fabric of the various dresses and tops she wears. My pity for her is the only reason I said what I did. The only reason I spent five minutes feeding her cheesecake and watching her pretty lips wrap around that fork. I sure as fuck did not imagine those lips wrapped around my cock, her soft tongue sweeping over the tip and collecting the precum collecting there.
My balls feel heavy and hot. I haven’t jerked off for over a week, and I need to cum before I implode. That’s all this is about. Once I blow my load, I’ll forget about the way that distracting yellow dress hugs every inch of her body and shows off her tan, toned legs. I need to get off to the memory of my wife. The only woman I will ever love. The only woman I can ever want.
A few moments later, I’m standing in the shower with piping hot water streaming over my face and chest. Gripping the base of my shaft, I squeeze hard and groan as blessed relief rolls through me. I picture her. My sweet Anya. Her ash-blond hair and ice blue eyes. The curves of her body. My tiny ballerina.
My thighs tremble with the desperate urgency for release coursing through me. One hand on the tiled walls to hold myself steady, I tug harder, grunting as my balls sear with the need to come. Water drips down my face. I close my eyes and grant myself permission to remember her. Running my tongue along that scar over her hipbone. How she could take my entire cock inside her tiny little body. The way her pale skin marked so easily when I punished her.
I pump harder. “Fuck!” Thighs burning and eyes stinging, I allow the memories to take hold. They swirl around my brain like the water around the drain.
Honey-blond hair. No! Ash-blond hair.
I recall the sweet scent of her. Jasmine and lemon—no, vanilla and almond.
Her tits straining at the buttons of the clothes she wears.
Small pink nipples and tiny breasts dwarfed by the palms of my hands.
How her sweet round ass looked in that yellow dress today. Her pink lips wrapped around my shaft. Hazel eyes gazing up at me while I sink my cock into her.
No! I slam my fist into the tiled wall of the shower and shout my frustration at the ceiling. “Fuck!”
Anya. My beautiful Anya. Where are you, passerotta? Wiping the water from my eyes, I try to picture her face, but all I see is the siren downstairs. My cock weeps, and I squeeze harder, forcing myself to focus on my wife’s pale blue eyes and her sweet smile. How her delicate fingers brushed my skin. The pleasing way she would dip her head whenever she spoke to me. Her collar. Her cunt. The way it rippled around my cock.
Heat sears up my spine, and I continue to pump my shaft as new images and old memories fight for dominance, blurring into each other as they flash through my head. My hand flattens against the cool tile. I press up onto my toes. My balls draw up, all fire and fury as I work my cock more firmly. When I lose control, coming so hard and fast that my knees buckle, it’s to the vision of shining hazel eyes, full pink lips, and a pair of beautiful big tits encased in a yellow dress.
ChapterFourteen
LORENZO
“You’ve reached me but I ain’t here.” Lionel’s Southern drawl drones down my ear. “Leave me a message after the beep. If I haven’t been abducted by aliens or taken away from it all by a rich heiress, I’ll get back to you.”
With a sigh, I slip my cell back into my pocket. It’s been three days since I spoke to him. He must still be in Abu Dhabi. I glare at my laptop screen, hoping I’ll find a message from him telling me he’s found more information about that twisted piece of shit, but my inbox remains empty except for a spam email about erectile dysfunction.
“Only dysfunction I have is a boner that won’t go away,” I mutter under my breath. Every single morning, I wake with a raging hard on, and every single morning, I try to jerk off to the memory of Anya’s face, only to be plagued by images of Mia. Inevitably, I give up and spend the next half hour beneath the icy spray of a cold shower.
I’ve had a semi-permanent hard on for the past three days, and I swear that if I don’t bust my nut again soon, I’ll have a coronary.
The sound of the intercom buzzing snaps me from my train of thought. Dante and Kat are out with the kids. Mia’s in the kitchen with Sophia, learning to make fresh pasta—a skill she claims to have wanted to learn her entire adult life but never gotten around to. Fuck, that just leaves me.
Pressing the button, I bark at the guard on the gate. “What?”
“There’s a guy here, Boss…”
“And?”
“He says he’s a cop.”
“He says he’s a cop or he is a cop, Jimmy?” I snap, too wound up for riddles.
“Well, he showed me his badge, but he’s not Chicago PD.”
“So where is he from?” I already know the answer.
“Boston.”
“Fucker,” I mumble, balling my hands into fists. I’ve wondered how long it would be before he came for her.
“He says you’ve kidnapped his wife,” Jimmy adds.
