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Because no “innocent sweetheart” imagines being taken rough and hard by an older man twice her size with hands big enough to choke a bull, the blood of a hundred dead men on those hands.
Now suddenly I see those big hands push open the balcony doors, and before I understand what’s happening Zedd is standing there in the open doorway, the late morning sun casting dangerous shadows on his stubbled jawline, his tree-trunk sized neck, his thick arms with veins the size of pythons snaking all around.
“Your father wants to see you,” he says gruffly, keeping his deadly green eyes averted, just like every man who works for Father does. But he’s looking off to the side, not down at the floor like most of the low-level soldiers and all the house-help do when they encounter the boss’s protected daughter.
I wantyouto see me, comes the thought as my gaze tries to burn a hole in his forehead, penetrate Zedd’s brain, make him turn that vicious gaze in my direction.
Like he’d maybe done once in secret from that upstairs window three years ago, when I was freshly returned from the Volini olive plantation in Southern Italy, the prime of my teenage years spent sequestered by servants and security-guards, protected from the perversion of the American high-school experience.
But of course, that maid hadn’t actually witnessed Zedd doing anything in that bathroom, I remind myself like I have a hundred times in my low moments, when I look in the mirror and see a face far too plain to be pretty, a figure not exactly designed for the catwalks of Milan or Paris.
“What does Father want?” I ask, putting the heavy book down on the glass-topped table with as much grace as I can muster when my heart hammers like it’s about to explode. “Where’s Carlo?”
Obviously Carlo is busy doing something, or else Father would have sent him to get me. But this is the first time Zedd’s actually spoken to me, and although a part of me is shy like a rabbit, the excitement has got my tongue wagging a thousand times a second.
Zedd shrugs those massive shoulders, keeps that deadly gaze just off-center from my face—which is hopefully tanned enough to hide the blush of raw aching desire. Since he isn’t looking at me, I allow myself to take in the sight of his contoured body beneath that fitted black long-sleeve shirt with sleeves rolled up past his forearms.
Yup, those hands are big enough to palm my entire head, maybe even pluck it off like I used to do with my annoyingly well-proportioned Barbie-dolls. Those thighs are about twice the size of mine—which is saying something. Heavy pectorals like slabs of granite, his torso narrowing to a viciously masculine V down past his flat abdomen all the way to his peaked trousers.
Wait,peakedtrousers?
Ohmygod, is that bulge just his normal size or is he . . .
Now Zedd turns his body away from me like he feels my gaze on him, senses that maybe I’ve noticed how the front of his black combat pants are tented and throbbing like there’s something alive in there, awake and alert, enormous and erect.
“Wait,” I say awkwardly as Zedd moves towards the open balcony doors, away from me, heading back into the mansion, presumably out the front door, not to be seen again for another month.
Zedd stops, body still halfway turned away from me. “What?” His voice is gruff, strained, like it’s taking effort to not turn all the way towards me, like he’s just barely restraining himself from bull-rushing me and shoving his grizzly head under my clean white tennis skirt, tearing my black panties off with his bear-like teeth, driving his python of a tongue into my virgin slit and sucking the cherry right out of me like it’s his.
My imagination is wildly out of control, and I force myself to rein it in, shut it down, act like the quiet, courteous, innocent princess I’ve been raised to become.
Fantasies stayinside,you silly goose.
I have to remind myself of that occasionally when I find myself saying things that should only be said with my inside-voice. Too many years of seclusion in the company of stern tutors and cordial coaches. Absolutely no fraternizing with boys my own age as I hit puberty, like my virginity is my most important asset, to be protected like pirate’s treasure, kept sacred and intact until the right alliance with the right Family comes along.
At the right time.
And suddenly it hits me that maybe this is the right time.
It’s why Father wants to see me in the middle of the working day.
Because in three weeks I turn twenty-one.
My time has come.
Now suddenly a desperation grabs my throat from within, almost stopping my heart as Zedd stands there half-turned, waiting for me to continue after I told him to wait and then clammed up because my mind was spiraling to that dark place where I’m face down and ass up, screaming as Zedd spanks me, howling as Zedd spreads me, wailing as Zedd fills me.
Somehow I manage to stay composed on the outside even though I’m wet like a waterfall in my black Spandex panties beneath my tennis skirt. “You . . . you like watching tennis?”
Now Zedd’s gaze meets mine, and in that one deadly moment I see the truth in those killer green eyes, sense the secret in that vicious gaze, understand what I can’t explain, can’t verify.
That hewaslooking at me that day three years ago from the upstairs bathroom, those very same killer’s eyes fixed on my tanned curves, those big turkey-sized hands stoking his pillar-sized cock as he stared like a stalker, watched like a vulture, claimed me in his imagination just like I have so many times in mine.
“What?” he says again, his brow crinkling with the question even though his eyes shout the answer. “Do I like . . .tennis? What the fuck kind of question is that?”
I gulp at the aggression in his voice. No man would dare speak to me like that. Not because I’m the “off-with-his-head” type—it’s just a matter of respect for the Family.
But Zedd’s response doesn’t come from a place of disrespect or contempt. He just blurted it out, like the question about tennis exposed him, took him right back to that filthy moment three years ago.
