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“Yes,” I whisper, looking up at him, his cock still an inch from my lips. “I snuck out and went into Newport.”
“After I specifically told you not to?”
“Yes,” I whisper, and I see his face tighten.
“Why?”
I give him one last defiant look. “Because I wanted to.”
It’s honest, at least. David growls, his fingers slipping into my mouth as he forces my lips open—or tries to, anyway. He doesn’t really have to. I’m aching all over, almost shivering with desire, and my mouth falls open for his cock as he slides himself over my tongue again with a low, dark chuckle.
“So hungry for my cock.” His hand smooths over my hair. “Take it all,bellisima.All the way down.Fuck.”
He groans as he pushes himself into my throat, hips jerking as he presses me forward, my nose nearly brushing against his abs as his cockhead slips deeper. I choke around him, but he doesn’t stop, his breathing quick and hard as my throat tightens around his length.
“Fuck—fuck. Your mouth is so fucking good. I’m going to fuck your face now,dolce. Take my cock.Fuck,good girl—”
He moans the words as he starts to thrust, his voice so thick and dark with lust that I feel like I might orgasm without ever touching myself. I’m trembling with need, my hands clenched into fists against my thighs as he wraps his hand in my hair and sinks his cock into my throat again and again. I feel him swell and harden, that stiff throbbing that tells me he’s about to come, and then to my surprise, he jerks his cock free. His thumb presses down on my lip, holding my mouth open as his other hand strokes along the length of his cock, his jaw tight with oncoming pleasure.
“I’m going to come all over your—pretty—fucking—face—god!” He snarls the last word, his entire body going rigid, and cum spurts out of his cock and over my cheek in a hot line that makes me moan aloud. David’s eyes widen at the sound, and his cock lurches in his hand, more cum splattering across my nose and chin.
“Fuckinggod,” he growls, his hand stuttering over his length. “Rub your clit,cara mia.Now.”
I shove my hand inside my panties before he can change his mind, his cum still spurting onto my face. My fingers slide over my pulsing clit, wet and slick, and the instant I touch it, I’m coming too. I’m that close to the edge. I cry out as the last spurt of his cum coats my lips and drips down my chin, hips bucking into my hand as I moan aloud, and David lets out one final groan as he rubs his cum over my lips with his still-swollen cockhead, pushing it into my mouth.
“Clean me up,bellisima,” he murmurs. “Keep rubbing your clit until you’re done.”
It feels like I’m still coming. My hips roll against my hand, my fingers soaked as I lick David’s cock clean, lapping up every trace of his cum as I moan and shudder. I slide my hand down, pushing two fingers into myself as I grind the heel of my hand against my clit, and I feel the aftershocks of my orgasm pour through me, making me whimper around his cock.
“Fuck,” David breathes again as he steps back, tucking himself away. I know what I must look like, kneeling on the floor with my hand in my panties, and I jerk it free. “Clean yourself up too,” he says, his voice every bit as stern, and I know what he means. “Don’t get up until you do.”
I can see the lust in his eyes as he watches me wipe the cum off of my face, licking it and my own arousal off of my fingers. His cock is already swelling again, pushing against his fly, but he ignores it.
“Get up,” he finally says when I’ve cleaned most of his cum off of my face. “Go upstairs and pack.”
It takes me a minute to stand up. My knees feel shaky, and my face is on fire, flushed with lingering embarrassment. “What? Why—”
“Because I clearly can’t trust you here alone,” David says bluntly. “So go upstairs, and pack to come back to Boston with me. Bring an evening gown; we’ll be going to a gala my family is throwing.”
I blink at him. “A—”
“You heard me.” His jaw tightens as he steps past me, sinking onto the couch. “You have half an hour before we leave.”
And just like that, his mood has completely changed again. I press my lips together, fighting back a retort. On the one hand, I’m utterly sick of how hot and cold he is, how mercurial, that one moment he demands I please him and the next he dismisses me.
On the other hand, I desperately want to get out of here, even for just the weekend. Even if it means seeing David’s parents.
The promise of being away from this house and in the city is enough of a lure. I’m more than a little upset that he didn’t take me with him in the first place—I feel like I’ve been wasting away here since I stepped into this mansion, and the idea of a party sounds incredible. The idea of mingling with other people, of dancing and music and a bit of liveliness, makes me happier than I’ve felt since I came home from Ibiza.
Maybe I can slip the idea into his head that we might relocate back to Boston.I keep that thought close, clinging to it for comfort. This is what I know how to do, after all—what I was raised for. To be a mafia wife, to look beautiful on my husband’s arm, to charm and delight his associates and friends. If he sees that I’m capable of doing all of that despite our marital troubles, if he sees how much more I flourish in the city environment, maybe he’ll reconsider staying out here. Or even—
He might even be able to be convinced to let me have a home in the city. To live separately, part of his time spent with me and his child in Boston, part of it spent here in this drafty old house when he wants his privacy and his space. It’s not the most traditional arrangement, but he might be able to be convinced. And I’d be surrounded by eyes and ears, his family and business associates—it’s not as if I could get away with anything that might embarrass him.
Once he knows the baby is his, he’ll trust me more.I tell myself that as I pack, carefully slipping a favorite evening gown into a garment bag. After a moment’s consideration, I tuck the wrapped fur stole into the bag as well, feeling a small thrill at the idea of wearing something that would shock everyone at a party like the one we’re going to if they knew where it was from. David will never know—no one will—but I will. It feels like a small revenge against my mother, and anyone else like her, who always tried to force me to be the perfect mafia daughter—who tried to mold me into the perfect mafia wife.
A role that I now have no choice but to embody.
My stomach knots as I close my suitcase, my thoughts drifting nervously back to my second foray into the attic. I don’t want to believe the worst of what I found—I feel ridiculous and paranoid for even considering it. But my husband is a dangerous man. More dangerous than I knew, when I met him in Ibiza and imagined that he was just some oil-rich billionaire spreading his wealth around a party town. He’s a man who, were I to be on the wrong side of him, could ruin my life. He couldendmy life, if he wanted to. And nothing would ever happen to him.
