“What are you laughing at?” she asks me.
“Our first fight as a married couple,” I say softly.
She shakes her head and waggles her finger at me. “This is a ceasefire, nothing more.”
In reply, I grab her and pull her into my lap. Our lips are like fire on each other. I think I’ll die if I don’t get to fuck her. My whole body is shaking when she leans up, reaching down to pry my cock free from my pants. It springs free and she sits up.
I grab her hips and lift her up, line myself up with her entrance, and then push her—slowly, slowly—back down, feeling every inch of sweltering pleasure. She makes moaning noises straight out of my dreams. My balls are so full I’m surprised I haven’t come already. Her moans get shorter and sharper with each up and down.
“Oh, fuck,” she gasps. “That’s hitting the—the fucking spot. Oh fuck.”
My vision blurs, reduces to a pinprick. All I can feel is the intense pressure in my cock, an ache of unbearable release. I roar as my cock turns to goddamn fire.
At the same time, I feel her tighten against me, her whole body gyrating and bucking as she hunts her own climax. We reach a crescendo together, my arms looping around her, both of us falling back as her walls clench around my cock.
We end up lying on the couch sideways, panting heavily, saying nothing to each other and feeling no urge at all to break that silence.
It feels far, far too comfortable.
21
Dani
Christmas comes and goes. I don’t spend it with Angelo. Instead, Wyatt and I carry on our tradition of Christmas dinner with just the two of us, watching cheesy Hallmark movies all day and talking about Mom and Dad, since it was this time of year they died.
But then the holiday is in the rearview and I’m back in Angelo’s penthouse. Wyatt, Zora, and Quinny obviously want to know what’s going on, so I just say I’m working a ton and often sleeping at the hospital.
Which is half true. I am working a lot. Winter is always a busy time of year for us and it’s no different now. I’m working so much, and Angelo’s schedule is so erratic, that we hardly even see each other.
After the date at the skyscraper, we cross paths occasionally, like once when I’m coming in at five in the morning from a shift, and he’s leaving to go … somewhere?
We literally bump into each other in the hallway, and then his hands are all over me. That’s how it is with us: sudden passion, explosive. I keep meaning to talk to him about what happened with those thugs at the valet stand, but then we’re consuming each other and he steals the words right out of my mouth. It’s like we’re each other’s oxygen. I can’t get enough of the power he has over me, or the same power I have over him. I tear down his pants and fall to my knees, loving how I can control his moans with how hard I suck, how deep I take him in.
I think I’ve won, that I’ve made him see that I’m the one who calls the shots, but then one night I wake up with his head between my legs. His tongue makes brushstrokes on my lower lips and all I can do is moan louder, squeezing my thighs around his head, trapping him as my orgasm rushes through me like boiling water. He looks up at me with lips wet with my pleasure, and then we fuck like unchained animals.
But it’s not all sex. I have to be honest, with Wyatt doing so well, and so much chemistry between me and Angelo, I’m sort of looking the other way on a lot of stuff. Like how one night, he comes home with blood on his knuckles. Or how sometimes he’ll get a call and his voice will get snappy, angry, and he’ll rap out orders in Italian far too fast for me to comprehend.
Some nights, we have candlelit dinners together. A couple of times, I snuggle into him and we watch movies, and I wonder just how real this whole arrangement is or isn’t.
But then I look down at the rings he gave me and remind myself that it’s all just a stupid game.
Today, as the sun rises over New York, I’m in the gym with a view of Central Park, working my ass off.
I found something last night that troubled me. I decided to do a bit of snooping—because who wouldn’t in my position—and, wrapped in a towel in a cupboard under the bar, I found a small box with the words ‘King Kong’ printed on it. I couldn’t get it open, but it was heavy. I’ve worked as an EMT long enough to know that drug dealers use pop culture references on their goods: Mario, Sonic, the Shining, seemingly harmless stuff like that.
Is King Kong a drug? Is Angelo a drug dealer?
How the fuck, I ask myself as I do probably my three-hundredth lunge, am I supposed to square that with Wyatt’s addiction? I spring upright, beads of sweat flying everywhere, and then grab the hand-wraps and boxing gloves and get ready. I hit the bag, hard. Well, as hard as I can, anyway. I throw my whole torso into each punch, wondering if it’s possible, if Angelo—the man I might be falling for—is connected to Wyatt’s problems in that way.
That would really fucking suck. So I just keep hitting the bag until my muscles are burning and I don’t have to think about that anymore.
I’m sure there’s an explanation that makes perfect, innocent sense.
I’m just about to jump onto the treadmill when I sense somebody watching me. I spin, ready to give Angelo a big dose of sass. That’s the thing with him. When we’re apart, I can think clearly, reason logically, function like a normal human adult. When we’re in the same room together, though, there’s this electric tension that makes all of that way too difficult.
But when I turn, it’s not Angelo. It’s Richie, the butler.
“Ma’am,” he says.
I curtsy, pinching the air where my dress would be. “Richard, how gracious of you to come and visit with me this fine morning.” I do my best English accent, which, honestly, is insultingly horrendous. I wouldn’t be surprised if he decided to throw a crumpet at my head, or whatever it is that British people do when they’re angry.
Richie smiles, shaking his head. “I do believe you are both from London and Liverpool, by way of Australia,” he comments wryly. “Mr. De Maggio has requested your presence.”
“Oh, he has, has he?” I walk over to the treadmill and hop on. “It’s sort of rude, you know, being summoned like a pet.”
“Well …” Richie demurs noncommittally.
I guess I’m in a combative mood. The way he thinks he can pick me up and put me down anytime he wants both thrills and annoys me.
“Mr. De Maggio is currently at a soup kitchen, ma’am. That is where he would like you to join him. He is—excuse me if I am being overly forward—a good man.”
“Wait a sec. Did you say a soup kitchen?”
“Yes,” Richie says.
“Okay, I’ll bite: what’s he doing there?”
“I couldn’t possibly say. If I may make a suggestion, why don’t you go and see?” Richie asks. “There is a car waiting for you.”
“I need to shower and change,” I say. “How long will it wait?”
Richie almost laughs, but has the good manners not to make me feel too stupid just yet. “As long as it takes, ma’am, of course.”
I nod, tell Richie thank you, and then head to my room to get ready. I wonder what’s so funny about my question, but then it hits me. In this world, Richie is so used to cars waiting around for Angelo until he’s ready that the idea I’d think it would leave without me is hilarious.