There’s a hypnotic darkness in his eyes, malicious and desiring, and I wonder if this is how it feels just before the devil claims a soul. I pant with his movements, his fingers tunneling deeper, circling against my soaked slit, creating chords of music that escape my lips. He hasn’t even penetrated me. “I dream of you sometimes.” The ragged texture of my voice mirrors my slowly dissolving composure.
“What do you dream, Isa?”
“Of this. Of … of your hands on me.”
“How far do we take this in your dreams? Am I fucking you?”
The mere thought of that sends tingles of excitement shooting through my core, and I can’t answer him, for fear of sounding like a pervert who’s fantasized about him. The ache between my thighs swells, as if attached by some invisible string that he pulls for his own amusement, and I cry out instead.
“Of course I’m fucking you. How do I feel inside of you?”
The heat of his breath on my skin, the touch of his fingers, the sound of his voice. It’s all too much. Too much. My senses are on overload right now, spinning me out of control.
“So good. I don’t want it to stop.”
“You want my finger inside of you, Isa? To fill this tender little hole with something thick and warm.” The tip of his relentless little weapon circles my entrance for emphasis, stirring the wet sticky juices over my skin, and I curl my hand around the bench, desperate to squeeze something.
I mindlessly nod, my body lost to the sensations he’s stoked. Lust blazes through me, an inferno of need building at my core. I can’t sit still. I can’t move. My body is in chaos, waiting for the moment he puts it out of its misery and penetrates me.
His dark chuckle rakes over me. “Too bad,” he says, and the moment he withdraws his fingers, the heat inside of me fizzles to a cold and bitter yearning.
“What?”
He captures my jaw in his hand, the same hand that stroked my overly sensitive clit moments before, and I can smell the arousal on his fingers. He presses his lips to mine, taking another piece of me. “I get off on pain. And there is nothing more exquisite than the pain of denying myself.” Shoving his fingers into his mouth, he closes his eyes, as if savoring the taste of me on his tongue. “You’re too young for me.”
Too young. Too poor. Too unpopular. I’ve heard these things my whole life. Reasons for rejection. Yet from him, it somehow bites harder. The mercurial nature of the man, this hot and cold, is enough to make me scream with all the tension burning me up like a fever.
Bitterness explodes inside of me. “Why did you touch me, at all, if you had no intentions of following through?”
A smirk takes hold of his lips, one I want to smack right off his face. “Why do we bother to breathe, when we know we’re going to die?” Standing up from the bench, he twists to look back at me. “I’d fuck you up in ways you’ve never been fucked before, Isa. Consider this a kindness.”
The sensation fluttering in my gut is one I’m intimately familiar with when it comes to this man. Humiliation. Wet and disheveled, I’m pretty sure this is exactly why he bothered to touch me, at all, to show me he doesn’t have to finish me off to leave me hot and panting for him like a stupid schoolgirl who’s hot for teacher.
“There’s a masquerade ball coming up this weekend. I’d like you to play for me.”
My mind longs to cling to the conversation of what happened between us, but the curiosity of his request draws me out of those thoughts. “Piano?”
“Yes. Can you do that? For me?”
I want to deny him, just as he did me, but I can’t. I’m ashamed to admit that I like this side of him. This teasing game of cat and mouse between us. I don’t know why. Maybe I’m sick, but there’s something thrilling about taunting the devil. “Of course. Whatever you like.”
He slides his hands into his pants pockets, moving further away from the topic of us. “You’ll need something to wear. I’ll make arrangements for you to get what you like. There’s a boutique in town. They have my credit card on file.”
A dress. Another goddamn dress. Even if the guy is paying for it, like something out of Pretty Woman, I still dread the thought of having to wear something fancy. And no doubt, any boutique that has his credit card on file is going to be fancy. “Okay.”
“Something elegant. There will be a number of very powerful and important people at this ball. Dress accordingly.” He walks from the room.
Chapter 35
Lucian
Notebook still tucked beneath my arm, I descend the stone staircase to the awaiting vehicle, where Makaio opens the passenger door for me.
Rand is already inside, fingers entwined with telling impatience, as I fall into the seat beside him. For the opportunity to have my fingers down Isa’s panties, I rush for no one. Not even the Scarpinato men, who’ll be anxious to know where Franco disappeared to, I’ll bet. They requested a meeting with me a few days ago, one I was reluctant to oblige at first, until a crazy idea popped into my head.
“I don’t know how you act so calmly, facing these men.” Rand keeps his attention toward the passenger window, as the car idles down the long drive.
“I don’t look at them as anything more than flesh and bone.”
“An army of flesh and bone, with the kind of weaponry that’d make the military jealous.”
“Words are the most powerful weapon in the world. Alongside money. And if you combine the two, you’re practically a God.”
Sighing, he shakes his head. “Well, I must admit, I’m dying to know what words you plan to exchange during this meeting.”
“I’m sure you are. And I can assure you, you have nothing to worry about with this meeting.”
“The more you talk about it, the more I worry.”
“Then, let’s not talk about it.” I smooth my hand over the notebook. If only I could’ve captured the notes of her moans, I’d claim the song as mine and no one else’s. The sound was everything I dreamed it would be, and coupled to that pleading look in her eyes, it’s enough to make a man lose control.
As if I needed another reason to be excruciatingly intrigued by this girl. She’s like a bad hangover after a long night of drinking, but hell if that’s going to keep me from grabbing the bottle again. One sip is enough for now, while my conscience pummels away at my head for trying to corrupt an innocent teenager.
It takes over two hours to drive and ferry to the restaurant in Boston, where the Scarpinatos requested to meet. I’ve no doubt it’ll be teeming with their men, waiting for the moment they can open fire on me. But all that bullshit about family being the most important thing in the mafia is just that: bullshit. The truth is, they haven’t been relevant in a number of years, and their numbers are dwindling. They’d have to fuck their own sisters to keep a pure bloodline nowadays. If not me, some other asshole would’ve come along and silenced Franco, because you don’t walk around with a mouth that big without someone wanting to shove the barrel of a gun into it.
Straightening my jacket, I enter the dimly-lit restaurant that looks like a two-dimensional wanna-be of Tuscany, with painted arched doorways and awnings on brick walls. Out the rear door on the patio, I find Vincent and Stefano, Franco’s uncle and cousin, seated at a table toward the back. Stefano, the younger one, reminds me of a dark-eyed Ray Liotta, with his black hair and dimples, who waves me over.