I made myself watch her face for signs of any issues, but her expression had been transported into elation. Finally, I plunged into her with abandon, “Now your clit,” I grunted at her, losing my ability to be coherent.
“Huh?”
“Stroke your clit and make yourself come,” I bit out, barely capable of speech.
She reached down her body to do just that when our eyes latched onto one another’s. As she caressed her clit, I caressed her ass, and in combination with my cock inside of her, everything transformed into a surge of euphoria. Within moments she climaxed and so did I, and our gazes remained locked as we each became raucously vocal in our ecstasy.
Afterward, I crushed her face to my neck, enjoying the feeling of her hot breath spreading out over my skin. I was also struck by this impulse to check on her and see if she was all right. I didn’t, though. I didn’t know where that impulse had come from. I felt this warmth in my chest, and it made me uncomfortable. I’d never had sex like this before, and I needed to analyze it. Why had it been so amazing when it was so far outside of my usual kinks and preferences? I hadn’t rutted over her like an animal. I hadn’t demanded that she contort herself into debauched positions. I hadn’t told her when to come. I hadn’t used any plugs or sex toys.
It didn’t make any sense. Nor did this need to hold on to her afterward. I didn’t do such things. I didn’t cuddle. I didn’t sleep over or allow the women I fucked to sleep over. Yet, within moments, I found myself drifting off with Lucia in my arms.
Perhaps it really was a good thing I was marrying her.
13
Lucia
When I woke, I found myself on Romeo’s suede sectional covered in a silken sheet I didn’t recognize. I listened out for him wondering if he might be around, but I heard no evidence of this. It felt so surreal lying here in Romeo’s quarters, and not merely because the space is twenty times larger than the room I’d been staying in. Too much had changed, and I couldn’t catch up.
My brother Antonio was gone, and I watched him die. Six months ago, I’d never witnessed a death up close, especially not of my famiglia. Yet here I was now with three separate memories of loved ones passing away. They’d be indelibly branded on my psyche forever.
The thing was, I’d known death was possible. Growing up as mafia royalty meant hearing the stories of past patriarchs who’d come into power, not to mention the treachery and betrayals that came with the territory. Being involved in illegal activities often meant that mob leaders perished at a much earlier age than the rest of the population. It was actually pretty astounding that both my father and Angelo Cavetti lived past the age of fifty.
And then there’s Romeo. My betrothed again. The man I was attracted to despite him being a monster. Only last night, he hadn’t been a monster. When things had become painful for me, I’d thought he’d just keep going to get my deflowering over with, losing himself in his own pleasure as I tried to endure my first time. But that’s not what he’d done. He’d gone slowly, been patient. He’d taken his time and provided me with another searing climax, this one even more intense than the last.
We’d talked last night, truly communicated on a nearly equal plane. He’d agreed to remove my one surviving brother from his father’s evil clutches and even told me I could visit the twins. Of course, this could prove to be false. He could be playing some over the top game of deceit with me. But my gut told me this wasn’t so. Especially after how he treated me. Carrying me to his room. Bathing me. Making love to me. Holding me afterward all night. Or most of it, at least.
Those were not the actions of a cold-hearted bastard. Not that Romeo Cavetti could possibly be considered a good man. That would be ludicrous. But still. Even if he never again repeated this display of tenderness toward me, I’d always appreciate how much he gave of himself last night.
I just wish I could see more of that version of my husband-to-be.
Over the next weeks, I saw a pattern come to life between him and I. He’d buy me these lavish gifts; some in the vein of what he’d purchased for me prior to now, presents like slinky lingerie that he could also enjoy, and some that must’ve been intended just for me. There’d been a plush blanket that felt so decadent and soft against my skin. A brush and comb set made of mother of pearl. Boxes of chocolates. Bouquets of flowers.
And then this morning, one that blew me away.
“Here.” He handed me an object so small it fit in the palm of his hand. I reached for it, believing it to be a cufflink he wanted me to attach for him. I frequently helped him dress in the mornings now, putting on his cufflinks and tying his tie. He’d do the same for me, zipping up the back of my dress or fastening the clasp of my bra—though he much preferred removing these rather than putting them on.
Yet the object he’d offered me hadn’t been a cufflink. It’d been a ring. The most stunning ring I’d ever seen.
I stared at it dumbly. At the white gold band. At the four-carat twinkling princess-cut diamond. At the glimmering bright blue stones shaped like leaves surrounding the main setting. “What is this?”
“It was my mother’s.”
“It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”
“Put it on,” he told me. Most of what he said to me came across as commands, though I’d begun to wonder if he always meant to sound as harsh as he did. Still, I hesitated. I didn’t want to be presumptuous about its placement.
“But… which finger?”
He scowled at me. “What do you mean ‘which finger’? I thought you wanted this.” Plainly annoyed, he took it from me and slid it onto the third finger of my left hand. “There,” he huffed out, then crossed his arms over his chest as he looked at me askance.
He seemed… off somehow. I blinked at him, feeling confused by this behavior until he scratched at the scruff on his chin, his movements twitchy. Fidgety. This didn’t compute with me. He was acting nervous almost. Or maybe even… shy.
Romeo did not do shy.
Then I realized that giving me his mother’s ring must’ve made him feel a little vulnerable. Which was another thing he didn’t do.
“I love it,” I said, inexplicably needing to reassure him even though he was the most confident, haughty man alive.
His dark eyes flicked up to mine, a question in them. He didn’t say the words out loud, but I’d slowly started to be able to read him bit by bit. If I wasn’t mistaken, that flick meant, “You do?”
Yet instead of vocalizing more vulnerability, he straightened, dropped his gaze, and muttered, “Good.”
Then he went off to do whatever it was he did during the day. Leave it to Romeo Cavetti to propose gruffly, without getting on one knee, then be embarrassed by how kind it was to bestow his mother’s ring upon me. I wondered if I’d ever be able to figure him out.
Every night he came back to his quarters and made love to me. We’d proceeded to christen basically every available surface. His sectional, of course. His bathtub. His bathroom vanity. His ottoman. The open bar that separated his kitchenette from his main living space. Many, many spots on his plush carpeting. Ironically, the only place he hadn’t made love to me was in his bed. It was an enormous walnut sleigh bed, king-sized and kitted out in a dramatic black duvet and matching sheets. Its design struck me as almost gothic and just as over-the-top in its own way as the other rooms I’d been in here at the mansion.