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His dark gaze found mine.
My last thought before the final please left my lips and the pressure exploded through my veins like an inferno was: He loves to be begged. The fire dissipated into a languid heat, spreading tingles throughout.
As I lay against the counter, slack, I pulsed around his fingers, and he only made out with my inner thigh and continued to slowly move them in and out until it stopped.
I let out a shaky breath, running my fingers through his hair, not ready to let it go. It was the only part of him I got to touch.
That was the first orgasm I’d ever had with a man, and I hated to admit it for my future health, but it was the most addictive thing I’d ever experienced.
When his hands ran up my thighs, nerves came to the surface.
Did he want me to reciprocate?
Or did he expect sex?
A shyness overcame me as I sat up, and I was sure, as he braced his hands on the counter and met my gaze, that he could see it all.
He’d yet to even shed his tie while I sat naked in front of him. After the heat settled, it all appeared so much more obscene.
“You’ll call me Nico from now on. No more of that Nicolas bullshit.”
I nodded hesitantly. All my pleases still echoed in the kitchen, his words cutting through them with an abrasive knife.
I didn’t know what I expected then, but I knew it wasn’t for him to turn his back on me, leave the house, and then shut the door behind him.
I exhaled, falling against the countertop.
Merda.
I was in over my head.
“I am as bad as the worst, but, thank God, I am as good as the best.”
—Walt Whitman
THE TICKING OF THE CLOCK brought my gaze to it as I slipped off the island. I’d been engaged to Nico for only one hour, yet I already felt turned inside out, as if he’d stolen a few of my layers and I’d never get them back. I knew I made the right decision not to give him every piece of me. If I did, the inevitable would happen, and I’d be nothing but dust beneath his feet while he ruled New York’s underworld.
I traced the rim of his whiskey glass, the air-conditioning cool against my bare skin. I leaned on the counter and sipped the liquor, hoping it would numb the abrasive feeling of his scruff against my neck, hoping it would make his clean, male scent disappear from my nose. It didn’t.
When the sound of the garage door opening met my ears, I glanced toward the noise. I wondered if he would leave me here alone, but when I didn’t hear any engines starting, I imagined he was only working on his cars.
I tossed back the rest of the warm whiskey and set the glass on the counter, but before I could walk away, my eyes caught on some paperwork. Hesitation flooded me, but I took a step forward and grabbed the top paper between two fingers.
I stared at my fiancé’s private bank account information, my heart beating with confliction. Vacillation at the wrongness of my intentions. Yet, I felt the hope of absolution, no matter how small it might be.
This life I was born into might be dark, but it was transparent. The Cosa Nostra was only a candid version of the Outside’s politician smiles. I knew this world, knew its darkness, knew its light. And I knew that I was good, but sometimes even the good has its shadows.
Before I could think more about it, I pulled open cupboard drawer after drawer, searching for a pen and paper. When I found them, I copied the information down and slipped it into the bottom of my duffel bag.
You can only sink or swim.
You can’t swim in the underworld, but I’d always heard drowning was the best way to go.
After dressing, I took a tour of the home. I found three bedrooms upstairs and dropped my bag on the queen-sized bed of one that had to be a spare. Cream walls, white duvet and furniture. It was understated elegance, and I knew Nico hadn’t been the one to decorate it.
A bay window with a seat below took up the far wall and looked over the backyard and garage. My fingers touched the glass as my gaze found Nico whose head was beneath the hood of one of his cars in the drive. Only his side profile was visible, but my heart thumped to an uneven beat. He wore a white t-shirt, his button-up and tie lying in a pile on one of the lawn chairs.
I wondered who did his laundry. He said he had a cook, but it was close to lunchtime and no one had arrived yet. I really didn’t know how to cook. It was a travesty for an Italian woman, I knew, but I partly blamed it on my mamma for never teaching me. She was a perfectionist in the kitchen and would slap our hands if we took one misstep, so it had always been easier to stay out of her way.