Page 35 of Angelo’s Vengeance (The Commission #3)

THEODOSIA

The dream was hazy, like floating as you struggled to consciousness, pulling yourself forward to a reality you weren’t sure you wanted when the fantasy was so delicious. That’s what this must have been—a fantasy. I spread my legs farther, the ache building to a crescendo as I opened my eyes.

Angelo watched me as he slid his fingers into me. “What were you dreaming about, hmm? You were squirming in your sleep just begging for my cock.”

The words sent a shiver of delight through me. “I’m guessing you started already.” I looked pointedly at his hand that moved lazily over his engorged shaft that already leaked with evidence of how aroused he was. “Maybe I was dreaming of you.”

“I like that, and yes. I started already. I wanted you all day.” I squirmed on his fingers.

I liked that, too. The fact that he wanted me, and the fact that the evidence of it was right there. The validation that he found me sexy. I wanted this to be combustible for both of us. The thought of him between my thighs while I slept was somehow taboo, and at the same time a total turn-on.

“Good. Too bad I woke up. Maybe I’ll pretend to keep sleeping next time, and you can keep going with your fantasy.

Stuff me full.” I watched him carefully as his eyes dilated and his lips parted, his breath coming in short pants.

Oh , he liked that idea. “You could slide your cock inside me and come and I’d never even wake up.

You want me to have your baby, don’t you?

You’ll need to try extra hard even if you come home late.

” He pumped his shaft, squeezing it so hard that pre-cum spilled over the edge. My pussy clenched as I watched him.

“Those are dangerous words, piccola .”

“I mean them.” I had felt better today, stronger.

My shoulder felt better, and I had hardly touched him at all.

That wasn’t fair. Moving to straddle him, I knocked his hands away.

“Let me.” Bending to kiss him, I inhaled his scent, that familiar combination of his that felt like home to me, even with the smoke and gun oil that constantly swirled around him.

Tracing my lips over his earlobes I followed the path of his neck, like he had done to me, learning each spot, taking my time even as my pussy ached.

“Baby,” he groaned as I teased his nipples with my tongue. “I need you.”

His cock slid between my folds, and I rocked against it as I explored the feeling of his shaft sliding against the sensative skin there.

It felt exquisite against my clit. His eyes had fluttered shut, and I ran a hand to the juncture of our thighs where his cock was trapped flat to his belly.

He wasn’t the only needy one, but I was willing to draw it out a little.

The man was beautiful in that dangerous, carved-from-stone, sinner-in-a-suit sort of way.

His lashes were absurdly long for someone so capable of murder.

He had only one tattoo, right up against his rib cage.

Right now, he was vulnerable and all mine.

Not the fancy kind. Not like the dramatic sprawling pieces I always imagined mafia dons got in their twenties after too much tequila and a hit gone wrong. This was clean. Intentional. Fine-lined. Small, near the curve of his heart, just over his ribcage.

Non serviam

I leaned in, licking the words and letting my fingers ghost over the letters as I continued rocking my pelvis, using his cock to edge closer to an orgasm. The ink was sharp against his warm skin. Black. Not new, but not faded. Old enough to mean something, permanent enough to sting still.

I retraced the edge of a letter, fascinated and aching all at once. “It’s Latin.”

“Mm. Piccola , we can talk about it later.” He rocked against me as his fingers dug into my flesh, his shaft peeking between our bodies. “Let me in.” I could barely pay attention as he said, “It means, ‘I will not serve.’ ”

“That’s very dramatic of you,” I teased softly, but it lacked the usual sharpness. “Even for you.” My focus was on how he felt against me, but my fingers splayed over the tattoo and his heart.

He cracked one eye open and looked at me. “It’s a reminder. ”

“Of?”

His jaw flexed. “That no one owns me. Not my blood. Not the Commission. Not the past.”

I didn’t say anything. Just kept looking at the words, the smooth, warm expanse of his skin, the muscle twitching beneath my fingers. I pressed my lips there, to kiss away the ghosts I knew clung to those words.

“You know,” I whispered against his skin, “you could’ve chosen something more hopeful. Like… hope , or live, laugh, love. ”

Unable to wait anymore I slid onto his cock and groaned, savoring the feel of the stretch.

“Hmmm,” He gave a rough chuckle and anchored my hips, driving up into me. “Not allowing a tattoo needle anywhere near me again. Conall might say it doesn’t hurt, but he’s a liar.”

Keeping one hand on his chest I put the other on my clit, rubbing it hard. I wasn’t sure that I would be able to come like this. I needed more. Needed him powering over me. My shoulder still wasn’t a hundred percent. I whined a little as I slid against him, trying to find my rhythm .

“I need more,” I whimpered.

Rolling us to my back, he angled back in. “Like this?” He searched my face.

“Yes, but harder. I want it harder.”

He obliged, grinning like a maniac as his shaft hit even deeper as he pulled my knees up.

Each strike, his pelvis hit mine, bone to bone, grinding against mine before pulling away and hammering back again over and over in an unforgiving rhythm, even after the first blinding orgasm swept over me, he didn’t stop, but kept pistoning into me, watching my face closely, teeth gritted. “Again. Again. Give me another one.”

“I can’t. I can’t.” Tears sprang to my eyes as he readjusted my legs and seemed to find his way even deeper.

“You can. You will,” he said fiercely. “ Then I’m going to come.”

Amazingly, another orgasm began sweeping over me, the sensations I was chasing that had seemed impossible were right there as he pushed me further until he crashed against me.

I fell against the cushions, my legs clasped around him as he came hard, jetting into me until I felt warmth against my thighs.

We were quiet for a while, limbs tangled, hearts syncing. But I couldn’t stop thinking about that ink. About what it meant. About who he’d been when he got it—and the fact that I was seeing a piece of him that no one else had. A private rebellion etched into his skin.

Sunlight filtered in like a slow exhale, dappled and golden through the half-closed curtains. I blinked against it, the warmth pulling me from the depths of sleep and into something softer.

Angelo hadn’t moved much. Still sprawled on his side, a hand draped lazily across my stomach, his breath steady against the back of my neck.

I stayed still for a long time. Listening. Remembering his explanation of his tattoo.

Non serviam.

The way his voice went low when he said it, like he was speaking to someone long dead.

I couldn’t stop thinking about it. About him. About how someone so feared, so ruthlessly in charge , could carry a piece of his defiance like a shield over his heart.

I’d seen that side of him last night— unguarded. The man beneath the suits and the silence. There were still remnants of the boy who had once been forced to serve things he hadn’t believed in. Who had sworn he never would again.

It rattled around in my ribs, how much that small piece of ink said. How much he hadn’t said outright. Because that was Angelo: he didn’t explain things. He just did them. Quietly. Decisively. With the kind of control that made people afraid and kept his empire intact.

I turned slowly in his arms, careful not to wake him.

He looked younger in the light. Still dangerous—always—but less like a wolf on the prowl and more like one resting between battles.

His lashes cast faint shadows on his cheeks.

His lips were parted, his chest rising in slow, steady beats.

My gaze drifted, unbidden, to that tattoo again.

I will not serve.

What would it mean when someone like Angelo Santelli chose to stay? Not because he owed you. Not because of some family deal or obligation, but because he wanted to. Last night was more than comfort. More than heat and softness in the dark. It was a shift—a confession without words.

And that scared me more than the bullets or a kidnapping ever did.

Because what if this didn’t last? What if I screwed this up? What if he pulled away again? Because the reality had hit me last night. I had never stopped loving Angelo, and I wasn’t sure my heart could take him not loving me back.

He stirred then, just slightly, his fingers flexing on my hip.“You’re staring,” he murmured, voice thick with sleep.

“You’re dreaming,” I retorted.

“Bout you, probably.” His eyes opened. “You okay?”

I nodded, then hesitated. “Yeah. Just thinking.”

He reached up and tucked a piece of hair behind my ear. “Dangerous habit.”

“I know.” I stared at his chest again. At the black ink etched into him. “How old were you when you got it?”

He followed my gaze, his mouth twitching.

“Fifteen.” He shrugged, but it was a tired, weighted thing.

“It was the first choice I made that no one else touched. I paid for it with cash I earned. Went alone. No guards. No driver. Just me. In the middle of the night.” His gaze slanted towards the windows, as if remembering.

“I didn’t tell any of the guys about it. It was just for me.”

I imagined him—young, raw, hard-eyed and angry, marching into some dingy tattoo parlor like he had something to prove to the world and himself.

“You wanted to take something back,” I said softly.

He met my eyes then, something sharp and honest in his. “Exactly.”

We fell silent once more. The heaviness enveloped us like another blanket. I reached out and brushed my fingers over the words again. “So what does it mean now?”

Angelo exhaled through his nose. “It means I still choose. Every day. No matter what this life demands of me… I choose.” A beat. “And right now, I’m choosing to stay in this bed with you,” he added, lips curving as he tugged me closer. “So, unless you’re about to get philosophical again, kiss me.”

It started light. Sweet. But his hands slid up my back, deliberate and slow, and that familiar tension thrummed to life beneath my skin. He kissed like he did everything else—with purpose. With possession. Yet, it felt different now. He wasn’t just taking. He was giving . And I felt it everywhere.

When we finally broke apart, breathless and warm, I pressed my forehead to his. “You know, if you keep making it this easy to fall for you, I might stop being mad at you.”

He grinned. “That’s a tragedy I’m willing to risk.” He gave me a wicked smile as he slid inside me. “You did say I needed to work hard.” He groaned. “ Piccola , you’re always such a good girl. Spread those thighs.”

As I followed his instructions, I thought, If this was how he was going to wake me up, then I would be agreeing to marry him in no time.