Page 14 of Dirty Mafia Sinner

“Madonna!”

I smile at his expression. “He was madly in love with me. It was easier to pretend than to embarrass him. We only hadsex a couple of times.” My first love, except I always knew something was missing. Too sweet. Notbossyenough. “We never experimented.”

“My greedy girl never got oral?”

“Nope.” I flush. “No spankings. No handcuffed to the bed.”

“That stupid kid didn’t go down on your sweet pussy?”

“Never.”

He stares at me, much like he did hours ago, like I’m an enigma he’s struggling to figure out. Something within my expression causes him to stiffen, and then, with a look intense enough to burn steel, he demands, “And the others?”

“Others?”

His jaw slackens, his expression almostpained.

It’s not how I anticipated he’d react. He thinks I’m a good girl, and I am. Trouble came calling for my parents, not me. I follow the rules. I choose right over wrong. The few white lies I’ve told were to protect someone’s feelings from being shattered. I told my boyfriend we were breaking up because of me. Part white lie, part truth, though until I methim, I didn’t truly understand what was missing. Orgasms, yet more.

A wave of shyness grips me, but I owe him the truth. “The other can spark an orgasm with the crook of his finger.”

He stands and places me on my feet so quickly, I get whiplash. Then, he begins to pace. To the wall, and back to the chair. Back and forth. Wall. Chair. His broad chest, tapered waist, massive cock, and well-formed thighs on full display. No one could doubt his masculinity.

But his curses set me on edge. “Jesus Christ. Fuck. Cazzo.”

I watch him, alarmed, as he thrusts his fist through the drywall.

What in God’s teeth? He’s losing his shit.

“What’s the matter?”

He ignores me and heads for the kitchen. I hear the refrigerator open, and then seconds later, ice falling into a glass.

This worked up over a discussion about orgasms?

“Riley,” he bellows. Heneverraises his voice. “Bring me my clothes.”

Hurt washes over me. I shared my soul with him. Who does he think he is?

My feet won’t move, but my mind races. He was tender and attentive. Loving, I’d dared to believe. Only we’ve circled back to where we started last night.

Like a robot, I pull on a robe and scoop the clothes piled on the floor into my arms. The hole in the wall competes with the one unraveling within my heart.

His eyes skim over me when I enter the kitchen.

Not cold, but hot. Like a fire rages within yet he’s helpless to stop it. He shoots back a whiskey, then without a word, without an apology or explanation, takes the pile from my hands and disappears into the bathroom.

When he reemerges, he’s not alone in his rage.

I feel foolish. It’s one thing to be on your knees and begging to be fucked. It’s another to be as intimate as two people can be, only to get fucked over. Eleven weeks of emotional whiplash, and my heart can no longer bear it.

Tears fall, but I swipe them away.

Back to me, he drinks straight from the bottle, before slamming it on the table, turning and stalking toward where I wait by the door. He moves to open it.

“Say it,” I exclaim.

His jaw tightens.