Page 122 of Broken Honor

I need her closer.

I rise just enough to swing one leg over her thighs, planting my knees on either side of her hips. I watch her eyes widen as I settle fully on top of her—straddling her completely, her soft body framed beneath mine.

My hands find her waist, sliding under the hem of the shirt. Her skin is warm, plush, and she tenses when I press my palms into her hips. I mold around her. My weight dips onto her thighs, my chest hovering above hers, and I take her in—all of her.

She whimpers.

I roll my hips forward letting the hard line of me grind right against the tender ache between her legs.

Her head tilts back with a gasp.

My mouth follows the line of her neck.

“You feel that?” I murmur against her pulse. “That’s what you do to me.”

I keep moving—my thighs squeezing her in place, her softness yielding under each slow grind. I feel her shudder again, her hands reaching for something—my back, my shoulders, whatever she can hold to stay grounded.

I kiss her ear.

“I could stay like this forever,” I whisper. “Right here, wrapped around you. You’re perfect.”

She cries out against my shoulder, muffled and wrecked, and I feel the tremble in her thighs when I press deeper into the cradle of her hips.

The study door swings open without a knock.

Lunetta pushes me away and her shirt slips down one shoulder, and she scrambles to pull it back in place. My hand finds the floor, pushing myself up.

Riccardo stands in the doorway, arms crossed.

“You have got to be kidding me.”

****

I’m standing near the desk, buttoning the last of my cuffs. Riccardo drops into a chair like he’s settling into a show.

“Really?” he says, leaning back, one leg crossed over the other. “In the study? You couldn’t get a room?”

“And where the fuck have you been?” I ask.

His brow lifts like the question is a joke.

“You haven’t been at work. You haven’t been home. Three days.”

He shrugs, drumming his fingers against the armrest. “Like you care.”

“What’s wrong with you?” I ask.

Riccardo leans forward, elbows on knees, grinning like he’s tasted blood.

“You make me fire my whores,” he says. “Then you turn this place into a cheap motel. With that.”

“Be real careful,” I say, voice low.

He snorts. “Touchy.”

Then he leans back again, arms stretched wide over the chair’s back. “I asked around, you know. Lunetta Sofia Fiore. Full name. Catholic school girl. Attended St. Marcella’s. Old Melbourne girl. Carmela Fiore’s granddaughter.”

I say nothing. But my neck goes rigid. He sees it.

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