Page 59 of Scorned Obsession

I jumped up from the bed before I grabbed her and tossed her on top of the sheets again. My control was on a razor-thin line. The vanilla, citrus scent that clung to her skin made me salivate.

I was hard before I even stepped into the shower. I was used to getting shot at and being neck-deep in dicey situations, but Bianca in my bed as my wife? It pushed everything aside.

I grabbed my cock and squeezed. I imagined her in the kitchen rubbing herself to completion. I imagined setting her on the kitchen counter and eating her out. I imagined her on my bed, naked and begging me to fuck her.

My hand slapped against the tile as a few strokes up and down my length had me spurting cum all over my hand. The cold water sluicing over my body did nothing to quell the raging inferno racing through my veins. Bianca and I had passed the point of no return. The image of her face in the throes of coming while rubbing herself all over my cock was forever seared into my brain.

I panted, leaning both hands on the tiles while I waited for the fever to leave my body. A part of me still didn’t want to touch her, but I was lying to myself if I thought Bianca would remain untainted by my touch for long, especially if she slept beside me.

I shut off the water and toweled dry. Then I threw on a shirt and athletic shorts as a barrier from the temptation lying in my bed. I exited the bathroom to the sight of her all curled up like a kitten and I had to stifle a groan. Dammit. A hellish night was in my immediate future. She said no earlier and I respected that. I wasn’t about to be a hypocrite. But one thing was for certain, I was determined for Bianca De Lucci…no…BiancaRossi…to beg me to fuck her. I had a feeling that once I was buried deep inside her, there was no version of our story where I was letting her go.

Not to another man.

Not to her overprotective family. Admittedly, I went crazy when she said her dad probably had divorce papers drawn up. I threw her on the bed, intending to edge her with my mouth until I extracted a promise from her that divorce was out of the question.

“I think I fell asleep.” Bianca stirred.

“That’s good.” That was good she probably didn’t hear me groaning her name while I jacked off to X-rated images of her.

Her eyes had a hard time staying open. She reached out her hand. I didn’t think she was even aware she did that. But I didn’t waste time as I slipped into bed, thirsty for a connection. She snuggled closer to me and grabbed that hand, cradling it against her cheek.

“We need to talk,” she whispered. “There was something else I wanted to ask you, but I forgot.”

“We can talk later.”

She didn’t respond. Her breathing evened out and I knew she was asleep again. My right hand was still trapped under her cheek. I didn’t want to move and wake her. I enjoyed watching her sleep. A smile touched the corners of my mouth. I was whipped for this girl. Always had been.

These past few days had changed the trajectory of our relationship, but I remembered the exact moment when I realized my affection for Bianca had morphed from fondness and protectiveness into something else.

Four Years Ago

Sandro, 28, Bianca, 19.

Sandro

I got into my car on a Boston side street. Housekeeping wouldn’t find the Russian arms dealer until morning. It was a straightforward kill:Inject him with a paralytic drug undetectable by tox screens, and let him drown in a bathtub. I’d studied his movements for days. I didn’t have to go through anybodyguards. He was on the run anyway because he’d pissed off the Moscow mob and ended up in a fleabag motel.

I sent an image of a very dead Russian to the one who hired me to confirm the kill.

A text immediately came back. “Confirmed.”

The family should get the 600K in their offshore account. Done with my part, I took out the sim card and smashed it along with the phone. I scattered the pieces for several blocks. The people willing to pay those contract prices wanted clean jobs. The work of professionals and not hooligans wanting to play at hit man. Under the radar of law enforcement like the feds, and definitely no publicity. We had a network of local cops in our pockets to bury these incidents in paperwork and solved cases filed under suicide.

I slipped out my other phone to text Tommy, but that was when I saw messages from Bianca.

Bianca

Can’t wait to see you toborow.

Want ice cram afterrrr!

My mouth twitched and I texted back.

You’d think Harvard would teach you how to spell.

I put the phone on the dash and started driving toward my hotel. Since the job was in Boston, I told Bianca I could meet her for lunch tomorrow. I missed that brat. Away from the watchful eyes of her dad and brothers, she was likely having the time of her life, probably breaking hearts left and right. Five minutes later, her reply came.

Shhorrry. I think I’m tipsy.

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