Page 77 of Where Wild Hearts Dance
My entire body stills, my hands paused on her shoulder blades. “You heard me.”
“Yes,” she says in a whisper. “I liked it.”
My cocks grinds against her ass and relief fills me. “You want to be my girlfriend?”
“I think I’d prefer it to being your brat.”
I bite my lip and rub myself up against her. “You’ll always be my brat, Tess.”
She smiles then buries her head into the comforter.Well, I guess that’s the mutual agreement box ticked.
I coat her in the oil and massage it into her skin, but I don’t take my time about it. My cock knows where it wants to be, and I don’t want to waste another minute. I unzip my slacks, part her thighs with my knee and push myself inside her. She releases a long, heavy whimperand her walls clamp around my dick, tightening my balls.
She lifts her bottom, taking my cock deeper, and a warmth drenches me in tingles. I lower my stomach to her back and settle in, driving into her slow and deep until she’s begging me with her breaths.
I flex my hips, hitting that tender spot inside her over and over until she screams into the pillow. Then I shove forward one last time, spilling myself into her thoroughly. I rest my forehead between her shoulder blades and release a blissed-out moan. “Yeah, you’re my girlfriend.”
The words come out hoarse and fractured and foreign, but they taste fucking pretty on my tongue.
Contessa
Four of us walk through the security gate into the Di Santo residence, dressed in our Sunday best, but each for very different reasons. Papa is heading to a business meeting straight after lunch; Allegra is determined to outshine Cristiano’s late mother’s second cousin; and Bambi has discovered fashion magazines and the teenage affliction that is raging hormones and rollercoaster self-esteem, which of course, can only be tempered by Abercrombie & Fitch.
I’m wearing my usual palette of black, the dress McQueen and the heels vintage Chanel, but the reasons for my efforts are different again.
These days, black feels authentic. I don’t feel like I’m dressing a part; this is genuinely me. I’m pretty dark, apparently. But I’m not in my dailyAmerican Apparel uniform; I’m wearing designer because I want to look sexy and I want to impress a certain consigliere.
I hold back behind Allegra and Bambi, only half-listening to Allegra’s monologue about Cristiano’s hostile yet strangely charismatic family, because Papa’s work call is also infiltrating my consciousness. Ever since Trilby told me his business is only safe now because of Cristiano, my interest in it feels weightier.
But, the real reason I’m hiding behind my aunt and sister is because I know Bernadi is going to be here and I have no idea how to be around him in public. No one knows we’re having a thing and I don’t particularly want word getting out just yet. If Papa and Cristiano found out Benito and I had slept together, they’d force us to marry, and I don’t want anyone to be put in that position. After I was put in the position of feeling obliged to give my virginity up, I know how that feels and the resentment it can cause.
Cristiano has arranged a get-together with his family and ours, to encourage us to “get to know one another” but after the car crash that was the party for Trilby’s engagement to Cristiano’s late brother, Savero, I don’t have high hopes for this lunch.
The sound of exuberant female voices reaches us before we round the corner to the terrace.
Allegra mutters something under her breath.
“Now, remember, we’re doing this for Trilby,” I remind our aunt.
We walk along the footpath crossing the lawn and I search frantically for Trilby or Cristiano. Aunt Allegraisn’t best known for her patience or tact, and both have the power to derail Trilby’s relationship with her soon-to-be in-laws.
Unfortunately, my view is restricted to that of three exuberantly curved olive-skinned women with bleached yellow hair—one around Aunt Allegra’s age, the other two late-thirties perhaps—a rotund man with a glistening sheen on his forehead and a large scotch in his hand, and two younger men I don’t remember seeing before. They’re both dark-haired, of Italian blood and as sworn in as the man whose house we’re gathering at. It’s obvious in the way they stand, the way their eyes dance over our bodies as Bambi and I approach, and the way one hand nurses a single malt in a lowball, while the other rests casually in their pockets, shielding any .45s from view.
Nervousness skitters down my spine at the thought of Benito seeing that look in their eyes. While the last three days have suggested many things to me regarding our relationship, the most prominent is that I’m not anyone else’s for the taking.
We didn’t leave the hotel room once. We slept, we talked, we ate, but mostly, we explored each other.
The more time I spent with Bernadi’s naked body, the more I learned about him. I learned that his cut muscles and defined form are a result of daily workouts, usually in his own house but while it’s under reconstruction, Cristiano’s. I learned that trailing my fingers down the side of his ribs earns me a sharp spank,while pressing my lips to his neck sends him into a mindless frenzy.
I learned that he hates eggs but eats three every day for protein. And that he loves chips so much I have to hide them so he doesn’t inhale the entire bag.
I learned that he can, and seemingly does, manage to function on four hours sleep, and that he can hold three phone calls at once discussing a varied mix of topics including architectural engineering, the legal ramifications of bribing government officials, and the intricacies of vehicle maintenance—specificallymyvehicle and my particular brand of maintenance, which is basically none at all.
I learned that once he’s made a decision about something, or someone, he doesn’t retract it easily, my car being a case in point. The second he decided it was now his problem, my protests fell on completely deaf ears as he orchestrated an army of people to fetch it, fix it, upgrade it and not let me anywhere near it until the former three stages were complete.
Despite everything I did learn, there are still things I didn’t learn, and not for a lack of trying. When I asked him how he became the consigliere to the Di Santo family, his gaze darkened and he changed the subject. He spoke fondly about Gianni, Cristiano’s late father and former don, but shut down the conversation when I asked him how they first met. And when I asked why he’d inked his entire chest with defensive depictions of electric fencing, snake bites and poison ivy, he threw ona T-shirt. I pouted like an actual spoiled child. So, naturally, I’m not going to askthatquestion again.
What I absolutely do know, however, is it is entirely possible to fall head over heels in total lust with an enemy within seventy-two hours, and discover erogenous zones I never knew I had. I don’t have much to compare him to, but he knew his way around me like he had a secret map, and his focus over the three days was squarely on discovering how many ways and how many times he could make me come. I was so exhausted when he returned me home, I skipped two dance classes and didn’t leave my room for a further three days.
