Page 60 of Love to Defy You
Is it the wine or his touch making me heady? Whatever the reason, I’m finding it difficult to resist him, especially after he almost fucked me on the sofa earlier. I was finally about to break my celibacy streak, and when Prisha interrupted us, it left me aroused and unsatisfied for the rest of the day.
I lick my lips and take another sip of wine as Alek feathers his finger along my bare slit. Yep, I opted to go commando tonight, and right now, I’m not sure if I regret it or not.
He lets out a soft hum I pray no one can hear.
Without looking, I feel Enzo’s eyes on me, as if they’re boring through the wooden table to watch Alek touch me. I’m sure Alek knows we have an audience, which means he’s doing this to make it clear to Enzo who I belong to.
But he’s also making something clear to me—Alek will make me come athisleisure, and even if I try to resist, he’ll wear me down eventually. He enjoys the long game, the thrill of the chase, and tonight, Alek will emerge the winner in a pissing match I started with him.
Losing has never felt so good.
But he doesn’t venture any further than his gentle caress. When the second course is cleared and the third course arrives, Alek removes his hand, leaving my pussy lips swollen with need.
The server sets down a plate of fried fish in front of me with pomegranate seeds and garnish. I take a bite, and it’s delicious.
“Are you enjoying our Russo-Andarusian cuisine, Messina?” Alek asks.
The table grows quiet. Everyone turns their head toward Enzo for his response.
He chuckles. “At the risk of sounding rude, I must admit I find it rather bland. A result of my upbringing, I’m afraid. I prefer the more vibrant flavors of my native Sicilian cuisine.”
“Yes, I can understand that,” Alek concedes. “Sicilian cuisine was shaped by the different cultures that conquered the island over the centuries. I’d argue that Sicilian flavors were stolen from Arab, Greek, and Spanish cuisine, along with all the other invaders, though there are too many to count. No real identity of its own, unlike Russian cuisine.”
Enzo pauses with his wineglass at his mouth. “That’s an interesting take. But what can I say? I’m loyal to my mother’s cooking.”
As for the rest of us onlookers, our heads whip back and forth as though we’re watching a Ping-Pong ball volley across the table between opponents.
“Perhaps you’ll find the next course more to your liking.” Alek swirls his wine by the stem of the glass. “Your people like pasta, yes?”
“Of course,” Enzo says. “When done right.”
Their conversation lulls. Silence fills the room, only punctuated by the tinkling piano music in the background and the light clinking of plates floating in from the kitchen.
Mikhail clears his throat. “I’m looking forward to the Kurochkins’ famousmedovik. I look forward to it every year.”
“Honey cake,” Alek explains for the rest of the table. “It’s quite delicious, isn’t it, Ana?”
She startles at her name. “Oh, ah, yes. Quite.”
“Shall I send some home with you toMat’?“ Alek asks. “I’d relish ruining her figure.”
Ana lets out a nervous laugh that quickly dies. She might not know the details of Alek and Enzo’s feud, but the tension is so palpable that it’s impossible to be ignorant of it. The air in the room is charged with hostility.
We slowly return to our small clusters of conversation, and I raise my wineglass at the server to ask for a refill.
For the next dish, the staff servepelmeni, which are small, meat-filled dumplings in a light broth. The fourth course passes without incident, and for the fifth course, a full suckling pig—head and all—is carried out to the table. We politely clap when it’s presented to Alek, and one of the servers passes him a butcher knife and a double-pronged metal skewer.
Alek stands up with the carving set in his hands. “This used to be my father’s responsibility, but now it seems that duty falls on me.” He shoves the skewer into the pig’s rear end before raising the butcher knife up high. He brings it down on the pig’s neckand starts to saw, and he doesn’t stop until the head is fully detached.
The whole process is rather grotesque, and I recoil as the head rolls on the platter, its dead, glazed eyes staring at me.
We clap again when he’s done, although Enzo puts his hands together twice before returning them to his lap. Alek sharpens the knife blade on the skewer with agile motions before handing them back to the server. The staff carries the pig back to the kitchen to continue the full carving.
Alek takes his seat and settles back in the chair. “Speaking of fathers, Enzo, tell me about yours.”
I nearly spit out my wine, but I end up choking on it instead and start coughing. Prisha pats my back to help me recover.
Enzo gives a tight-lipped smile. “I’m afraid I never knew my father.”
