Page 79 of Blood Debt
I steady myself on his chest, the hard muscle flexing beneath my palms. Slowly, I rock my hips forward, feeling the thick slide of his cock almost out, then sinking all the way back down until I’m seated fully, my clit grinding against the base of him. The sensation rips a shiver through me, my thighs trembling as wetness gushes around him.
He watches me with raw hunger, hands gliding up my waist until his thumbs rest just under my breasts. Then he leans up and takes one nipple into his mouth, sucking deep.
The shock of it makes me cry out, my hips jerking, driving his cock deeper into me. His tongue teases circles before his teeth graze, and I grip his shoulders, nails digging into his skin as heat flashes through me.
I start to move faster, riding him hard. My pussy grips him tight, clenching with each downward thrust, the wet sounds of our bodies filling the air. His groans vibrate against my breast, his jaw tightening as he sucks harder, moving from one nipple to the other, leaving my skin wet and tingling.
Sweat beads down my spine, sliding between my shoulder blades, my hair clinging damp to my temples. The airbetween us is hot, thick with the slap of my ass against his thighs and the needy moans spilling from my throat. Every time I drop down on his cock, I feel him bottom out, stretching me so deep my cries rise into sharp, broken sounds.
I collapse forward, wrapping my arms around his head, pressing his mouth harder against my chest as I ride him. His hands dig into my hips now, guiding me, thrusting up to meet me, fucking me from below until the rhythm turns relentless. My pussy is desperate, clenching tighter, chasing release, while my nipples throb under the suction of his mouth.
The world blurs into heat, sweat, and the pounding of his cock inside me. My moans turn into ragged cries, my body breaking apart piece by piece as the pleasure coils higher, threatening to shatter me.
****
The sheets are still warm from him when I slip back in with the glass of water. Cristofano is sprawled against my pillows, bare skin against the pale linen, the lines of his chest and shoulders loose in rare idleness. He watches me with that unblinking focus that makes it impossible to pretend I’m just a maid again.
I pass him the glass, and his fingers brush mine as he takes it. He drinks slowly, eyes never leaving me, then hands it back. Before I can retreat, he catches my wrist and tugs me down to sit beside him. His mouth finds mine without warning, deep and heated.
“You’ll pass out if we go again,” I murmur against his lips, trying for lightness.
“Try me,” he says, a ghost of a challenge in his tone.
I cup his chin, the stubble catching faintly against my palm. For a moment, I let myself imagine—just imagine—what it would be like if everything were different.
“After your day off,” he says suddenly, voice dropping, “I want to ask you to marry me.”
I stiffen. “Stop the madness.”
His gaze sharpens. “You have another lover?”
Inside, the answer rises unbidden—no one’s ever caught my eye the way you do. But I bite it back, pressing my lips together.
He smiles, slow and certain, as if he’s already read the truth in my face. “We’ll sort things out. It’s you I want, Elia.”
He leans in, kisses me with a surprising gentleness, and when he draws back, one eyebrow lifts in a silent question. Against my better judgment, I nod. “Okay.”
Cristofano pulls me into his chest, tucking me under his arm like I belong there. His breath warms my hair as he murmurs, “I think I’m in love with you.”
“No, you’re not,” I say quietly.
Inside, the truth burns: I have to kill you. I need to live for our daughter. The man holding me is a merciless mafia boss, the man who killed my friend, the man who threatened Bianca’s life.
I remind myself, as his lips press a tender kiss to my forehead, that he is a monster.
****
The gates of Bellarosa Estate loom behind me, wrought iron twisted into the family crest. The gravel crunches under my boots until it gives way to the smooth asphalt of the long privatedrive. Rows of manicured cypress trees march on either side, their shadows cutting sharp lines across the morning light.
The cool air smells faintly of roses from the gardens I’ve spent the past month pretending to tend. I keep my chin high, walking like I’m headed nowhere urgent.
By the time the private road spills into the main one, I can feel it—someone’s eyes on my back. I glance in the reflection of a shop window. A man, tall and broad-shouldered, in a dark jacket and mask, is following at a steady pace. Not close enough to trip alarms, but close enough to make his point.
I cross the street, hail a taxi.
“Southern Cross Station,” I tell the driver, sliding into the backseat with my bag in my lap.
The masked man doesn’t break stride—he’s on the opposite sidewalk when we pull away, and his head turns to watch the cab go.
