Page 11 of Wicked Sinner
By the time I reach my penthouse, I've almost convinced myself that's true. Almost.
I pour myself a drink—whiskey, neat—and stand at the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the bay. The sun is setting,painting the sky in shades of orange and pink, and I try to focus on the beauty of it instead of the memory of honey-blonde hair and hazel eyes.
My phone buzzes with a text from Konstantin:Dinner tomorrow night. I'll give you a list of some potential candidates. Dress appropriately.
I stare at the message for a long moment before typing back:Understood.
This is my life now. Strategic dinners and arranged meetings, and a marriage that's half-chosen for me and will probably be heavily influenced by Konstantin’s wishes. It's what I signed up for when I decided to come back, even if I didn't realize it at the time. I guess I didn’t exactly know what to expect. After all, it’s not as if I internalized my father’s lessons, or as if I didn’t run at the first chance that presented itself.
I take another sip of whiskey, letting the burn of it ground me. Tomorrow I'll meet with Konstantin. I’ll look at his list, and I’ll research the women and I’ll treat it like the project it is. The first of many projects, I’m sure, that I’ll be responsible for now that I’m the Genovese don. I’ll find someone I can tolerate, someone who can help me build the alliances I need, who can play the role of the perfect mafia wife.
Someone who isn't Bridget.
5
BRIDGET
The next morning, I wake up sore in places I'd forgotten could be, and some that have never been sore before.
Every muscle in my body aches as I roll over in bed, wincing at the sharp reminder of last night's activities. My thighs burn, the soft flesh between them is tender, and that delicious soreness sends heat spiraling through me as I feel it in every muscle.
Oh my god, what did I do?
It’s not as if I don’t remember it. I remember it all too well, actually. I bury my face in my pillow, groaning as my body tightens with the clear memory of howgoodit all was. Caesar Genovese. The Ferrari. The way he looked at me, like I was something he wanted to devour. The way hediddevour me, right there on the hood of his car in my garage, doors wide open to the night air.
I've never done anything like that in my life. Never had a one-night stand with a stranger, never let someone talk to me the way he did, never responded to anyone the way I responded to him. The things he said, the way he touched me, the way he made me feel—it was like nothing I'd ever experienced before.
And it was probably the stupidest thing I've ever done.
No harm done, though, right?I tell myself. He didn’t seem like the kind of guy to pester me for a second round—although if he did, I can’t be sure that I wouldn’t say yes. It would be hard to turn him down after the way he made me feel last night.
I didn’t know sex could be like that. I didn’t know it was possible to come that hard, to feel anything close to the kind of sensations that Caesar dragged out of me. I have a distinct feeling that sex with anyone else is going to be downright disappointing after that.
I’ll have to give it some time, let the memory ebb a bit, before I find some poor guy to follow that up.
I drag myself out of bed, my legs shaky as I make my way to the bathroom. One look in the mirror and I can see evidence of what happened written all over my body. There's a faint bruise on my hip where his fingers gripped me, marks on my thighs from his stubble, and there’s even a bite mark on my shoulder. Luckily, nothing that can’t be covered up, but just seeing the marks makes a strange feeling wash over me.
He fucked me like he was claiming me. Like he owned me. I touch my lips, remembering the way his tongue swept through my mouth, the way he groaned when I kissed him back.
The sound he made when I wrapped my lips around his?—
And thepiercings.
I shake my head, raking my hands through my hair as I go to turn on the shower. I need to stop this. I need to stop thinking about him, stop replaying every moment of last night in my head like some kind of masochist. It was one night. One incredible, mind-blowing night that I'll never forget, but it's over. Done. He's gone, and I'm never going to see him again. Hanging on to the memory of it like a fantasy is only going to serve my love life in the future poorly.
It’s for the best that I won’t see him again, I remind myself firmly as I step into the shower. The hot water stings the tender places on my body, but it feels good too, like it's washing away the evidence of my temporary insanity.
Caesar Genovese is exactly the kind of man I don't need in my life. Rich, arrogant, used to getting whatever he wants, whenever he wants it. The way he showed up at my shop, demanding I fix his car, waving money around like it could solve any problem—that's not the kind of man I want to build a relationship with.
Hell, it’s not the kind of man I want to give any more access to me at all. One night is one thing, but to let him think he could keep coming back…
I bite my lip, remembering how hard he made me come. How his tongue felt between my legs. I reach down as the hot water cascades over me, sliding my fingers in between the tender folds of my pussy.
I’m too sore to slip them inside of me. It wouldn’t be enough anyway, not with the memory of his thick, pierced cock pounding into me while I screamed his name last night. But I roll my fingers over my clit, tilting my head against the tiled shower wall as I let the desire consume me again.
So I’m not going to see him again. That doesn’t mean I can’t use him to have a few more good orgasms from the memory of it.
It takes me a shamefully short amount of time to come thinking about him. All it takes is the memory of his pierced cock in my mouth, his tongue sliding over my pussy, and the sight of his tattooed, muscled body looming over me as he slid all that thick, decorated length inside of me to make me cry out and shudder, fingers rubbing frantically between my legs as I come again, hard, to the thought of Caesar Genovese.
