Page 36 of Until You Break
He tried to wrench away. I squeezed his hand tighter over me, made him feel how hard I was. “You’re dripping across marble for me, and I’m still hard enough to split you in half.”
“Bastard,” he spat, cheeks hot, eyes blazing.
“Say thank you,” I murmured, releasing him only when he trembled. I zipped him back into place, buttoned him immaculate, wiped my slick fingers across his tie so the silk wore his stain. Then I smoothed his collar and curls like a husband fixing his groom.
His jaw flexed. His eyes cut sharp at me, wet and furious. He drew breath like he was going to spit in my face.
I caught his chin before he could, squeezing hard until his lips parted under the pressure. “Go ahead,” I growled, grinning. “Spit at me. I’ll make you lick it back up off the marble while I fuck your throat. You want that show for your father’s friends?”
His pulse slammed against my thumb, his breath ragged.
I bent and dropped a filthy kiss on him anyway, tongue deep, grinding the taste of his own surrender between his teeth. He tried to turn his head so I pinned him harder, kissed him until spit smeared his mouth glossy. When I pulled back, a thin string clung between us, obscene.
“Good boy,” I murmured against his lips. “Even when you want to hate me, you open up.”
I caught his chin tighter, forcing his head back against the mirror until he saw himself ruined. My thumb stroked once over the curve of his lip, mock-gentle, the kind of touch that made surrender feel inevitable.
I angled his chin toward the mirror again, forced him to stare. His tie ruined, lip bitten raw, sink sprayed obscene with what I had wrung from him. Shame reddened his throat deeper than my teeth ever could. “That’s you,” I murmured. “That’s mine.” He blinked hard, like he could deny the reflection, but the mirror didn’t lie.
“Smile.” I brushed his bitten lip with my thumb. “They’re waiting. And I want them to see exactly what I just did to you.”
He tried to wipe the sink clean with his sleeve, but I caught his wrist before fabric met porcelain. “Leave it,” I ordered. “Let them smell what you spilled when they walk in here next.” His throat worked, furious, but he dropped his eyes.
I straightened his collar, laced my fingers through his, and pulled him toward the door. Every step bent the air tighter, laughter clipped off sharp, glasses paused mid-air, eyes dragging to follow. Gossip licked fast through the room, faster than champagne poured, Bellandi whispers feeding on Valenti shame. Good. Let them watch. I wanted them to see the leash, the stain, Emilio walking because I told him to.
“My husband and I are done entertaining,” I said, voice carrying easy across the room.
Laughter rippled, uneasy, sycophantic, sharp with curiosity. I felt his pulse hammering in my grip, but he didn’t pull away. He couldn’t.
Outside,the night air was warm and faintly salted from the coast. Flashbulbs popped in the distance as guests filtered toward their cars. I opened the back door of mine and waited. He hesitated like there was a choice, then slid in without looking at me.
The driver pulled us away from the venue, the hum of the engine swallowing the silence. Emilio shifted once, subtle, as if to ease the discomfort of his stained trousers, but the move only reminded him—and me—of the bathroom. His reflection caught in the window glass, tie ruined, mouth bitten, hair disheveled. He flinched at his own image before dragging his gaze away. I let it burn into him anyway. His ruined reflection looked like art, wreckage worth framing, proof of how far he had already fallen from the boy who once sketched in silence.
I let the silence stretch before I broke it. “Look around you. This is Bellandi territory,” I said, low. “Every street. Every corner. Every name that matters.”
“And what am I? Another street you’ve claimed?”
“Worse. You’re the city I burn if you disobey.”
He scuffed at that, but I caught the way his ears flushed.
Cute.
We slid deeper into Palermo’s evening heart, the city bleeding light like a slow spill. Lamp gold slicked the cobbles, the stone still held the day’s heat. Shutters rattled down, the air kept the smell of grilled meat and sugar, of char, fennel and fried dough. A boy chalked a goal on a wall and pretended not to look at our car. An old woman watered basil on a balcony, eyes sharp, nodding at the crest on my door before she nodded at the moon.
We rolled past Gelateria Romano, green awning striped and sun-faded, neon cursive buzzing like a lazy wasp. “Romano’s been here since before I could walk. His pistachio will make you forget your own name. When I was sixteen, I caught his nephew skimming the till. Romano didn’t ask questions when I corrected the habit. He still thanks me for keeping him honest.”
I let my gaze drag over him. “You like ice cream, piccolino?”
He turned his head, wary. “Why?”
“Because I could sit you on that bench and feed you pistachio with my fingers. Melt running down your wrist. My mouth on it before yours. You wouldn’t taste the gelato, just me.”
His stomach tightened traitorously, a flash of hunger tangled with nausea. He hated that his body answered even when his mouth refused. “You turn everything into a threat. Even ice cream.”
“That’s because everything melts when I touch it. You will too.”
He tried to hide it behind the glass, but his knee edged away from mine like distance could save him.
