Page 115 of Rosetti Family New York
Slowly, I trace patterns on her bare skin with my fingertips. She sighs contentedly, closing her eyes.
“Why not?” I ask.
Besiana opens her eyes to meet mine. "Don't you have work?"
"Work can wait," I say without hesitation. “First, you need breakfast.”
She smiles then, soft and genuine, reaching up to gently caress my cheek. I press my lips to her forehead and then reach across and pick up the phone to order.
A lazy smile tugs at her lips as she watches me speak softly into the receiver.
The knock on our door comes sooner than expected, a hotel waiter carrying a silver tray laden with a stack of pancakes, syrup dripping off the sides, and a large bowl of vanilla ice cream.
When the waiter leaves, she cocks an eyebrow at me. "Ice cream? For breakfast?"
"Anything for you," I tell her. “And don’t you ever forget it.”
I wait patiently while she nibbles on her pancakes, sipping on my coffee until I judge she has eaten enough for now, then I scoop out a huge spoonful of ice cream and hold it to her nipple, using my other hand to make sure she doesn’t move away.
“What the—?”
“Shh, caro,” I murmur, intent on watching her perfect nipple harden into the cold of the ice cream.
“You’re making a mess,” she protests.
“I’ll clean it up,” I growl, leaning forward to lick the ice cream off her breast.
She giggles.
Next, I drizzle maple syrup onto her breasts, watching it drip off them and land on her legs, on the sheets, down her belly.
“You’re making even more of a mess now,” she jokes, but her voice is turning husky, losing that giggly edge.
“Good thing I’m hungry,” I reply, my voice thick with desire. My tongue follows the trail of syrup, swirling around her nipple before I suck it into my mouth. She gasps, arching into me, her hands finding their way into my hair.
Her laughter becomes a gasp and then a moan as I work my way down her body, tasting every inch of her.
Her body is my feast, my playground, and I lose myself in the taste of her.
Suddenly, the bed is too small for my growing need to possess her again. My lips move lower, tracing the ridges of her stomach, dipping into her navel. She writhes beneath me, and it's music to my ears.
“I want you,” I murmur against her skin, my hands slipping under her thighs to spread her legs open. “Now.”
My lips close around the sensitive bud of flesh between her legs, and she gasps again. Her fingers tighten in my hair as I lick and suck, driving her towards the edge with a ruthless determination. The sweet taste of syrup on her skin mixes withher unique flavor, and I’m addicted. She’s soft sighs and sharp gasps, nails digging into my shoulders as she arches off the bed. Her legs wrap around me, pulling me closer, desperate for more.
She trembles and cries out as she comes. The world outside this penthouse still exists, I’m sure, but right now I don’t fucking care.
20
Besiana
Gray light weighs down everything as I walk up to my father’s house. The building, the men guarding it, the windows watching from above. I’m heavy too. As though someone replaced my blood with concrete and told me to run. My father will be in his office. His favorite knife—a blade older than I am—will be on the desk, gleaming like a third eye. I rehearse my lines with every step. “I won’t spy for you anymore,” I mutter under my breath. “I’m out.” The betrayal crawls over my skin, his eyes on me already. But I have to do this.
I’m dressed perfectly. Every line precise. A new suit, sharp and dark. A new coat, luxurious and expensive. Italian. A designer favored by the Rosettis. There’s comfort in wearing them here, on enemy soil. If it all goes to hell, I’ll go down wrapped in a declaration of war.
A man in a dark suit opens the front door. He’s new, clean-shaven, and enthusiastic. “Good morning, Miss Dushku.” He stares like he’s memorizing me, in case he needs to report on what I’m wearing and how I look.
I smile without meaning it. “For now,” I say.
