Page 80 of Shadows of Steel
When she emerges minutes later, her hair damp, wrapped in that maddening silk robe, I don’t move.
She doesn’t look at me as she heads for the closet, but she knows I’m watching. She always does.
I step into the bathroom next, leaving the door open.
The shower hisses as I let the scalding water wash over me, dragging my hands through my hair.
But my dick, hard and aching since the moment I saw her in that tiny fucking bikini, demands satisfaction. I need to take the edge off before I lose my goddamn mind.
Gripping my cock, I stroke slow at first, picturing my wife beneath me, those fucking lips parted, eyes dark with need, body open and ready for me to ruin. My breath deepens, muscles tensing as pleasure coils sharp and deep, twisting in my gut.
“Fuck, Harlow.” I groan, coming hard, my release coating my palm, spilling down my fingers as my body jerks with the force of it.
When I look up.
She’s standing in the doorway. Like I knew she would. Clad in a delicate summer dress and towering heels, her damp hair cascades down her back in silken waves. Her cheeks are flushed, her lips parted, and her wide eyes, fixed on me, betraying everything she refuses to say. She just had the privilege of a front row seat to my performance.
A slow, knowing smirk curves my lips.
“Did you enjoy the entertainment, Mrs Salvatore?”
Her throat bobs with a forced swallow, but she recovers quickly, masking whatever flustered reaction lingers beneath the surface. With a scowl, she turns sharply on her heel, vanishing into the room without another word.
I let out a low, dark chuckle, dragging a hand through my wet hair, utterly unbothered.
“There’s nothing more satisfying than unsettling my wife.”
The words leave my lips with a quiet smirk as I step out of the shower, dragging a towel around my waist. Water drips down my chest, trailing over defined ridges before disappearing into the thick fabric sitting low on my hips.
I don’t rush as I move into the closet, selecting something appropriate for the evening. I settle on a crisp black dress shirt, the top two buttons undone, sleeves rolled to my forearms, paired with dark tailored slacks.
As I step out of the closet, I glance back.
Harlow is still getting ready, seated before the vanity, slowly dragging a brush through her damp hair. The dress clings to her, pooling around her thighs like liquid temptation, a vision she doesn’t even try to weaponize, because she doesn’t have to.
I hold her gaze in the mirror. “I’ll see you at dinner.”
She gives a small nod, barely acknowledging me, but I catch the way her fingers falter against the brush. Satisfied, I leave, making my way towards the kitchen.
As I step inside, the room hums with quiet efficiency. Maids move swiftly, offering simple nods but keeping their gazes lowered, trained on their tasks. The scent of roasted meats and aged wine lingers in the air, mingling with the faint ocean breeze slipping in through the open terrace doors.
Bianca approaches with her usual grace. “Sir, I’ll have the dining table set shortly.”
I stop her with a look. “We’ll be dining outside, Bianca.”
She nods. “Of course, Don Salvatore.”
Because that’s what my wife apparently loves. Yet, I keep that to myself.
As I step onto the terrace, the evening air greets me, crisp, salted with the sea, laced with citrus.
A few feet away, Mario and Piero stand in quiet conversation, their postures easy yet sharp. At my approach, he smirks. “Boss. Enjoy your day off?”
I roll my shoulders, exhaling slowly. “Didn’t know I needed one.”
Piero remains silent, his posture as rigid as ever, presence controlled, the perfect soldier.
Mario chuckles, low and knowing. “Married life softening you already?”
