Page 31 of One Filthy Kiss

I slap her ass through her shorts. “This will never do, fiore. I want to see you when I fuck your brains out.”

Hergiggle sends a thrill of excitement through me. She straightens and drags her T-shirt over her head. She’s naked underneath. She twists her upper body around to kiss me over her shoulder, and I crush her breasts with my hands, squeezing her nipples between my fingers.

“Is that a promise?” she asks, her voice husky.

“Always.”

My fingers find the zipper of her shorts. I drag them down over her hips and past her knees, adding them to my discarded pants. She’s wearing a black thong with tiny diamantes stitched into the back. I tug the thong over her ass with my teeth and reach around her hips to cup her pussy with one hand, inserting a finger inside her.

“You’re dripping, Meggie.”

The thong comes off. I’m too impatient. I wish I could take her with me to Sicily, but for now, I want to taste every inch of her so that I can carry this memory with me while I’m gone.

With my free hand on the back of her neck, I push her back onto all fours, my finger finding its way deeper inside her. I slide it out and rub it between her lips.

“That’s all you, fiore.”

“Hmm,” she groans, gripping my hand tightly and licking me clean.

Then, spreading her ass wide, I murmur, “I’m going in.”

She supports her upper body on her forearms, and spreads her knees apart to let me in. Her pussy tightens when I slide my tongue inside her. She is already panting. I find her clit and suck until my lips are numb and her body is jerking with the power of her orgasm.

I don’t give her a chance to recover.

I ram my cock inside her all the way. She buries her face in the blankets, her hands scrunching the material tightly.

Leaning over her, I stick my tongue in her ear and whisper, “Come for me, amore. Come all over me.”

My hips pound against her ass until we both collapse into a sweaty spent heap in front of the window, then I wrap my arms around her and hold her close to me, our limbs entwined, her hair tickling my face.

The heat hits me the instant I step out of the private jet in Sicily.

Sandro, the driver employed by my father since I was a little kid, is waiting for me with the family Alfa Romeo, windows rolled down to allow the Sicilian breeze in when we’re on the road.

“You’re looking well, Giovanni,” he says as we take the road to Don Calderone’s hilltop villa. “Will you be staying a while?”

He doesn’t need to remind me that I’ve been spending less and less time at the family home since our parents died. I hear it in his voice, the unspoken words. The heir to the Sabatelli family’s business is neglecting the home and the life that gave me the privileges I now enjoy in another country.

“A couple of days.”

He keeps his eyes on the road. “And will you be back in the summer?”

“I haven’t planned that far in advance.” It’s a copout, and we both know it.

“My wife and I,” he begins. “We miss you. We miss your smile, and your laughter, and your gratitude.”

I imagine that he doesn’t see much of that from Bianca and Enzo.

Sandro’s wife, Giulia, has been our housekeeper since I was born. Our family home is as much their home as it is ours, and I couldn’t imagine a world without them in it. Even though I don’t visit as often as I should, their familiar presence is always in the back of my mind. I am comforted knowing that they are always there taking care of our home.

We don’t speak much for the remainder of the journey. Our silence is comfortable, like old friends with a lifetime of shared experiences knitting them together.

He drops me off outside Don Calderone’s impressive remote villa with a promise to return when I am ready to be collected. It has always worked this way between us; he knows me and my siblings better than we know each other, and he will be waiting for me when my meeting with the retired mafia boss is concluded.

Don Emiliano Calderone is waiting for me on the rear veranda in the shade of a fragrant lemon tree overlooking his olive groves. The villa is large, the exterior walls whitewashed to reflect the heat, the plants vibrant, a family home that should be filled with the laughter of their grandchildren. But instead, it is silent apart from the shrill hum of the grasshoppers and the birds calling to each other from the treetops outside the windows.

“Giovanni.” He rises and pulls me into a bearhug, kissing both cheeks before sitting back down in his rocking chair. “You are looking well, despite the New York climate and pollution.”