Page 110 of Mafia Obsession

“I need to fuck you all night.” His finger presses on my back hole. “I will take you here, too. You will let me break you with filthy sex. Because I’m yours, too, Lourdes. Every part of me.”

Shuddering, I’m nodding without fully grasping how a man of his size will fit.

Ares helps me out of the tub, and after a brisk toweling, he lifts me so that my legs are wrapped around his waist. He brings me to the bed, kissing me the whole way, and when he lays me down, I catch his eyes.

He groans, looking at me on the bed, wet and ready. He doesn’t bother to remove his clothes. His shirt unbuttoned, barely down his arms, the cuffs caught on his wrists, his pants just below his waist, he enters me in one quick thrust.

Ares fucks me through another orgasm until his own has him roaring my name. It’s loud and feral and, I think I caught him adding Zervas to the end of it…

Chapter 43

Lourdes

Iwake up in the luxurious hotel bed. The bed where Ares made love to me over and over again throughout the night. I finally feel like I belong to him on my terms.

But I’m alone, and now I can’t stand being without him.

I slip on a shirt of his from yesterday. The smell of his cologne teases me as I peek into the hallway that connects the suite bedrooms to the living room area. I hear his voice and expect to find him on the phone, back to work, ruling his kingdom.

Approaching the living room, I stop when I hear the low murmur oftwomale voices beyond the partially closed doors to this hallway. I assume he’s got someone on speaker and that it’s business, something separate from me.

No. The voice isn’t from a speaker. There is a man sitting there. And as I look closer into the living room, I see folders and documents spread across the room’s meeting table. None of it fully connects with what my eyes are seeing until I catch my sister’s photograph dangling, clipped to one open folder.

The air in my lungs thins out.

“You’re a physician,” Ares says to the man. “What do these medical records tell you?”

“Long-term residential stabilization is not the aggressive neuro-rehabilitative intervention this patient needs,” an older man in a suit and tie seated across from Ares says in a measured clinical voice.

My hands begin to tremble. I had been fine with Ares making calls, sending medical records, and leveraging his influence across cities and continents for Sandrine. That’s who he is. And I agreed to be part of his world. What I wasn’t prepared for was waking to find my sister’s life being discussedwithout me.

When I take another step forward, the movement registers in Ares’s peripheral vision. He turns his head, and our eyes lock as I stand there wearing only his shirt. Whatever expressioncrosses my face is enough to make him rise instantly from his chair. Possibly more than my bare wobbly legs.

“Lourdes,” he says, already obliterating the space between us, already reading my sanity fracturing. “You’re not dressed.”

“You flew a doctor here?” I manage, keeping my voice low even as a sharp bite to betrayal twists in my chest. “Without discussing it with me?”

He reaches for me but doesn’t touch me immediately. He wisely understands that I need the space to speak before I can bear his hands on me.

“You were asleep,” he answers evenly.

“You don’t make decisions about my sister without me,” I say, my hands balled into fists.

“You’ve been through so much.” He gently squeezes my shoulder.

Didn’t stop you from fucking me senseless last night.

“You don’t understand,” I say, going for that lethal calm I learned from him. “Her real identity is a secret. I don’t know why. I don’t know who or what my father was protecting her from. But I know it matters. She can’t be exposed, Ares.”

“Doctors swear privacy oaths.” He takes my hand now.

By the steadiness in his expression, it’s not to restrain me or to silence me but to simply guide me toward the table and be part of the discussion.

“Charles, this is my future wife, Lourdes, the patient’s sister,” Ares says, his voice dripping with possession. “You will address her directly.”

The man, who I recognize as Dr. Charles Masters, thehead of neurologyat the New York Center for Adults with Disabilities, rises from his chair. “Nice to meet you, Lourdes.”

“Hello,” I say, gob-smacked.