Page 13 of Mafia King
“Yes.”
He jams his cock into me so hard I bite back a scream of both pleasure and pain. The emotional gratification of complete physical surrender pushes up against my mental resistance. The friction between them is electric. He holds me down, pulls my hair, and fucks me as if I’m his property. His plaything. His birthright. Every thrust gets harder, asserting his dominance over deeper and deeper parts of me.
This isn’t a culmination of love, but the power to split me open and rip me apart—and I love it.
“Come on,” he grunts, riding me as if I’m a stubborn horse, grabbing my hip hard and pulling it into him while yanking my head back by the hair. “You going to be nice now?”
His reangled shaft goes deeper, rubbing new places, and all I can do is cry out when he reaches around and runs his fingertips against my swollen clit.
“That’s right,” he rumbles, going faster and deeper. “What I give. You.Take.”
Fuck him, but I can’t make words, just gasps, then whimpers, then finally a long groan as I shudder and come around him. He explodes so deep inside me, he’s writing his name on my soul.
Spent like his last dollar, I drop into a flat puddle. Without a word or moment to breathe, Santino pulls out while he’s still half-hard. I flip over, sore, used, empty and full, leaning back on my elbows, and watch him gruffly put his clothes back on.
“You are my wife.” He tucks his sex-slick cock into his pants. “You will cook for me. You will talk to me. You will trust me or you will be punished.”
“Being married to you is the punishment.”
Not impressed by my insult, he shrugs into his shirt. “You will suck my cock and you will open your legs for me.”
My knees relax apart as if obeying a command that my brain can’t filter out. I stop and consciously press them together.
Santino sees this, fixing his cuffs with a frown. “Youwillforgive me.”
“You going to open my heart for me too?”
With the quickness of a cat, he takes a knee in each hand and pushes them apart as far as they’ll go. As if he’s flipped an invisible switch, I’m lit up with desire.
“I will fuck you so blind you will never look at me this way again. I will fuck you so hard you won’t be able to speak another word of defiance. I am your husband. Do you understand? I can take what I want.”
“You can rot in hell.”
“I will. Every day I pray to God and the devil answers. You want me to rot in hell, but I don’t have to rot to know where my death will lead.” He lets me go, but my legs stay open for him, because I’m broken, and maybe I’ll rot with him. “We will go to mass tomorrow. Maybe you can light a candle for me.”
“Maybe you’ll get struck down at the door.”
Santino smirks and leaves.
I wait for the click of the lock, but it never comes, because despite my intentions, I’ve let him take me to his bed in his space.
The prison is no longer the house, and the warden isn’t Santino. It’s me, and I’m captive to the space between my legs.
I go to my own room to sleep. There, I dream that choices made are promises kept, and they have the power to overcome my body’s longings.
4
VIOLETTA
In the early morning, I am sore. The ache reminds me of that last morning in Italy—how I felt well-fucked. Like a woman. Like I could feel safe and satisfied being plundered. Now all it tells me is that I’m not as numb as I want to be.
The pool glimmers outside my bedroom window. How many summers did I spend sweating in my old bedroom, wishing I could go for a swim? Summer made me feel claustrophobic in a sheath of sticky skin. In front of the bedroom fan, I’d hitch up my long skirts and swing my bare legs or bend low, pulling down the neck of my shirt to dry the sweat between my breasts.
Santino’s palace is perfectly temperature-controlled, and still, I long for the sensation of managing my body’s own heat. So I slip into a bathing suit, hoping the chlorine or the cold will shock some sense into me. I doubt it though.
Dropping my towel onto a chaise, I stand at the edge of the pool. My shadow bends along the built-in steps, not quite touching bottom.
The pool is, inescapably, Santino’s domain.
