His Bold Seduction (Bloodlines & Betrayal #3)

4. Costantino

4

COSTANTINO

" U h, were those your parents?"

Isadora takes a box from me, her fingers deftly maneuvering the flaps as she starts putting it together. She shoots a quick glance back down the hallway, her expression revealing a fleeting moment of concern, but ultimately, she brushes it off. Her mom’s head pokes out from their bedroom, an inquisitive look on her face as she watches us, but Isadora seems unbothered. With a determined huff, she gets up to slam the door behind me, the sound echoing in the small space. A twist of the lock later, she turns back to face me, her demeanor shifting to one of frustration. "Yes. Unfortunately, they have a hard-on for controlling every aspect of my life."

As she begins tossing items into the first box with a mix of urgency and purpose, I set to work assembling the rest. "What exactly did you get me into, Isadora? Not that I mind," I add quickly, eager to close the distance between us, "but I feel like I'm missing a chapter."

She drops everything in her hands with a sigh, the sound heavy with exasperation, and strides over to the bedside table to grab a hair tie. In a matter of fifteen seconds, she pulls her golden locks into a high ponytail, securing it with practiced ease. “My parents have a sick obsession with my personal life. For some reason, what I do offends their delicate sensibilities. I think it’s pretty old-fashioned, but they don’t seem to agree. Do you care how many men I've slept with?” Isadora asks all of a sudden, her eyes narrowing slightly as she scrutinizes my reaction.

That seems like a silly question to me, almost absurd in its implications. "I mean, do you care about how many women I've slept with?" I counter, raising an eyebrow. People who get upset about the sexual history of their lovers always puzzled me. As long as I’m the only one Isadora is sleeping with now, I couldn't care a lick if she had slept with half of Vegas. Men parade their conquests without a second thought, and nobody bats an eyelash. Antonio, with his charm and reckless abandon, had screwed anything in a dress, and people clapped him on the back like he was some kind of hero. “No, I don’t care about the number of men you’ve been sexually active with,” I assure her, hoping to dispel any lingering insecurities.

"My father thinks I'm a whore,” Isadora says, her voice heavy with a mix of frustration and defiance. She pauses, taking a moment to collect herself, as if the weight of her words is almost too much to bear. “I didn't save my precious flower for marriage. I got pregnant out of wedlock. I continue living my slutty lifestyle despite the fact that he's eagerly sold me off to a man who is paying for me to remain chaste until our wedding day." The scoff that escapes her lips is laced with bitterness, and it tells me everything I need to know about her feelings towards the situation. "Do you care if I'm a whore?"

There's a hand resting precariously on her hip, a gesture that speaks volumes about her defiance and readiness to challenge any judgment that might come my way. She looks as if she wants to bring it up and give me the middle finger if I dare to express any concern about her sexual adventures. I take a breath, gathering my thoughts. "I care about a lot of things. I care about my ma; she's got some wicked arthritis and she's barely sixty. I care about the Bianchis, mostly because we all look out for one another and that's what you do in our world. I care about what I eat because I'm allergic to shellfish and peanuts, which has made dining out a bit of an adventure. I care about my dog; Norman is the sweetest, goofiest boy I've ever met, always wagging his tail and ready for a game of fetch. And I care about you, Isadora."

Before I even get a chance to finish my heartfelt answer, she hits me with the dreaded 'why.' Isadora shifts her weight from one foot to the other, her glare sharp enough to cut through the tension in the air. "Why do you care about me, Costantino? You don't even know me."

But I do know her. In the wee hours after our wedding, we didn’t merely tumble into bed and haphazardly hump each other's brains out until we fell into a satisfied sleep. There was a connection, something deeper that lingered in the air between us. "Do you remember the champagne?"

Confusion furrows her brow, and I can see the gears in her mind turning. She looks slightly taken aback, as if the question has pulled her from her defensive stance. "What?" Isadora asks sharply, her curiosity piqued, but the edge remains in her voice.

"Friday night. You, me, a bathtub full of bubbles." I took pulls from a bottle of Dom, carefree as if we were high schoolers who couldn't be bothered to find glasses, relishing in the moment. The truth was, we were intoxicated not just by the champagne, but by each other, caught in a whirlwind of newfound intimacy.

Isadora's cheeks flushed a deep crimson, and to combat her embarrassment, she rolled her eyes at me, a playful defense mechanism. "That didn't mean anything,” she insisted, trying to downplay the significance.

“That” was the sound of our laughter echoing off the bathroom walls, the way we giggled about trivialities that felt monumental in that moment; she made me feel young again, as if the weight of the world had lifted, even if just temporarily. Not that thirty-five is old, but it’s certainly getting there. "You never mentioned your engagement or that your parents had a whole life meticulously planned out for you. You shared dreams of running your own hotel one day, of aspirations that sparkled like the bubbles we were surrounded by. You think that means nothing, but I can’t tell you what half of my friends want to do with their lives. Not because I don’t care, but because we don’t have those intimate conversations. That has to count for something, Isadora.”

"And what do you want to do with your life?" She stepped closer, her anger simmering beneath the surface, her features tightening as she abruptly shifted the topic. My admission of knowing her so intimately, of understanding her desires, seemed to strike a nerve. "Because I don't recall you mentioning what you do, Costantino Bianchi. Do you run a gambling operation? Do you shake people down for money?" Her words dripped with skepticism, challenging me to reveal the truth behind my own facade.

As she closes the distance between us, the intoxicating aroma of her fresh, floral scent envelops me, drawing me in deeper. "Isadora," I start, attempting to halt her advance, but I quickly realize that I am no match for a lioness on the prowl, fierce and unyielding.

"Do you kill people? Is that why you can't tell me?" Her voice is low and laced with intensity as she inches closer, her skin nearly brushing against mine, sending sparks through the air. "The Bianchi family of murderers," Isadora taunts, her tone taking on an alluring edge that both unnerves and excites me.

I'm rock hard; I can't help but respond to her presence, a primal reaction that she elicits every single time she is near. "You don't know what you're talking about,” I mumble, my voice barely above a whisper, the weight of her question hanging heavy between us.

With deliberate slowness, Isadora traces a path along my arm with a single, teasing finger. My senses ignite with lust beneath her touch, igniting a fire within me I struggle to control. "Just tell me what you do,” she croons, her voice silky and inviting.

I have to clench my jaw, fighting the overwhelming urge to grab her and claim her right here, right now. Restraint is key; I remind myself that I must tread carefully. "My father owns a jewelry store in Miracle Mile," I finally reply, trying to keep my tone casual.

With a slight, seductive chuckle, Isadora shakes her head at me, a playful challenge dancing in her eyes. "No, I said what you do, Costantino. I don't care about your father," she insists, her determination palpable.

I've worked at his store before—cataloging inventory, setting up displays, even selling a few exquisite pieces. But the truth of my life is several leaps away from being just a jewelry salesman. "I'll tell you what I want to do," I say, attempting to redirect the conversation.

Isadora looks up at me through thick, dark eyelashes, her gaze piercing and uncompromising. "Not interested. You're avoiding what you do. So tell me what you do, or else I'm calling my dad in here to forcibly remove you." Her threat is playful, yet there's an edge of seriousness that sends a shiver down my spine, tightening the grip of tension between us.

For some reason, I don't believe that for a second. But maybe I owe her the truth, if only for a moment of honesty in this tangled web we find ourselves in. She doesn't need to know that Carlo hired me, at least not yet. Instead, she can know partial truths, just enough to satisfy her curiosity without revealing everything. That’s fair, right? "I'm a bounty hunter for the family," I say, the words slipping from my lips like a confession. For the right price, I'll find almost anyone you want, a statement that carries its own weight of meaning and consequence.

"See? That wasn't that hard, now was it?" she replies, her voice laced with playful triumph.

I can't control myself after that. Her teasing little voice sets me on fire, igniting something primal within me. I grab Isadora by the hips and pull her into me, feeling the warmth of her body radiate against mine. She grips the shirt on my chest, her fingers digging in as she looks at me with blazing eyes filled with intensity. "I care about you for reasons beyond my comprehension," I confess, the words tumbling out in a rush. "You stirred something inside of me the other night. You started a fire that I can't put out," I answer her original question, my heart racing in response to her proximity.

"Four," Isadora responds, catching me completely off guard. I blink in confusion, my mind racing to process her answer. She sees the bewildered expression on my face and grins, her confidence shining through. "I've slept with four men. You were the fourth."

For a girl as wild and unpredictable as Isadora, it sounds a little shocking to hear such a low number, but that's because I let my preconceived notions get the better of me. I realize now that I am guilty of doing what everyone else in her life has done to her: judging her without truly knowing her. Not that I cared about the number of men she’d been with, but I greatly overestimated the figure because I thought she was a wild girl, untamed and free. "Four or ninety-four, it doesn't matter. My opinion of you doesn't change," I assure her, my voice steady and sincere.

With her fingers curled tightly into my shirt, she pulls me toward her with a magnetic force. Our lips collide, and Isadora is quick to show her appreciation for my words, her passion igniting like a spark in the darkness. She acts as if she wants to devour me, her desire palpable in the air between us. Her tongue dances against mine in a passionate tango of hunger and lust, a rhythm that sends shivers down my spine and leaves me craving more.

"I thought we were packing," I pant as I pull away from her, desperately trying to regain my wits and the fleeting semblance of control I once had.

"Pack later," Isadora decides in the moment, her voice a sultry whisper, "fuck now."

If Carlo Rosetti knew that he was paying me to peel off Isadora's shirt, he would have me killed on the spot, no questions asked. But there is molten lava churning in my stomach, a throbbing, hot sensation that demands I give in to my impulses. Forget the money; this is about raw, unbridled desire.

With a surge of urgency, I push Isadora back toward the edge of the bed, feeling her knees buckle as they press against the wooden frame, the sound of creaking wood echoing our reckless abandon. She reaches into my pants, her fingers deftly exploring as she seeks out my erection. It takes her two hands to grasp all of me, but when she does, I am like putty in her grasp, melting under her touch. She strokes me with a practiced rhythm, bringing me close to the edge, then teasingly runs a thumb along the tip of my cock, a gesture that sends shockwaves of pleasure coursing through me.

Unlike Friday night, we don't engage in idle chatter or wine and dine one another in a bathtub while sipping champagne. No, this time we get right to the act itself, driven by a primal urge that overwhelms us both.

Our clothes practically fall away, forgotten relics of a moment long gone. I barely remember her unbuckling my pants; the memory slips through my fingers like sand. I can't recall taking off her bra, the details lost in a haze of desire. When did I lose my shoes? Yet, despite the hurried nature of our foreplay, seeing her naked is almost enough to make me weep. She is a stunning woman, taut in all the right places and curvy in all the rest, her body a masterpiece that ignites every longing I possess.

I lay her gently on the edge of the bed, the sheets cool against her skin, and plunge my finger deep inside her wet, waiting cunt. She latches onto me instantly, gripping my fingers with her kegel muscles in a way that sends shivers down my spine. I thrust back and forth inside of her, my movements primal and instinctive, while my free hand works its magic, massaging soft circles around her clit. Isadora's eyes are tightly closed, her lashes fluttering, and her head is tossed back, exposing the graceful curve of her neck as she succumbs to the sensations coursing through her.

Amidst the clutter of boxes and the looming chaos of her life potentially spiraling out of control, Isadora pushes all of that aside, focusing solely on the pleasure we’re creating together. Her cries fill the room, loud and full of raw passion, as she bucks her hips upward, desperately seeking more pressure from my fingers. If her mother and father are on the other side of the door, listening, it doesn’t seem to register in her mind; she is lost in this moment, lost in the waves of ecstasy.

Isadora is breathtaking. I don’t just mean that she’s physically attractive—though that is undeniably true. It’s her confidence, her unwavering fearlessness, that transforms her into a woman without match. I’ve never encountered someone who makes me feel the way she does. Touching her, being enveloped in her warmth, I feel an overwhelming surge of potential, as if I could conquer the world. There’s something about her presence that ignites a fire within me, making me feel more alive than I’ve ever felt in my entire life, as if every nerve ending is electrified by the mere act of being with her.

I lick her juices off my fingers one by one, savoring the sweet remnants of our intimacy. Isadora's eyes watch me from the bed, filled with a mix of exhaustion and amused contentment, as if she's both entertained and exhausted by our shared moment. "You act like I'm a piece of candy," she jokes, a playful smirk dancing across her lips.

She is sweet like spun sugar, delicate and tempting, and I can't help but feel entranced by her allure. "I would taste you every day for the rest of my life if I could," I confess, my voice thick with desire and sincerity.

Isadora invites me onto the bed, her gaze shifting to something more serious. "Don't talk about forever, Costantino," she says, her tone weighty for one fleeting moment, as if the concept itself carries a burden she struggles to bear. "Forever scares me."

Despite her fear of commitment, I believe I can break her of that trepidation. I can give her the world, a kaleidoscope of experiences and emotions that will shatter the confines of her worries. I can show her that the rest of her life doesn’t have to be stark and colorless; it can be vibrant and alive, every color of the rainbow swirling around us. "Let's just focus on right now," I say softly as I climb onto the bed, the warmth of her body beckoning me closer. Let me worry about forever, I think to myself, determined to be her anchor in the storm of uncertainty.