14. Salvatore
14
Salvatore
Anybody ever tries to brag to me about running a marathon, I’ll laugh in their fucking face. Endurance is working myself between this gorgeous woman’s legs, burying my cock deep in the tightest heat imaginable, and still pushing her through to a slow, hard finish.
That untapped pussy is a physical pleasure palace and a mental torture device.
For weeks, she’s tempted me, kept me on a razor’s edge. If she weren’t a vice, forcing me to be vigilant for both our sake’s, I don’t know if I could have seen this through in one session.
Lucky for her (and her cunt) I’m a stubborn son of a bitch, too accustomed to getting what I want. I know how to compromise, but I don’t relent easily.
What I want tonight is to see her undone—to force all that ugly pain out of her, until all she can feel is me moving inside her, until she has worship in her eyes and a prayer on her lips.
I open her up, carving her out. I make room for myself inside her. One day, I’ll fuck her in earnest, fuck her the way that I want. But she’s not ready for that. It would be a greedy mistake to try tonight. For her first time, this is enough. I fuck her deep and steady, treat her pussy to the first taste of its future.
She takes it so well.
I’ve had experienced women occasionally struggle and whine, getting ahead of themselves when they think they know better than I do.
But Contessa is patient, lets me take charge of her, take care of her.
And I get to feel it all, right there between her legs, as she gives herself over to me one little bit at a time, until she falls deep into the fantasy of her own instincts. I bury myself deep inside her, watching the way her eyes lock onto me as I twist up our pleasures together, the snap of our hips loud and desperate.
Finally, Contessa’s desperate shout fills the room, but I feel her finish more than I hear it.
The spastic grip of her walls seizing up, trying to tighten around a girth that won’t give as she cries out for me. I bury myself deep, losing myself in the feeling of her pleasure, the sound of her scream as I drive her over the edge.
My hips snap roughly in those last moments. Orgasm softens her up even more, and I bury myself deeper between those open legs, chasing her pleasure with my own. With more fierce thrusts, I pin her legs back and push deep, giving her exactly what she begged me for as I come hard inside her.
For a tense moment, we stay locked like that, pouring my pleasure straight into her cunt.
Our eyes meet, expressions raw and savage. I swear that pussy tries to milk me dry, like she wants every drop I give her.
When I pull out, Contessa groans, as if I’m dragging part of her out with me. I roll off her, onto the other side of the bed.
I can drink in cold clarity for the first time in what feels like days, weeks, months. As if I had been waiting for this moment since the beginning of time.
No pussy should be able to do that, no matter how good.
Icy satisfaction runs up against the heat she puts in me.
I ignore my bullshit and refocus on the girl gaining back her breath beside me.
She hasn’t even had the sense of mind to close her legs yet.
I scrub my fingers through her wild hair, pushing it away from her face so I can see her. I am braced for the storm, for whatever flood of emotions might come pouring out of the girl in the aftermath now that there’s no going back.
“You okay?” I ask once she finally looks my way. She nods, but I don’t fully trust her judgment. “Come here, princess. Let me feel.” I run my hand between her legs. She twitches, over-sensitive still. My fingers come away wet but not bloody.
“Does it hurt?”
“It’s not too bad.”
In my language, that still means yes.
I move to get her something to take the edge off.
“Wait,” she says, as the mattress shifts, her hand curled on my arm. “Will you stay with me? Just for a little while.”
In the aftermath of her first time, Contessa gets what she wants. Whatever she wants. I don’t typically work in terms of fairness , but if she gives herself over to me, I have to reward that. Reinforce it. Make it the lucrative, easy option that it is.
Contessa curls up against my side, resting her head on my chest as I lean back into the pillows. She drifts in the aftermath for a few minutes, both of us taking in the silence, going through the comedown. I expect the waterworks to start any minute.
“I can still feel it,” she whispers instead, sliding her hand down her belly. My ego revs like a V12 engine.
“Jesus Christ, girl,” I breathe. “We just finished. If you say shit like that, we’re going to be having a round two that your sore little cunt might object to.”
She glances up at me, and for a split-second, I swear she’s actually considering it. Maybe I shouldn’t have spoken that into existence. Before I have to convince her it’s not a good idea, she buries her smile against my skin and mumbles,
“You wouldn’t, anyway.”
“Says who?”
“You.” She eases herself over me, propping herself across my chest. The girl’s clingy in the aftermath but stable. Maybe her father’s purity culture bullshit didn’t seep in deep enough to do that much damage, or maybe she was already so riddled with it, purging it was like getting rid of a toxin. That gorgeous face is flushed pink with exertion, eyes glittering darkly as we end up face to face.
“I thought it would hurt. I thought I wanted you to hurt me, until I really felt it. You even warned me that you would. But you didn’t.”
“I couldn’t be sure it wouldn’t hurt. But I try not to repeat mistakes.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means even I was inexperienced once. Best to let it go, unless you want me to lie here and talk to you about another woman I’ve fucked,” I warn her. “It’s not my usual pillow talk.”
“What is your usual pillow talk?”
…The girl has me there. I don’t really do pillow talk.
Contessa looks up at me, waiting, the expectation in her eyes.
“So tell me,” she presses. “All I’ve got is time.”
I sigh, deciding to spare her the details.
“I was careless, too rough with my first time. Didn’t do the girl I was with any favors. We were sixteen, and neither one of us knew better. One of those lessons you learn the hard way. By that age, I’d already done business for the family, and I didn’t have much of a conscience about any of that. I could kick a man’s door in, beat him down, threaten his family. I’d sleep like a rock that night. But making that girl cry, when I was trying to do the opposite…that bothered me for a long time.” My fingers drift through Contessa’s hair. “Pain can have a place in sex. But pain for pain’s sake, I can get that anywhere in my life. It doesn’t do me any good in the bedroom.”
Contessa stares at me.
“You were doing family business when you were that young?”
“Of course. Fifteen to seventeen, that’s the sweet spot. You’re finally big enough, hungry to prove yourself, hyped up on all that teenage testosterone. And, most importantly, you usually won’t be charged as an adult if something goes sideways.”
The silence creeps in, chilling the room. It grates on me, the way she’s looking at me. How those eyes go from hazy adoration to wary curiosity.
“Now you see why I don’t do pillow talk.” I try to nudge her off me, but Contessa stays rooted.
“No. Tell me,” she insists softly.
“There’s nothing to tell.”
“Who was the first person you ever killed?” she asks.
The girl is wading into dangerous water again. She just can’t help but swim toward the deep end, where her feet can’t touch the bottom and dark truths circle like sharks.
“My mother. When I was born.”
“Oh,” she says, softer, with pointless sympathy. “Well, that doesn’t count…”
“It did for my father. Were all these questions just bottled up behind your hymen, or are you going to interrogate me every time we fuck?” The satisfaction is starting to wear off now that I’m being cornered by Detective Lovera.
“That’s vulgar,” she complains, frowning at me. “Don’t I deserve to know about you?
They’re just questions.”
“I’m not a pleasant topic of conversation, Contessa. You’ll be disappointed.” I cup my hand against her pretty cheek, scrubbing my thumb against her skin.” I didn’t get us this far without any blood and tears, just for you to make sure you get hurt either way.”
I kiss her, trying to chase out her questions with my tongue. It doesn’t work for long.
“Didn’t I just prove that I can handle you?” She breathes against my lips.
“You handled me because I was gentle with you. I’m still trying to be.”
She smiles, as if I’ve said something funny.
“I think you just don’t want to talk about yourself,” she accuses softly. Maybe there’s some truth in that. It’s not polite for a man to talk about himself is the bullshit line I typically feed people when they get too nosy, but Contessa isn’t just people, and she’s stubborn enough to call me out for a lie. By now, she knows I don’t give a damn about being polite.
“Fine,” I say, throwing the conversation back on her. “How does a woman like you make it to 24, never having a man before? It sure as hell wasn’t for lack of options.”
Of all the world’s mysteries, that might be the biggest.
She blushes at the implied compliment. Even that feels like a mystery in itself, as if her life was not filled with compliments, knowing looks, unwanted wolf whistles. It must have been.
There’s no way a woman with this body could escape that kind of attention, but she still blushes over it, as if hearing it for the first time.
“If I showed interest in a boy, it would be a death sentence for him. Unlike most fathers, mine would make good on his threats. And like you’re so fond of pointing out, I was a ‘good girl.’ I spared us all the heartache when I was a teenager.”
“Sure. But you haven’t been a teenager for a while.”
Her eyes lower.
She fixates on what she finds there instead, ignoring my prying.
“How did you get these?” she asks. Her fingers trace my scars, drawing lines between them, making little constellations.
“You’re not the only one with a complicated father.”
Contessa’s hand goes still.
“Your father did this?”
“Not directly, usually, but his work did.”
My own past has never been of much interest to me, discussing it a waste of time. The future is malleable, but the past is stone. The topic is a locked door, and I don’t have any intention of opening it for Contessa to start dancing around with those old skeletons.
“Do you hate him?” she asks softly.
I don’t answer.
I catch her hand, stopping her inquisitive touching.
There are some questions that don’t have answers.
“I can’t tell you how you’re supposed to feel about your own father. I’m nobody’s blueprint.”
Sensing that we are dangerously close to a shift in the mood, she crawls up over me, on her hands and knees, drawing me into a kiss. I meet her lips cautiously, wondering at this new side of her. It doesn’t feel like pity as her fingers card through my hair.
“It’s okay,” she whispers. “We don’t have to talk if you don’t want to.”
“I’m not the one who doesn’t want to talk.”
Her eyes skirt away. She’s avoided my questions, outright ignored them.
Maybe she’s afraid she’ll have to focus on herself once I’m gone. I draw the association without realizing it. Maybe these aren’t just bullshit questions and idle curiosity. The more Contessa talks about me, the less she has to think about herself. She doesn’t have to think about how this night is split into a solid before and after, about those dark confessions I whispered in her ear in the heat of the moment. My eyes card over her belly without meaning to. I don’t know if post-nut clarity is a thing for women. Never thought to ask.
“I’ll be here until you fall asleep,” I tell her.
She lets me go turn off the light. The storm outside has faded, leaving behind a loud, lingering silence. Contessa tucks herself against my side. For a long while, she’s very still. Just when I think she must have fallen asleep, her voice rises softly in the quiet.
“One more question?” she dares to ask.
I’m not surprised at this point.
“Have you ever been in love?”
“No,” I admit, too easily. “Never.”
It’s not something I even have to think about.
I wonder what that tells her, what she’s hunting for with a question like that. I stare up at the ceiling, trying to break it down into its most basic form. I don’t find easy answers in the darkness overhead.
If she’s taking stock of me, trying to find something to love, then she’s wasting her time. She won’t find anything unless she looks in my wallet.
I trace the line of her spine, the little grooves that rise and fall along her back.
“Have you?”
“I thought so,” she admits. “Once.”
I can’t deny the dark coil of jealousy that tightens around my thoughts, that Contessa would give any part of herself—mind or body—to someone else.
“What happened?”
“I found out who he really was.”
“Which was?”
She sighs sleepily, burying her face against my chest.
“Just some monster,” she mumbles.
…Maybe the girl attracts a type.
It’s almost enough to make me feel bad for her.
Her easy breaths fill the room. My hand tightens in her hair, holding her to my body. I’ve never been one for cuddling, but it feels right to have her next to me, naked and vulnerable, pressed a little too close.
There is something inescapable between us now, a chain that can’t be broken. No matter what happens, I will always have this piece of her. And she gave it to me.
If he’d ever let it past his security, I’d send old Gio a fruit basket.
But I’d take a bite out of each one of them first.