Chapter 9 Cassio
Cassio
I am a man who deals in calculated violence. I know the exact amount of pressure required to snap a collarbone. I know the precise angle a blade needs to slip between ribs to puncture a lung. I understand anatomy, resistance, and the breaking point of the human body better than most surgeons.
Which is why, when I drive my hips forward, intending to bury myself inside the woman I believe to be well experienced, the sudden, absolute resistance I hit doesn’t just confuse me.
It paralyzes me.
The wet, slick heat of her body parts for me initially, offering a completely false sense of security, fueled by the sheer amount of slickness her climax just produced.
I thrust hard, driven by a vicious, territorial need to stake my claim, expecting a smooth, welcoming slide into a body that Dario Lombardi supposedly broke into years ago.
Instead, I hit a physical wall. A tight, unyielding barrier of flesh that has never, in twenty-four years, been breached by a man.
The force of my thrust drives me through it, tearing the delicate tissue. Then Noemi screams.
I stop so completely, so abruptly, that my heart actually stutters in my chest. I am buried barely an inch inside her, locked in the vice-like, suffocatingly tight grip of her untouched core.
My brain misfires, struggling to process the sensory data. The tightness. The wall. The blood I can already smell.
Virgin. The word drops into the center of my mind like a live grenade, detonating with a force that blows my entire worldview to fucking pieces.
My breath stops in my throat. I look down.
Noemi is sobbing beneath me, short, hyperventilating gasps, her eyes are squeezed tightly shut against the pain.
She is trembling violently, a terrified, vulnerable creature pinned to the dark charcoal sheets of my bed.
She looks exactly like what she is, an innocent woman who was just brutalized by a monster under the assumption she was a whore.
I pull back.
I withdraw from her with a sudden, jerky movement, as if I’ve just been burned alive. The slick sound of our bodies separating makes her flinch. I roll off her and I sit on the edge of the mattress, my back to her.
I drop my elbows to my knees and bury my hands in my hair, gripping the strands so tightly my scalp burns. I am breathing like I just ran ten miles, my lungs are fighting for oxygen in a room that suddenly feels entirely devoid of it.
She’s untouched. The realization slaps me in the face.
The rumors were lies. The whispers at the galas, the mocking jokes exchanged between men over cigars, all complete, utter bullshit.
Dario Lombardi never had her. No one ever had her.
She spent her entire life too proud to hand herself to any man, fiercely guarding an innocence that even her own father was too blind or too stupid to leverage.
Orlando didn't hand me Dario’s sloppy seconds. He didn't pawn off damaged goods.
The arrogant, archaic old fool handed me the actual prize of his bloodline. He wrapped his untouched, fiercely intelligent, unbroken daughter in white silk and delivered her directly to my altar, thinking he was insulting me.
A violent, involuntary shudder rips through my heavy frame.
I curse.
Behind me, the bed shifts. I hear the rustle of the sheets.
She is scrambling away from me, retreating to the headboard, pulling the covers up to hide herself.
The shame radiating off her is palpable.
She thinks I’m disgusted. She thinks I’m angry that she didn't come with the instruction manual I assumed she had.
"You're a virgin," I say, my voice sounds completely unrecognizable. It’s hoarse, broken, completely stripped of the cold, volatile authority of the Vellutini Don.
"I didn't..." Her voice is a tiny, broken choke. "I never... Dario never touched me."
The sound of his name, coupled with the absolute confirmation that his hands never wandered her body, sends a dark, terrifying thrill straight to my groin.
The jealous, bitter rage that had been boiling in my veins for the last hour evaporates instantly.
In its place, something far more dangerous takes root.
Obsession.
Extreme, unadulterated, psychopathic possessiveness.
She was waiting for me. Even if she didn't know it, even if she hated me, her body was preserved entirely for this moment. For this bed. For my hands. The universe, in all its twisted, violent irony, saved the Genovese spinster exclusively for the Volatile Prince.
"Why didn't you tell me?" I ask, staring at the floor, fighting the urge to tear the room apart because of the hurt I caused her.
"Because there was no point," she whispers, her voice cracking as tears fall. "Because you hated me. You said you didn't want Dario Lombardi's leftovers. There was no point in telling you the truth. After all, you already hate everything about me."
My jaw clenches because I don’t hate her for her bold personality. What irked me about having her as my bride was knowing she would rather be with Dario Lombardi than with me.
I turn my head, looking over my shoulder at the woman huddled against my headboard.
She is clutching the dark sheets to her chest, her pale shoulders are shaking.
Her dark eyes are wide, terrified, completely anticipating my wrath.
Between us, on the charcoal sheets, is a small, dark smear of her blood.
My wife’s blood. My property. My queen.
"Orlando didn't trick me, Noemi," I whisper. "He gave me a crown, and the stupid bastard didn't even realize it."
I turn my body fully toward her. I don't reach for my discarded slacks.
I don't walk out of the room. The thought of leaving this bed is physically impossible.
My DNA is practically rewiring itself in real-time, rewriting every instinct I possess to center entirely around the trembling woman in front of me.
"You are mine," I state. The words aren’t a threat anymore. They are a universal law.
I crawl back over the mattress toward her.
She flinches, pressing her back harder against the solid wood of the headboard, but there is nowhere for her to go.
I don't move with the predatory, punishing speed from before.
I move slowly. I am a wolf approaching a wounded, priceless creature that I have suddenly realized I would burn the world to the ground to protect.
I reach her. I kneel between her parted legs, resting back on my heels.
She squeezes her eyes shut, a fresh tear tracking down her cheek. "Cassio, please, it hurts. Just let me—"
"Shh," I soothe, a sound I have never made in my entire life. A sound I didn’t know I was capable of making.
I reach out and pry her white-knuckled fingers off the bedsheet she is clutching to her chest. She resists for a fraction of a second, but my grip is stronger. I pull the sheet away, exposing her to the moonlight and my hungry, possessive gaze.
She is flushed, her skin is painted with the chaotic evidence of our struggle and her climax. I lift my hand and gently, so goddamn gently, it makes my own chest ache, and I brush the tear away from her cheek with the pad of my thumb.
She opens her eyes, staring at me in absolute bewilderment. The monster who just tore her open is suddenly treating her like spun glass.
"I am sorry I hurt you, moglie," I murmur, my thumb tracing the sharp, beautiful line of her jaw. "I thought I was fighting another man’s ghost. If I had known you were untouched, I would have worshipped you."
Her breath hitches. "You... you aren't angry?"
"Angry?" I let out a low, dark chuckle. "I have never been so fiercely, terrifyingly satisfied in my entire fucking life. You belong to no one but me, Noemi. No one has ever tasted you. No one has ever claimed you. I am your first, and I swear, I am going to be your last."
I lean in, and this time, the kiss is completely different.
There is no intention of erasing another man’s memory.
There is no bruising force. I brush my lips over hers, coaxing her mouth open.
I taste the salt of her tears and the lingering sweetness of champagne.
I slide my tongue against hers, and meticulously explore the territory that is completely, undisputedly mine.
She lets out a soft, confused whimper, her hands slowly rising to rest tentatively against the center of my bare chest.
"I have to finish what we started," I whisper against her lips, my hand sliding down her neck, over her collarbone, to cup one of her full breasts.
She gasps as my thumb grazes her hardened nipple.
"I have to show you that sex with your husband is nothing to fear, but rather to be desired.
I promise I won't tear you this time. I will make you beg for me to finish it. "
"Cassio, I can't... I’m too tight, it burns," she protests weakly, her head falling back against the headboard as my mouth trails down her throat.
"I know, baby. I know," I murmur, the endearment slipping out naturally.
I shift my position, gently hooking my arms under her knees and pulling her down from the headboard until she is lying flat on the mattress again. I spread her legs wider, ignoring her instinctual attempt to close them.
"Look at me," I command softly.
She opens her dark eyes, heavy with lingering pain and a new, tentative heat.
"I am going to prepare you," I tell her. "I am going to make you so wet, so out of your fucking mind with pleasure, that you won't feel the pain when I finally bury myself inside you."
I don't wait for her to argue. I lower my head between her thighs.
She practically jumps off the mattress when my mouth makes contact. "Cassio! No, you don't have to—"
"I want to," I growl against her slick folds, my hands gripping her thighs to hold her still. "I want to taste my wife."