Chapter 17
Willow
“My bed.”
His deep, commanding growl ripples down my spine, eliciting euphoria. This arrangement of ours will deliver for both of us. All I needed to do was to force him to see me as a woman worthy of partnership.
“I’ll be back,” I say, daring a glance over my shoulder to observe his reaction.
There’s no hint of anger or annoyance. No, he’s turned on. It’s clear in his hungry, heated gaze and the semi he’s sporting.
When I return to his bedroom, teeth and hair brushed, in a nightgown, he’s in bed resting against stacked pillows with the comforter draped across his waist. He’s wearing glasses, and I’m taken aback by how handsome he is in the black frames. The glasses knock him into the Grecian God realm. His chest and abdomen are muscular and lean. His showered hair has rippled into unruly waves, and the black-framed glasses bring another dimension to his personality. Instead of the intimidating, mysterious man from the formidable syndicate, with those glasses, he rocks a hot professor vibe. Like this, he’s approachable and impossibly sexier.
He looks up from his book, and I toy with my fingers, unsure what to do.
“You braided your hair.”
I braid my hair every night when it’s wet. It’s what gives my otherwise straight hair definition.
He pats the mattress beside him. “Join me. And take off that nightgown.”
It’s a silk chemise, and I’ve always thought of it as sexy. Jules liked it, but he liked everything, including my T-shirts.
The primary suite is about four times larger than my bedroom, and the windows surround two walls. The dizzying heights of the forty-first-floor place London on full, sparkling display.
“Would you like me to shut the drapes?”
The side of the bed he wishes for me to approach is mere feet from the wall of windows.
“No one can see in, you know.” He pushes a button on a remote, and a mechanical sound whirs as the drapes slowly wind closed. “You weren’t exactly bashful in the shower,” he continues.
I pad toward the far side of the bed. If a mutually beneficial arrangement is what I wish for, openness is required.
“I’m not a fan of heights.” His book falls flat against his abdomen, just above a path of dark spirals leading lower. “I mean, I’m fine in most situations. Elevators. Stairs. But I get queasy if I’m too close to a window in a tall building.” Or on a Ferris wheel. Rollercoasters are out.
“Did something happen?”
“What do you mean?” I come around to the far side of the bed, facing Leo, my back to the drapes.
“A fear of heights in someone your age often stems from experience.”
The cliffs near our home come to mind. The constant warnings to beware. “No experience, simply a healthy awareness of danger.”
“No falls?”
In my mind’s eye, a familiar scene plays out. A man in dark clothes, screaming, terror-stricken, flailing while falling, and then his broken form in the sand below, limbs twisted in unnatural directions. It’s a recurring dream. I don’t believe it actually happened, but the more I learn about my family, I sometimes wonder.
I climb into bed, lift the hem of my chemise over my head, pull the sheet over my breasts, and drape the chemise carefully over the end of the comforter at the foot of the bed.
He closes the book, sets it on the bedside table, and places his glasses on top. Lying on the flat pillows, I’m lower than he is. He must have four pillows stacked behind his back.
He lifts one of my long braids and twists it between his thumb and index finger, drops it like it’s bothersome, rests his head back on the bedframe, and closes his eyes.
I roll onto my side, studying him. This part of what a man and a woman do is new to me.
When Jules and I dated, we never spent the entire night together. That wouldn’t have been possible without risking his life. The lenient security team let me live a normal life, but they would have drawn the line at sleeping over with a man. Virginity is valued above all else.
When I approached Leo in the shower, I didn’t anticipate he would ask me to join him in bed afterward. I don’t know what I expected. Perhaps I expected nothing because I didn’t think it through. I acted on instinct and determination.
“Who was your first?”
His question is so unexpected, I doubt he actually said it. But when his eyelids flutter open, I’m met with serious, dark eyes.
“His name was Jules. What about you? Who was your first?”
His lips contort, lightening his intensity. “I’m asking the questions.”
“You don’t want to talk about your first?” Surely, he’s not like the Italian men I grew up with, believing only the woman’s first matters. But then again, I know nothing about him. Not really.
“It was a long time ago. What happened to Jules?”
“The relationship ran its course.”
“I meant how did he die?”
“He’s alive.” He’s alive because I ended things with him, but it wasn’t an epic tragedy.
“You said ‘was.’”
“When?”
“You said his name was Jules.”
“Oh, no…I suppose I used the wrong tense. He’s still alive and well in Paris. He’s a sculptor. We met at university.” My fingers trace the crisp, smooth sheets. “Why?”
“Did you love him?”
“Yes…I think.” He shifts the pillows and lies down on his side, so we’re facing one another on an equal plane.
He traces my cheek with his index finger, the touch soft, his expression thoughtful. “Why didn’t you marry him?”
“That would’ve never been an option.” He pulls his hand back and mirrors my position in the bed, hands near his face.
“Your father?”
“Jules was an artist, like me. He was my rebellion. It was selfish of me to be with him.” I hate admitting that out loud.
“Why?”
“I believed my father would never force me into an arranged marriage, but losing my virginity was a precaution, just in case. As it turns out, it wasn’t the power play I assumed.” I focus my gaze on his chest and the rhythmic rise and fall. “I cared about Jules. And that’s why I ended things with him. My father never found out about him, but if he had…well, it would be risky.” I sigh with the weight of the truth.
“It’s confusing, isn’t it? When we have different objectives?”
I’m not sure I understand.
“You wanted a life on your terms, but in the end, you cared about him and valued his life above yours. It must’ve been a confusing time for you.”
I think back to those days that were up and down like a rollercoaster. At the peak, I thrilled to the freedom, and in the trough, terror haunted me. “If father found out, I would’ve been pulled out of university. He wasn’t Italian, and he wasn’t a member of the Lupi Grigi—or any family, for that matter—so no, there was no future.” I was selfish, there’s truly no other way to explain it. I’m lucky Jules escaped unscathed. Or at least, Scarlet says I am.
“I’m not Italian.” I meet his thoughtful gaze. Is the syndicate’s world different than ours?
“You’re a part of the syndicate. My father respects the syndicate.”
“I’m American.”
“Yes, you are.” I reach out and finger the curls on his chest. He grasps my wrist and presses his lips to my pulse point.
“Tell me about your first.”
He lowers my wrist but doesn’t let go. “Her name was Susannah.”
“That’s a pretty name.”
“I didn’t love her. It wasn’t rebellion. I was horny.” His expression is cocky, and I snort in amusement. “But I’m curious,” he adds. “I thought mafia girls were supposed to be virgins. Weren’t you risking a lot? Like, virginity is a big deal with mafia families, right? Hanging the sheets and?—”
I break out laughing. “Not many families still do that. But yes, my father believed he provided you with a virgin.” It’s my turn to grow serious. “But you know, my father, he’s a businessman. He knew this was an arrangement.” That part still stings.
Leo strokes his thumb back and forth over the back of my wrist.
“It’s true that many of the marriages in my family are more practical, solidifying connections and order. But I always thought that because my father is who he is, it wouldn’t apply to me.” How foolish. “I’m lucky you agreed to this.”
“But you know, this is an arrangement.” He says the words cautiously, like he’s worried I might have different expectations now that I’m lying in his bed.
“True. But now that this is a part of our arrangement, there’s no need for you to go to the brothels, right?” My cheeks grow annoyingly warm.
“Brothel?” He sounds…amused.
I lift my gaze to find him smirking. “What? You’ve spent the past two weeks?—”
His fingers cover my mouth, and he shakes his head, smiling. “Brothel isn’t a modern term. I’m more discreet and?—”
I glare at him, and he snorts. “That’s why you did this? Came to me in the shower? You’re possessive?” He taps my nose with his finger. “Are you a jealous little minx?”
“So are you. You point blank told me I couldn’t be with Geoff.”
That wipes the smirk right off his face. “Were you planning to be with Geoff?”
“No, I’m simply making a point.”
“How many men have you been with?”
“One.” I smooth a finger over his cheek, surprised by the velvety smoothness. He shaved after the shower. “Now two. How many women have you been with?”
“I lost count.” My throat constricts. “I’m a lot older than you.”
“How old are you?”
He pauses, like he’s trying to remember. “Forty-two.”
He’s said nearly twenty years older, but that’s a full twenty years older.
“What was it like? Growing up in a mafia family?”
“Normal?”
His dark eyebrows come together as his eyes narrow, questioning my veracity.
“I didn’t know.” His eyebrows lift higher. “Really. We were sheltered. Titan Shipping is a legitimate business. When we visited my father at work, he had staff who greeted us with smiles, and his secretary had a jar of candy on her desk. We’d go out on the docks to watch the enormous ships sometimes. We knew we were lucky. Our home was larger than many of our friends’ homes, and we had more land on the coast than many. But it wasn’t…” I let out a sigh, thinking about the time I first realized the Lupi Grigi might not be the protective heroes I believed them to be. “It wasn’t until I was sixteen that I had any idea that…well, our family participated in…”
“Drug trafficking?” he supplies.
“I wasn’t sure what they did, exactly, but when Scarlet was first attacked, I told her she should go to the polizia , and she said that they owned them. I asked her what she meant, and she told me not to be so naive. I felt…foolish. That was when I started listening more, observing more. Orlando is seven years younger than me, and he seemed more aware.”
“I always expected they would tell you at a young age.”
“No.” I shake my head. “I went to a small school in my first years, filled with other kids, and none of us talked about it. Then father brought in tutors. The school I would have gone to was nearly an hour away, and he didn’t want us to spend so much time traveling. That’s what they said. By the time I went to university, I knew. When Scarlet killed Vincent…I pieced more together. And I knew I didn’t want to be a part of that. I had believed father wouldn’t make me. He told me I didn’t have to worry.”
“And you thought that meant he wouldn’t expect you to marry?”
“I assumed too much,” I admit.
I lived a storybook life until the fairytale darkened.
“It’s natural for children to believe their parents are heroes. We always want to see the best in our family.”
“What about you? What are your parents like?”
His lips turn up on the corners, and there’s warmth in his expression. “They were great. They were heroes. True-to-life heroes. My mom and my dad.”
“Were?”
“Yeah.” He swallows as if he’s reining in emotion. “They passed away a long time ago.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“It was a long time ago.”
“What happened? Did they die together?”
“I’d rather not talk about it, if you don’t mind.”
I study him, wondering if they really died long ago. “Were you raised in the syndicate?”
He grins. “What do you think the syndicate is? You married into it, but you haven’t asked any questions.”
“I just…” Once again, I’ve been foolish. And complicit, behaving like father would have wanted and assuming the business wouldn’t be discussed with a woman. “I assumed it was…is…a group like the Lupi Grigi.”
“It’s more of an alliance of powerful individuals with influence around the world. It’s a collective, if you will.”
“And you weren’t born into it?”
“No.” He grins. “I was hired into it. I negotiate deals. Get good prices.”
“You’re the arms dealer.”
“That’s right. So you do know what I do.”
“I heard, but…”
“Do you have an issue with criminal organizations?”
“What do you mean?”
“Morally. Did you have a problem with your family when you discovered what they do?”
“They’re not all bad,” I say, but I can’t meet his gaze when I say it. “They help keep peace and order. And the drugs and whatever else…” I risk a glance up. “I’m really not sure what else they do. But I hated how they treated Scarlet. How they treat women. Like we’re a commodity. I can’t stand that. I don’t want to go back to that.”
“You won’t have to.” He says it with conviction. “But I find it interesting you jumped to another situation without knowing much at all about it.”
I exhale, considering my hasty actions.
“It’s okay,” he says in a low, soothing tone. “It’s an observation. We all have moments in life when we leap before looking. It’s something we especially do when we’re young.”
“You jumped without looking?”
“I took a job within the syndicate.” He rubs a hand through his hair, smiling.
“Do you regret it?”
His expression becomes unreadable. I squirm, uncomfortable in the silence and in his change. He ruffs up his hair with one hand, scratching as if he’s got the worst itch, and then he morphs back into the easygoing guy. “No regrets,” he says with an odd smile. “It’s best to look ahead and prepare.”
“And that’s what you do?”
His lower lip protrudes and his shoulder lifts in gentle, modest agreement.
“I’ll try that. If I’m looking forward and preparing, I need to do so with eyes wide open. I hate feeling like I’ve been naive or…foolish.” I bite out the distasteful word.
He brushes his thumb over my cheek thoughtfully.
“You know,” his hand snakes beneath the covers, landing on my hip, and he tugs, shifting me closer, “it occurs to me we’re doing a lot of things backward.”
“What do you mean?” Since I’m closer, I let my hand flatten against his chest. His heartbeat pulses beneath my palm.
“Getting to know each other after we’ve…entered an arrangement. After we’ve…”
“Made love,” I supply.
His eyes narrow. “Had sex. Willow, this is still temporary. It will end. One day.”
I blink in acknowledgment. “But we don’t know when. It can’t be too soon or?—”
“It won’t be too soon. I promise you; I won’t leave until it’s been long enough that your independence is assured.”
“I appreciate that.”
“Is that why you approached me, Willow? Did you think if you didn’t give me this, that I would…” He doesn’t complete the sentence, and his distressed expression tells me everything.
“I wanted this,” I assure him. “I always thought you were handsome. Is it so wrong if a woman wants sex?”
“No.” He pulls back the comforter, exposing me to below my hips. His fingers trace along my clavicle, down my chest, to the valley between my breasts. He cups one breast gently, as if weighing it.
He is my husband, but I sense it’s best not to remind him of that. What I can do is play to his requirements. “As long as it’s only with you?”
His gaze lifts from my breast. His eyes lock on mine, and my heart pitter-patters out of synch. “As long as we’re in this arrangement, only with me.”
He lowers his head and takes a nipple into his mouth. Wet heat and suction elicit a moan, and I swear I feel his mouth deep inside me. My back curls forward. He releases the nipple and seeks the other one. My fingers toy with his hair, and his hand slides between my legs. I spread my thighs, opening for him.
His finger dips inside and a deep growl vibrates from his mouth, still latched onto my nipple. He pushes up and hovers over me.
“Flat on your back, princess.” I roll onto my back, compliant. “Since we’re in agreement,” a smile plays across his lips, “let’s do this the right way this time.”
His warm body covers mine, and I hold him, caressing his back as he lowers his mouth and claims my lips. This time when we kiss, it’s slow and languid. Playful and exploratory. My inner thighs brush against his outer thighs, over his coarse hair, as my fingers roam his spine and shoulders, kneading the flexed muscles.
“You have the most beautiful eyes. I’m not the first to tell you that, am I?”
His lips fall to my neck, and I stretch, giving him all the access he desires. He nibbles and sucks until he arrives at my breasts.
“I’m going to show you things I know that college boy didn’t.”
He continues pressing kisses down my stomach until he hovers over me, down there. He spreads my legs wide, and I close my eyes, fingers teasing his thick hair, lost to his touch and his skill.
He studies my body with a devotion I’ve never felt before. He’s an astute student, studying my every reaction, learning my loves. Or perhaps worship is a better word choice than learn. My last thought as I fall asleep nestled against him is a reprimand.
Don’t be naive. This isn’t forever.