16. Take My Breath Away, Lover
Chapter 16
Take My Breath Away, Lover
S ì, sì, sì. Picture me throwing my hands up and rolling my eyes. I did not tell my husband about his brother, and I directed the couple straight into the lion’s den. So…what.
My husband was always enamored by a romantic mystery, and his father had given him specific instructions not to meddle until the situation came to him.
And what did the newest Fausti couple think? We were not going to notice them sniffing around?
Fools.
If they were not prepared to step onto territory claimed by lions, they should have not put a foot down smelling of raw meat with challenges in their eyes.
At least Brando Fausti should have known better.
His wife? The tiny ballerina? She had a shock coming to her later when he explained who we were, and she realized who her husband shared blood with. Imagine it! Not wanting to impress a woman with your name?! She was much too in love with her husband to see the truth in his name. She claimed it because her husband had bestowed it upon her like a crown, but she did not appreciate it for what it meant.
It might protect her against Olivier, if he could be swayed— highly doubtful. He wanted those tight little ass cheeks in his hands—but any further than that, she was not going to appreciate it as I would. She would not see the beauty in such a ruthless lifestyle. Her husband seemed not to care about that. All he cared about was keeping her safe.
Waa. Waa. Waa. Cry me a fucking river and then go drown yourself in it.
He was not after this family? What man would not want to lead such a legacy! To think a man would choose love over this life. How preposterous.
I believed what I overheard him say. He did not want any part of it. However, time would tell if that statement kept true. It was his birthright. He was the first-born son of Luca Fausti. A son he had with the only woman Luca Fausti ever loved. Brando Fausti’s mother, Margherita Granchio. She had kept Brando Fausti in some Podunk town in Louisiana. Not far from where Luca Fausti was currently imprisoned.
Even though Luca’s light could never be dimmed in this family, they had buried him underneath his crime and did not speak of it again.
I wiggled my fingers against each other. What else would start to rise from the rough tides that this family had long ago buried? Did Luca not get drunk and kill that woman and her unborn child in Louisiana? What if he killed her for another reason…to shame the family and be punished to a life outside if his beloved Italy? Perhaps he traded his entire life as a free man for the freedom of the woman and his son? I could see it. I could also see my husband being the second choice. The man who was created to be a solider in this family. A soldier who would one day rise to prince. And from prince, mighty king.
My husband was not even truly considering how this new addition to the family was going to change our lives. Brando Fausti might claim he did not want this life, but he had never truly lived it. The power and all that came along with it was a heady aphrodisiac. Brando Fausti was a self-made man, but what could those do? How powerful could a man truly be without a true beast standing behind him? He could afford to give the ballerina everything her spinning heart desired without breaking his back. He could pull from unlimited resources to live a life most dream about.
I thought about all he was missing, but then my mind slammed back—what about us? What will we be missing? My husband, reduced to side seats at the table! His two brothers, spares to the heir, seated next to him, looking at the new king with unwavering devotion and loyalty. My husband had raised his brothers to be soldiers! The right to rule should have been his, damn the hierarchy.
Rocco would have to challenge him.
Kill him.
I would kill the ballerina for my husband. He could not do it, but I could. It would be a loss to the world. She was…magnetic in ways that kept pulling at me. Perhaps I was as curious about her as she was about me. But when I killed her, it would be out of kindness. She could not live without her beast.
My husband could understand that, even if he was blind to a great deal of things when it came to the heart and its feelings. Pathetic, but…I had to admire that side to him too. I could do that. Even if it was not my favorite side.
However, watching as Brando Fausti made a claim on his wife, nicking my husband’s throat, was delicious. It was as if I was watching snow falling at the beach. And my husband and his brother together, all that power…my legs opened, and I touched my fica . Already saturated, just at the thought. What I would not give to have them devour me from head to toes—working my body together. I shivered. I do not even know if I could survive such a thing.
Fanning myself, I moved to the stairs, looking over the banister. Ettore, who, in my opinion, was all ruthless but not as easy on the eyes as my husband, came through the door. He requested a meeting with my husband. The family was in a tizzy over the new additions. Then there was the situation with Olivier to consider. I took a deep breath and slowly released it as I realized what a dangerous situation I had avoided. I might have allowed him to insert a toy in my ass, and the bathroom time we shared, but I did not fuck him. The situation was much too risky. If I had crossed that battle line, perhaps I would have gone the same way as women had gone before—mysteriously—when they fucked with the family. I drove fast. Perhaps my brakes would go out.
Whatever my husband had planned for me when he made it to our bedroom…that felt risky as well. When he had realized my part in all this drama and had promised me later, he had meant it, and there was something lurking in his light eyes that did not sit well.
I waved a dismissive hand. I would not think about it until he appeared in my face.
Ettore was cut and dry. I hoped for the long way around and enough water to keep his whistle wet for hours. Time would only tell.
Instead of watching the clock, I grabbed for an article that had been written about me and took a seat in the reading nook of our master suite. My sister had sent it to me knowing I would fall inside of the pages if I could. It was a glowing review of my last opera and how I, Rosaria Caffi, was a legend even without my last name sending me into that eternal direction.
Sì , I could have told them that, but at least the world still had some sane brains left in it.
Being too caught up in myself did not prepare me for my husband’s entrance. He was so quiet at times, even I could not keep up with his steps. His jacket had already been left on the bed, his sleeves rolled up, and his shoes off. A bottle of wine and two glasses sat on a table. Opera, not mine, serenaded us in the background suddenly.
“A bath,” he said, holding out his hand for me.
I looked at it and followed the long line to his face. “Showering is too intimate for me,” I said. When I had been with that loser boner on the yacht in Monaco, my friend had washed him before we devoured him. He did not last long but he was able to harden frequently. At least he had that going for him .
He took his hand back, but I knew the thorn that had gotten stuck inside of him was still there, irking him.
Sighing, I set the magazine down and stood. He towered over me, and his muscles were straining against his skin. His skin was so taut, I could trace each of his swollen veins back to his heart. His breath smelled of cool mint, but I could feel the heat radiating off him like the power of the sun had collected and invaded his vessels.
“We need a plan,” I said, refusing to even give in to the urge to stretch. He was watching me with a new light in his eyes. It was the kind of the light that only made the night inside of him darker.
He cocked his head to the side. “A plan.”
I nodded. “He will not take over this family, and she is trouble. I felt it the first time I met her. She will draw trouble to us. He will defend her to the death. It will not only be a love story for the ages. It will cause us nothing but heartache.”
“We do not have those,” he said. “Hearts to cause an ache.”
Yes! “We have clever minds, which is worth so much more. This is why we should act. My mind tells me so.”
“Act.”
I paused for a second. He was goading me, leading me to the truth. I had no fear in stating this. “We need to kill them, Rocco.”
“Kill my brother and his wife.”
I sighed. “You do not care about either of them. You are fascinated by the love between them. That is all. Perhaps this fascination will last forever. Perhaps it will not. Not after he gets his greedy hands on this family after he finds out what it means to truly be a Fausti.” I ran my hands up his chest. “You deserve this, husband. You deserve it all.”
His eyes lowered, and before I could react, he had me by the wrists, pinning me against the wall, holding my own hands against me. I did not fight. Of course I did not. My heart reacted to the power, to the sheer thrill of him this way.
“You expect me to kill my own brother.”
I laughed. “You act as if this is not acceptable in your family! How many men have hit the soil because of a challenge? This is your right! This is your family! Your challenge shall be heard and won!”
His eyes studied mine, as if he was hearing the truth in my words and taking them to heart. Perhaps he was. But I should have known better. His passionate heart was bleeding at the thought of killing not his brother, not his wife, but what existed between them.
“This is why I am here, husband. This is why I was born. To remind you of how powerful you are. How ruthless. You are a Fausti. A true Fausti. You were raised in their ways, and blood stained your hands before you even had a woman!” I hissed at him. “Love fades. But the ruthless ones—those are the one who make history. We will make our history. Your brother and his spinning toy will make a different kind—a kind that belongs to them. That is fair, no?”
At first, I thought I had snagged him. Brought him deep into my mind and reasonings, but he shook his head, as if shaking out of a trance. His pressure on me became almost painful, but I only bit my lip, moaning.
“You will fuck me like a monster tonight,” I breathed. “You will fuck me so hard, and so good, there will not be enough pasta in the world to feed me to make me forget how much it hurt. How deep you have gone. How ruthless you are, my king.”
He leaned in close, setting his warm mouth close to my ear. “You ever touch my brother or his wife…” His laughter was a breath in my ear, but one that traveled down my spine like a cold wind. “The last the world will hear from your sister is her beautiful song before she perishes at my hands.” He slowly moved away from me, our eyes holding.
He did not truly mean his brother or his brother’s wife, but the love they shared. I could not save him from this, this…road he would be led down, following the alluring scent of it. He was not created for whatever they shared. He and his brothers were created to lead this family. But I knew in that moment that I would never be able to convince him of this. He would have to learn on his own.
I sighed, and it felt as if my entire future had deflated. I should have killed her when I had the chance, but she had spun me into a trance as well. My entrapment was only momentary. My husband would be trapped in his hopes and beliefs all his life. This was why his father had suggested me to him. Luca Fausti knew Rocco Fausti needed me to keep balanced.
He kept his eyes on mine, his grip still firm on my wrist, as he yanked me away from the wall. I wished for him to throw me around like a threadbare doll, but the grin on his face made me shiver, and not in pleasure. He was walking us toward the bathroom.
I knew then.
He was going to punish me for what I had done. For all that I had done to him.
Those two hee-hawing donkeys had slammed into our lives and reminded him of everything he wanted, damn them both!
The tub was already filled with warm water and bubbles. The scent in the air brought me back to our wedding night. Roses were spread out on the floor, and I collected them as my feet crushed them.
The entire setup was pathetic!
My husband’s eyes were lowered as if he were gazing at candlelight instead of a woman, but the set of his full lips, in a grin, made me feel at home in his coldness.
He circled me as a lion would, and I closed my eyes, wishing to be torn apart by his ferociousness, but I knew what I had done had deeply wounded him, more than my rejection of romance. I could have played the good little wife and spilled my guts to him. Instead, I sent the truth to his father, and then kept the secret to myself. Even if Luca Fausti would not have ordered me to, I would have. After that little scene in Paris, where I watched a mighty lion be put on a leash by a tiny spinning toy, I knew the situation had to be handled…differently. If Brando Fausti would not have sat at my husband’s table—and sat first, even though Rocco had set the tone by claiming his rightful seat, his brothers following, as protocol demanded it—and announced that he did not want the throne ? —
Whether my husband would kill me or not, I would have killed them both. Faulty brakes are easy enough.
“Eyes on me, my wife,” Rocco ordered.
Had I turned them?
I had. He was staring too deeply into my pools of green. It was the first time he had truly made me this uncomfortable, and my skin rippled. I was not a woman who usually held her tongue—held anything in that I did not wish to keep—but the mixture of his power, control, and claiming what he wanted almost put me in a trance.
We stared at each other, and even though I had lifted my chin and kept my eyes on his as he continued the slow perusal, he was unnerving me with the intensity.
“You will submit to me,” he said in Italian, his tongue lavishing each letter with ardor, and it was as if his tongue lashed out at me.
I did not say anything.
He undressed me slowly, taking in my body as if it was art to be savored. I did not mind this. It was when he started to savor me that I wanted to crawl out of my skin and run to the nearest dark forest and hide in it. He fixed my hair so that it was pulled up, long tendrils falling around my face. He lifted me off my feet, making me feel ridiculous, and carried me to the tub, bringing us into the water together. He kept me pressed to him for a moment before he released me and took the position opposite of mine.
We were face to face.
He grabbed for my loofah and soaped it. The spicy perfume of it seemed to mock me in this moment.
Look at you! Hehehehehe. Being touched as if you were a soft thing.
My hands balled into fists underneath the water as my husband caressed my skin with the coarse, dead climbing plant. He ran it lightly down my face, down my neck, between my breasts, over all ribs, until he slid it underneath the water and used it to direct my hips upwards. My hips were pointed up, and my fica was open to him, soap sliding down my hairless cat. He stared at it with a possessed hunger, as if he could eat me alive. The rough texture of the loofah slid over each lip, and when he ran it between my fica , I closed my eyes and moaned. It was rough, and it did not melt into my skin as sweet poison would.
He ticked his mouth as if I had done something wrong. “ Cattiva donna ,” he whispered, and his voice was much softer than the texture of the loofah, bringing me back down.
He turned the faucet on, running fresh water, and cupping some in his hand, let it wash away the soap on my fica , before he positioned himself over me, a buffet for his mouth, and stuck his face in it.
He breathed me in. “All clean for me,” he said. “All mine.”
His tongue flicked out, as if to sample me, and then his tongue began to lick. His mouth would suck on me every so often, and despite my heart and mind being against the tender way he was eating me, my body became a traitor and gave in to him. My hips pulsed up, my fingers gripping the side of the tub, my thighs quaking, my trembling moans echoing inside of the cavernous bathroom.
“Tell me, who do you belong to, Rosaria Caffi .” His mouth was glistening with my juices dripping down his chin, mixing with droplets of water and his sweat.
“You,” I barely got out.
“Say it louder.”
“Youuuuuu!” I sang, hitting the highest note, hoping to shatter all the windows in this bathroom, allowing the world back in with us.
He made a noise a starved animal would, and his attack on my fica tripled in force. The water splashed on the sides of the tub from my up and down motion, my nub demanding to be closer to his mouth, though I wanted to scream out in frustration. And I did. He ate it up, his arms pushing me so close to his face that he was breathing me in. I orgasmed around him with a cry that almost sounded like a whimper.
He did not allow me to rest, as I had not allowed him to since our wedding night. He guided me back to the water, and setting his hand almost protectively around my neck, his hand so big he could have choked the life out of me with one of them, he ordered me to kiss him.
“ Baciami, moglie .” His breath smelled of me, and it washed across my lips in a cool caress.
I was not sure if I moved or he did, but we came together at the same time, and he directed my arms where to go as he kissed me until I had no choice but to surrender to its demands. It might have been soft and wanting, but there was an order behind it that I could not fight. As his tongue slid against mine, and he deepened the kiss, it felt as if he was tugging at something deep inside of me that refused to budge. It had been loosened, though, and when he stood with me in his arms, water sluicing down our bodies, and brought us to the bed, he treated me as if I was adrift, and he was the tender breeze shifting all my positions.
I would have rathered a ruthless one. I was weak. So weak in this moment. I did not have the strength to fight. Present me with a war, and I would turn into a hell cat. But present me with this gooey madness, and I felt alone, cold, and utterly and irrevocably claimed. My spirit was fighting to be freed of this, but he held it in a tender chokehold.
He eyed my body as if he could dry each droplet with the heat in his stare alone. The water evaporated from his body like an illusion, leaving him glistening and smelling like me. The wash he had used.
“I can hardly wait,” he said with that grin on his face again.
He climbed into bed with me, pulling me to him, kissing me again. We rolled. We switched positions. We touched. We kissed. We licked. We rolled some more. When I could not catch my breath, he sat me on top of his cock and his eyes gave me a silent order to move.
My body obeyed.
I started to move against him as he rolled his hips with me, making the most delicious noises I had ever heard come from deep inside of his chest. Every vessel deeper than my skin recoiled at this. At how he was looking at me. Touching me .
As a truly committed lover would.
He flipped our positions, and adjusting my leg, buried himself in me so deep, I felt him hit my uterus. His eyes closed, as they had never done before, leaving him vulnerable to me. To an attack. And even though it was hard won, my orgasm milked his cock, and he spilled himself inside of me, a look of pure ecstasy on his features.
He stared down at me, and I fought to keep my eyes open. I battled the urge to crumple into myself before I arose from our bed a changed woman. A woman who, whether she accepted it or not, had been claimed by this man, not beast. It would be a part of me that would always return to him. That was how deeply he had embedded part of himself in me. That was how I came to understand all the nonsense about vampires. It was not their teeth that changed a person. That was only a metaphor. It was their claim that did it, no matter what the context to it was—whether in possession or love.
“My wife,” my husband said, leaning down and placing a soft kiss on my head. And then he was gone, and the world suddenly seemed so empty. So cold.
I turned into myself, feeling the change in me start to take root. When I stood from this bed, my name would be the same, my face and my body would still belong to me, but the shift was coming from some place deeper.
A place no one could feel but me.
My entire being was exhausted. I could never remember a time in my life when I had felt so drained. The weak feeling started at my core and radiated out to my skin. The cool air touched the delicate feel of my flesh, and it felt hot, as if I was feverish. I slept on and off throughout the day, thankful, or not, to be alone. I was not sure who I was or what I was about. All I seemed to know was that I had been claimed by a mere man— hooray for me!— and he had gone deeper than skin .
The skin part was better than fine, but the deeper part was not sitting right in my chest. The person I was clawed to come back from the grave.
She would, but perhaps she would come back as a haunting ghost.
He had once said my aria entered his skin and stuck barbs in his chest the first time he had heard me sing.
He would do the same to me.
His needs would haunt me.
I would bring him with me wherever I went. As he would carry a part of me—a part that both loved and hated him. He loved and hated me as well. We were both halves of ourselves, and the emptiness in each of us could not complete the other. We loved each other for our similarities but hated each other because of our differences. I would never truly be the woman he needed, and he would never truly stop craving her. I refused to change for him, and he refused to give up the dream for me.
This was not what I signed up for. However, it was what it was. When I was apart from him, I wanted him closer, but when he was closer, I longed to be separate from him. Perhaps I should have left after Brando Fausti and his spinning toy entered the picture, but I could not do that.
Reference the above.
Staring toward the door that led out to the balcony, I thought of my sister, but I could not summon the energy to call her. Deep down, though, I needed her. We were alike in ways the world could not understand or accept. We demanded happiness, in whatever form our needs demanded it, and we would stop at nothing to obtain it. Our parents were the same. We were raised not to care about feelings or how the world perceived us for going after ours. We just did. Damn everyone else.
What was so wrong with that? I wondered.
We have one life. I refused to live it bowing down to people and their needs. How about this…if the rest of the world was not so selfish, why would they demand anything of me and my life, ah? We ar e all selfish. Fools talk themselves into believing otherwise. Being demanding and selfish and being a woman was not as accepted as when a man behaved this way.
My sister understood this. She was a younger version of me. But she was still stung about Dario Fausti not giving her a big enough diamond ring. What was he thinking? She deserved better. It was not as if he did not have enough money for it. He would never spend the money he had. Not in this lifetime. Not his children in the next. Not any future heirs. No, the ring he gave her spoke volumes—he did not value her , as he should. No expense should be spared for a woman of her caliber.
If she would have been right in her mind, I would have called her, had her talk sense into me. It was as if she was an extension of me and could right me when the world felt as if it was turned upside down. That was how I felt. As if I was standing on my head, the blood rushing to it, hot blood pulsating in every capillary, eyes bulging, cheeks swelling, about to pop.
It seemed as if I had blinked and the daylight faded, turning the room pitch black. My husband slipped in bed beside me. He sighed.
“I am broken, Rocco,” I whispered. “There is no fixing me.”
“Tell me, my wife,” he said in Italian. “Is this how you truly feel? Broken.”
“No,” I answered honestly. “Only when I see myself as you wish to see me.”
He pulled me against him, as if our gouged-out halves could stop the bleeding between us. Deathly wounds we had caused each other by choosing each other. Perhaps, at the time, we both saw something in each other that we craved. Upon deeper inspection, what we craved was what we thought we could fix in each other. But vows had been said. Marks imparted on bones. I was his and he was mine. What had been done could never be undone. Time would move on, as it invariably did, and it could not be erased. Nor did I want it to. My choice was mine, for better or for worse.
He released me a minute later .
I sighed in relief.
“Sing for me,” he said, his voice rough and calloused.
Rising from the bed, I stretched my arms over my head, his acceptance of me a balm to every ache, and went to the balcony. Stars floated above my head, but the wind, the wind was rough, carrying my hair from the updo and ripping it out of its hold. The dark pieces landed in my face, and I did not bother righting them.
This was what it looked like to be a woman against the world.
It was not beautiful, or even pretty, but it was mine.
My place in the world.
The world was mine again if my husband could accept me for who I was and not who he wished me to be. I was not a spinning ballerina creating clouds of candy at her feet. I was a woman who looked life in the face and dared it to challenge her. My truth was where my husband had found it. In my voice. A voice that I would not bother to hide from those who cowered at the truth according to me and my experiences.
I sang him to sleep as if I had taken him in my arms and rocked him there.