Chapter 21
Chapter Twenty-One
Valentina
Moretti presses his mouth to the crown of my head, firm and unyielding, the kiss less affection than declaration.
I am still trembling beneath him, his release warm and thick where it slides down the inside of my thigh.
He eases out of me with deliberateness, the drag of his cock against my swollen folds pulling a sharp hiss from my lungs.
Soreness flares deep and immediate, a raw ache that radiates through every muscle he claimed only minutes ago.
“You’re tender?”
“What do you think?”
He stands, looking down at me, his cock still half-hard.
Then without a word, he slides one arm beneath my shoulders, the other under my knees, and lifts me from the ruined sheets.
My body protests the move. I want to stay where I am, dive between the sheets, cover my head, and pretend this is all a nightmare.
But it’s all too real.
My thighs are sticky, and my pussy pulses with the memory of his size.
As he carries me toward the ensuite bathroom, I feel the power coiled in him. He’s not my lover; he’s a mafia underboss.
As he sets me down on the tile floor, he sweeps his gaze over me—assessing, cataloguing the flush across my breasts, the faint red marks his teeth left at the upper swell, the tremor in my limbs.
He notes every detail without softening, without apology.
With a nod, Moretti takes in my belly.
Then as he continues lower, he becomes very still.
With a frown, I glance down.
A small smear of crimson blood traces the soft skin of my inner thigh.
Possession glints in his eyes, dark and absolute. This is not regret. This is ownership.
“Let’s get you in the shower.” It’s not a suggestion. It’s a command, like the millions of others that he’s issued.
He turns on the water, and steam billows thick and slow in the room. Then he guides me into the enclosure.
As if afraid I’m unsteady on my legs, he keeps his hands on my waist.
Hot water crashes down around us, and he turns me so the spray hits my shoulders first, shielding me from the initial sting with the solid wall of his body.
Because it feels so wonderful, I momentarily close my eyes.
“You earned it.”
His hands never leave me. He slides up my arms, cupping my shoulders, thumbs pressing slow circles into the tight muscles there while the water beats a steady rhythm against my skin.
Then he reaches for the handheld showerhead, adjusts the pressure until it softens to a warm, pulsing stream, and directs it between my thighs. The water cascades over my swollen folds, rinsing away the sticky evidence of his claiming, soothing the raw ache he left behind.
I bite the inside of my cheek at the conflicting rush—relief tangled with fresh awareness of how deeply he stretched me, filled me, marked me inside and out.
“You are perfect for me, princess.”
His free hand cups my mound, not to arouse but to hold me steady, palm warm and possessive while the spray does its work.
“So damn perfect.” He brushes his thumb over the faint crimson trace still clinging to my inner thigh, wiping it clean with deliberate care.
Inspecting me? Ensuring his wife is tended to?
Moretti reaches for the soap that’s resting in a nook.
The bar is thick, fragrant with sandalwood and bright citrus.
He works it into lather, the scent rising rich and warm through the steam, the same bright note I caught on that Dallas rooftop when everything still felt like dangerous flirtation instead of a forced forever.
With surprising gentleness, he moves his hands over me with steady purpose, mapping every inch he now owns: the curve of my waist, the flare of my hips, the sensitive undersides of my breasts.
My nipples tighten beneath the slick foam, aching peaks that pebble harder as his thumbs circle them once, twice, deliberate but unhurried.
“You’re swollen.” There’s pride in his tone as he parts my feminine folds, gliding two fingers along my outer lips, not entering, just inspecting with that same careful thoroughness.
The way he’s inventorying me should humiliate me.
Instead, it makes my pulse throb harder between my legs.
His thumb brushes my clit once more, featherlight, and a helpless little sound escapes me.
He hears it. Of course he does. His chest expands on a slow breath, and I feel the shift in him—still controlled, but the tenderness is real, not a trick.
Heat begins to coil again despite the soreness. The pressure is intense and becomes even deeper when he meets my gaze. It’s as if he can read every one of my reactions.
He smiles with triumph.
I want to hate him.
But part of me craves him.
I hate that even more.
As he rinses me, I look away. Then he crouches to wash my legs, water streaming over the powerful lines of his back, over scars that speak of every fight he has survived to stand here as his brother’s underboss.
Moretti eases his palms up my calves, behind my knees, parting my thighs with careful pressure so the soap can cleanse the last traces of blood and his release.
When he rises again, towering over me, he cups my face in both hands and tilts my chin until our eyes meet through the billowing steam.
“I take care of what’s mine.” The words settle heavy and final between us, no softness, only fact.
From the bedroom, his phone rings, the tone harsh. “Fuck.”
He exhales, jaw flexing, but he steps out of the shower without a word, water streaming off him.
Duty calls.
Always.
He snatches up a towel, wraps it low around his hips, and leaves the bathroom door open just enough that I still see the line of his back as he picks up the device.
In peace, I finish the shower.
My skin is flushed and sensitive everywhere he touched. Annoyed with him and myself, I turn off the water and step out.
There’s a thick white robe hanging on a hook, and I slip into it, cinching the belt at my waist.
My damp hair drips onto the terry cloth as I pad back into the bedroom.
He is still on the call, towel knotted at his hips, one hand braced on the dresser. The muscles in his arm stand out in sharp relief. “Nine p.m.” His tone is flat and final.
Noticing me, he ends the call and sets the phone down.
As if he hasn’t just been making decisions that might mean life or death, he pursues me.
“Who was that?”
“It was nothing for you to concern yourself with.”
“Moretti.” I scowl. I’m a Mafia daughter, and I will not settle for a lifetime of nonanswers. Especially when it may have something to do with my life.
In three purposeful steps, he closes the distance between us and reaches for the knot at my waist.
“No.” I shake my head. “I’m sore.”
His mouth curves, just a fraction. “I think you can survive what I have in mind, wife.” The words are soft, growled, almost playful, and they do dangerous things to my insides.
He backs me against the cool wall beside the dresser.
Then he slides one of his big hands inside my robe, parting the fabric, exposing my breasts to the cooler air. My nipples pebble instantly.
“Touch them.”
“What?” Scandalized, I blink.
“You heard me,” his order is low and uncompromising. “Play with your nipples while I taste you.”
“I…” Heat floods my body as he kneels in front of me.
This time, he loosens the knot completely. “Do as you’re told.”
When I don’t react, he spanks me once between my legs.
Jerking, my shoulders hitting wall behind me, I gasp.
“You’ll do as you’re told, Valentina.”
Burning with shame, I cup my breasts.
“That’s it. Keep going. Play with them.”
Turning my head to one side to escape his gaze, I roll the tight peaks between my fingers the way he had earlier. The sensation arrows straight to my clit, making me gasp.
“That’s my good little girl.”
My pussy is still smarting, but his words send flames shooting through me.
Without hesitation, his mouth finds me.
He digs the fingers of his free hand into my buttocks to give me extra support.
Then, using his tongue, he parts my folds, soothing me, licking away the evidence of my renewed arousal.
Every pass is deliberate, savoring, and when he circles my clit I moan, fingers tightening on my nipples until the pinch borders on pain.
He sucks gently, then harder, two thick fingers sliding inside me with careful patience.
“Oh…God…” I whisper.
The stretch burns sweetly, and I rock against his face despite myself.
My thighs tremble.
“Give me more.” He hooks one arm behind my knee, lifting it over his shoulder to open me wider, and the new angle lets him go deeper with his tongue.
I’m not sure if I can take it.
Pleasure coils tight and fast, building on the soreness until I cannot tell where one ends and the other begins.
“Pinch harder.”
“I…”
“Do it.”
Lost in his commanding voice, I do what he says, rolling, tugging, exactly as he’s demanded. The dual sensations send me spiraling. “Moretti…”
“Come for me, wife.”
There’s no way I can do that standing, his face buried between my legs in my hot pussy.
Gently he nips me and thrusts even harder, more demandingly.
The tiny pain shatters me.
My knees weaken, and I come hard, his name tearing from my lips in a desperate cry.
He’s relentless, not stopping until every aftershock has wrung through me.
Only then does he ease his fingers free.
Deliberately, gaze locked on mine, he holds his hand in front of me and licks away my orgasm.
His mouth is slick with me.
The sight is erotic, sending fresh heat through me.
He leans in, bracing one forearm beside my head, caging me without touching. His cock is swollen, throbbing heavily and untouched between us, veins standing out, head flushed dark.
Shocking me, he doesn’t attempt to take me.
He simply kisses the corner of my mouth. “I have a surprise for you.
The man makes my head spin.
“When you’re ready.”
Not trusting him, I narrow my eyes. I’ve had enough of Moretti’s surprises.
“I think you’ll like it.”
I tip my head to the side, expecting him to pull the rug out from beneath me again. “What’s the catch? Are you going to do something to make me earn it?”
“Nothing at all, wife. You can consider it a wedding gift.”