Chapter 38
38
Roman
W hat a view.
I'll never get tired of watching that generous butt of hers bouncing on my dick. I love the way her flesh undulates as she moves. It's so fucking hot to me.
I've never understood the appeal of the severely underweight female aesthetic—I want my woman to eat like a boxer and have the strength to stand up to the kind of fucking I want to do.
I can't take much more. My climax is already gathering steam, rolling up through my abdomen. I have to force Quinn to come before I explode; the thought of emptying into my wife's fertile pussy is too tempting to resist for long. She is so new to sex and long overdue the orgasms she deserves.
"Give me what I want, Quinn." I find a rhythm, massaging her clit as I forge in and out of her. "I wanna feel you come."
Quinn slumps back against me, her head on my chest. I grab her neck with my free hand and lie flat, giving me all the space I need to slam into her. She squeals, only to be cut off by my fingers constricting her throat.
"Take my cock, gorgeous girl." My words are hot and frantic, coming out too fast as I whisper them in her ear. "I want you to come. Give me those slutty little moans."
It's happening. Quinn's pussy muscles flutter against my hardness, hitting every sensitive spot at once, and with one firm squeeze, I'm undone.
My climax overwhelms me as her body arches away from mine, and I wrap my arms around her as she writhes, my cock buried as deep as it will go as I pump her full of my seed.
"Ohhh!" she cries, tension giving way to a shudder of bliss. Then she's limp in my grip, and I roll her onto the couch beside me.
I bring us bathrobes and drinks. We don't speak for a while, and I silently curse the relentless march of time as we watch the sun drop ever closer to the horizon. If it were up to me, I'd stay here forever.
"Tell me about yourself." Quinn reaches out to touch my arm. "Are your parents still around?"
I know plenty about her ; Viktor gave me the information when I asked him to make a dossier on Quinn Sullivan, but it was surprisingly sparse.
Her parents were murdered, but there was virtually nothing to see in their file. Nothing is too personal when there's money involved, but even with Viktor's generous compensation, none of our street-level info miners have found Uncle Julian, either. Yet.
"My dad threw my mother out of the house when she got sick," I begin. "I left with her and nursed her until she didn't need me."
The sun behind her makes Quinn glow, a corona framing her hair, and I'm struck again by her otherworldly beauty. I wouldn't be surprised if she dived over the side and returned to her underwater mermaid kingdom.
"How old were you when your mother fell ill?" she asks.
"Twelve." I shift in my seat so I can turn to face her. "Mama had a brain-wasting disease. It wasn't formally diagnosed, but the doctor told us it was likely to be a prion of some kind. The tests would cost a fortune, and there was little to no chance of saving her if the physician's hunch proved correct."
Quinn is listening intently, her focus entirely on me. It feels good. No one since my mother ever gave me their complete attention unless I had a gun in their mouth.
"Papa had no insurance, and flat-out refused to pay for the tests, saying she'd get better or she wouldn't. I pleaded with him, but all it got me was a busted lip. She got slower, less coordinated, and slurred her speech. Then I came home one day to find him packing a bag."
Fuck. I haven't even thought about any of this since it happened.
"He told me we were leaving Mama behind as she'd be dead soon. I swore I'd never leave her, and we got into a fight. I broke his nose, and he stabbed me in the thigh with his flick knife. He called me worthless and walked out the door. We never saw him again."
Quinn's voice is almost a whisper. "How did you?—"
"I dropped out of school and went to the streets. I did some shady things but met some good people willing to take a chance on a kid desperate to work."
I haven't had to lie so far. I indeed tried to earn money legitimately at first. But a boy of twelve has few options in a city like this, and it wasn't long before Don Emilio Vercotti found me. Silvio’s father was a good old-fashioned mafia kingpin at that time.
"I got some money, but it was too late. I had no choice but to make an anonymous report to the welfare people, telling them a woman was sick and alone in her apartment. I hid and watched them take Mama to hospice."
"Why didn't you ask them to help you too?" Quinn asks. "You were only a child."
I can't tell her. I can't watch as the innocent light in my new wife's eyes disappears.
Truth is, I was in too deep. My father was a mafia enforcer, and by then, he was dead, taken out in a negotiation that went south. That's why Don Vercotti sought me out; to make amends and give me a job.
"I was afraid they'd ship me off to an orphanage somewhere out of town,” I lie. “New York was all I knew, and I had friends. It took a lot of hard work to get where I am today, but that's another story."
"It must have been terrible to see your mother suffer that way." Quinn reaches for my hand, and I take it, weaving my fingers through hers. "Did you ever see her again?"
"Once. I pretended to be a delivery boy and sneaked into the care home. I talked to Mama for a while, but she didn't recognize me."
I swallow, trying to steady my voice. "She just cried and told me to leave and bring her real son to her. I went to what passed for her funeral. It was the priest and me. Mama was buried in a cardboard box, and with a few words of comfort, that was that. I got her a headstone as soon as I could afford one."
“I’m so sorry,” Quinn says. “I understand how you feel. I lost my parents too.”
Something about Quinn's openness is pulverizing the walls of my mental fortress. I always thought that lowering my guard could only lead to pain, but my wife's unvarnished empathy is like a salve, easing the sting of these bitter memories.
Her small hand is warm in my large one, and I raise it to my lips to kiss her palm.
"We were dirt poor, and Dad did something stupid and ended up in debt to the mafia," Quinn says. "Or at least, my father was; my mom was in the way. I don't believe my dad was a bad person, but he was heavily into drugs, and Mom could only do so much to protect me. After they died, Julian became my legal guardian, and things only got worse from there."
She sighs, a lifetime of pain rushing into the air on her breath. "My parents were murdered for the sake of a few dollars."
It takes tremendous effort not to tense my every sinew when I hear those words.
Thank fuck I didn't tell her the truth about my life. I know more people in the mafia and bratva than outside it. I'm also livid that I agreed to back off from finding her cunt of an uncle and flaying the bastard alive.
"I'm sorry you had to go through that." I press her hand to my cheek. "I will see that no one hurts you ever again, but remember, you're strong."
"I wouldn't know what to do if I saw my uncle again," she says. "Panic and freeze, probably."
"My advice is to go for the balls or the eyes." I grin at her shocked expression. "Don't worry, baby. You have me to protect you now."
The sun is kissing the fuzzy line of the horizon, and the North Star is visible. I must turn the boat around and return to my life, but I don't want to.
Can I make this bliss last? Not if it’s built on deceit. Quinn is kind and compassionate despite the horrors life has wrought upon her. I find myself wanting to come clean, even if she hates me for it.
But not now. Not yet.