Owning Nicci

9. Savio

9

SAVIO

“ M ake sure you’re thoroughly cleaned up,” I tell Nicci the moment we’re back in the penthouse, leading her up to her room. “Scrub until there are no flecks of blood left. I’ll be back up here in thirty minutes to check.”

She nods, reaching for the zipper of her dress without question. Her movements are rote, routine, as if she’s gotten used to this, and for a reason I can’t begin to pin down, that bothers me a little. She steps out of the bloodied silk, wadding it in one hand as she hands it to me, and slips the earrings out of her ears before handing them over, too.

“Can I go shower now, sir ?” she asks, almost too sweetly, and my jaw tenses. I can’t stop thinking about how she looked on Lucas’ lap, about the sound of her moan, how she arched her back before leaning in to kiss him. How he touched what was mine.

I want to throw her onto the bed and touch every place that his hands slid over before she trapped them. I want to hear her moan again, this time for me. Desire crashes inside of me like a wave, unrelenting and fierce, and I have to battle it back.

She needs to clean up. She needs to shower, to wash away any trace of what just happened. We need to stick to the plan.

I clear my throat, taking a step back. “Yes. I’ll be back in half an hour.”

That half an hour feels like an eternity. I go and clean up, too, trying not to think about Nicci naked in the shower, water and soap gliding over the angles of her body, her blonde hair dark with it, clinging to her scalp and skin. My hands itch with the need to touch her, and I grit my teeth, ignoring my swollen cock as I scrub myself clean and get out, toweling off before changing into a pair of chinos and a t-shirt. It’s the most dressed-down I’ve ever allowed Nicci to see me, and I question the wisdom of it before shaking my head and walking back out into the hall.

She has too much power over me. She controls my thoughts too easily, brings my emotions up to a boiling point that I thought I’d cooled off years ago. I don’t know why she has this effect on me—trapping her was meant to make her the vulnerable one. But instead, I feel lashed open after seeing Lucas touch her, raw and needy.

I stride to her room, unlocking the door and stepping inside. Nicci is sitting at the desk, her hair damp against her shoulders, a deep, rich gold when it’s wet. She’s naked, of course, her skin still flushed pink from the heat of the water, and I let my gaze slide over her, every inch of silky skin and angled bone.

She’s mine. My trophy, my prize, my pet. I look at her, and her blue eyes meet mine, cool and calm. There’s none of the bright, feral satisfaction that was there earlier.

“Go lie on the bed,” I tell her, and my cock jerks, twitching against my fly with anticipation.

No. Not tonight. I need to control my lust, just as I need to harness my jealousy and my rage. I need to remind myself that I rule my body, and I need to remind Nicci that I rule hers. And I know exactly how I’ll accomplish that.

She rises from the chair with that same fluid grace as earlier, gliding towards the bed. Without a word, she lies back on it, her wet hair clinging to the pillow as she rests her hands on the covers, her thighs pressed close together. I follow her, straddling her legs as I join her on the bed, looking down at her.

“Raise your hands over your head,” I instruct. She hesitates for only a second before obeying, her gaze flicking down to the thick line of my cock before she does as I ask. I reach for the locked nightstand drawer, unlocking it and taking out a pair of leather handcuffs, before quickly binding her wrists to the headboard. “You can struggle if you want now, principessa . But you won’t be going anywhere.”

“ Can I struggle?” She raises an eyebrow. “Or would that be proof that I’m not submitting well enough? Would that end our deal?”

She looks at me like I’m a devil she’s bargaining with, like every word has to be carefully looked at, examined, to make sure that I won’t use it to slip out of our arrangement. I chuckle, not touching her yet, just looking at her.

“You’re right, principessa . A good submissive would lie still and take whatever I have planned for her. But you’re not really a good submissive, are you, pet? You’re pretending, to get what you want. You’d fight back if you could. It’s only that you’re getting your reward, so you play along.”

“That was the deal,” Nicci murmurs, her mouth tense. “Or am I wrong?”

“You’re not.” I let my gaze slide over her, taking in every inch of her upper body. Her sharp collarbones, her small breasts topped with tight, pink nipples that remind me of rosebuds, her creamy flesh tight and stretched over muscle and bone, slender and delicate. “That was the deal we made.”

Silence stretches out between us for a moment. I hear her soft, indrawn breaths, quicker than before—with either fear or anticipation. I feel sure that I know which one it is, and I find myself wishing that it was anticipation, instead.

“You did well tonight,” I murmur. “You followed my instructions exactly. You did just as we’d planned.”

Nicci’s eyebrow rises again. “Did you think I’d go off-script?” Her voice sounds tight, slightly breathless.

“I wondered.” I trail the lines of her body again with my eyes. “I wondered if you’d try something.”

“Then I wouldn’t get what I want.” Her eyes meet mine, and I feel a throb ripple through my entire body, a near-painful awareness of how easily I could take pleasure from her. How I could sink myself into her and ease the ache pulsing through my body. How I could give in and give myself what I feel like I need.

Which is exactly why I’m not doing that.

“What do you want, principessa ?” I murmur, and her eyes darken, suspicion filling them as if she’s wondering if this is a trap.

“You know what I want. The remaining Crows dead. My father dead. My brother dead. For me to be a part of it.”

“Is that all?”

Nicci’s eyes narrow. “It’s what I can have. As long as I give you what you want.”

“You’ve done very well with that, so far. Well enough, in fact, that I think you deserve a reward. But only if you do as I ask.”

She presses her lips together. “Of course, sir,” she murmurs, only the barest hint of resentment bleeding through her tone.

“Tell me where he touched you.” I try to keep my voice flat, to not let her hear the jealousy rippling through it. “From the time we were at the party until I put that gun to his head.”

I see a spark of surprise in Nicci’s eyes. She hesitates for a moment, as if thinking, and I’m gratified to know that she doesn’t immediately remember. That his touch isn’t burned into her mind. “On my arm,” she says finally. “When I said hello.”

“Which arm?”

“The…right one. Upper,” she whispers, and I reach down, grazing my fingers against the soft skin on her upper right arm.

“Here?”

She nods. “Yes, sir.”

My cock twitches, swelling until I’m almost completely hard. I graze the spot again, overwriting his touch, leaving the brush of my fingers there instead. “Where next?”

“My waist. And then my hip. My lower back. The right side, too.” She swallows hard, and I reach down, gliding my fingers down the slight curve of her waist, over her slender hip. I hear her soft intake of breath as my hand traces that path, and I feel her thighs twitch against the inside of my legs, where I have them trapped.

She might want to pretend that my touch does nothing to her, that she feels nothing, but she’s lying. I can feel her body tensing, and I could chalk it up to fear, to revulsion at my touch, but her skin is flushing pink, her breaths coming more quickly now. I know arousal when I see it, and I see it in her.

I slide my hand down, curving it against her lower back, between her and the bed. Nicci arches slightly, and I drag my fingers down her spine. “Where else?”

“Nowhere, until we were back at his house,” she murmurs. “And then—the back of my neck. My hair. He kissed me.”

I won’t kiss her. I can’t. There’s an intimacy to kissing, a tenderness to it, that has no place between us. Instead, I reach up, my fingers gliding over the line of her neck, long and delicate as a swan’s. I thread my fingers up into her hair, tangling them there slightly, tugging lightly, and watching as her lips part before I bring my other hand up to her lips, tracing the shape of them with one fingertip.

Nicci’s lips part. I push my fingers forward, over her tongue, into her mouth, as if wiping away the mark of his tongue there, tangled with hers. Her lips graze against my fingers, warm and wet, and my cock strains against the front of my pants.

“Where else did he touch you?” I murmur, sliding my fingers out of her mouth.

“My breasts.” Her voice is thicker now. “All…all over.”

I drop my hands to the sides of her breasts, trailing my fingers up the small curve. Up, over, around, avoiding her nipples until I see her lips part, hear her gasping softly, feel her back arch as if she wants to press herself into my hands. My arousal is nearly painful now, but the satisfaction that bleeds through my veins gives me something else to focus on.

I wanted to reclaim her, but I’m getting something more, too. This, this is submission. Surrender. Her body wanting mine, even if she’d rather see me dead. I feel victorious, powerful. And when I reach her nipples, trailing my fingers around the stiffening peaks before I pinch them tightly, her moan is the most perfect fucking thing I’ve ever heard.

Mine. It’s mine now, just like she is.

“Did he touch you anywhere else?”

“He…he slid his hand up under my skirt. Before I grabbed it and stopped him. So he wouldn’t find…” she sucks in another breath. “The weapons.”

I reach down, my hand hovering over her ribs, her belly, the soft bare skin of her tight abdomen, before I dip my hand between her thighs. She’s shaved bare, her skin smooth and perfect, and I find her dripping wet.

I bite back a groan as my fingers slip between her folds. She’s soaked, slick and hot, and she lets out another gasping moan as I drag my fingers up, circling her swollen clit with one quick, brief motion before I pull back.

“Oh, god,” she gasps, swallowing hard as her hips arch, and I chuckle roughly, the sound dark as I hover over her.

“There’s no god here, principessa ,” I murmur. “Only me. And I think you’ve been a good enough girl to earn an orgasm. But you’ll take it the way I want to give it to you.”

With one swift movement, I unclasp the handcuffs from the bed, sliding one arm under her and shifting us both so that I’m sitting up against the pillows, with her straddling me. I pull her wrists behind her back, clasping the cuffs together, and look at her wide eyes and flushed cheeks, her hair messy and her lips parted.

“Grind on me,” I order her. “Just like you were on Lucas’ lap. Grind on my cock until you make yourself come.”

Her mouth drops open. I see her wanting to refuse. I’m rewriting the memory that was forced into my head, the sight of her on his lap, but I’m doing something more, too. I’m forcing her to admit that she wants to come. To make herself come, rather than accepting it from my hand. I can see the shame in the pink blush that colors her cheeks, see the humiliation in her eyes, and I push harder.

“Are you a good girl?” I tilt my head. “Are you my submissive pet, principessa ? Or is our deal over?”

She shudders, resentment filling her eyes. She hates me; I can see it. But she also starts to move, her hips rolling in a sinuous rhythm as she starts to grind herself against my hard, clothed cock.

It’s going to take every bit of self-control that I have for me not to come. She looks fucking sinful like this, every inch of her bare, grinding herself helplessly against me, her blonde hair clinging damply to her skin. Naked, while I’m fully clothed. Chasing her orgasm, while I hold mine back. I’m the master, and she’s the submissive—and that’s never been more clear than in this moment, as I hold our deal over her head like a sword while she tries to fight her orgasm.

But she can’t fight it forever. I glance down between us, where the grey fabric of my pants is soaked through now where she’s grinding against me, her arousal plain to see. She looks at me, meets my gaze, and follows it down, her cheeks staining bright red as an embarrassed whimper spills from her lips.

“You’re getting me all wet, principessa ,” I murmur huskily, fighting the urge to reach for her hips. I want to slide my thumbs over the sharp angles of her hip bones, squeeze her there, pull her down onto me as I thrust up against her naked pussy. But I’m not going to help her with this. She has to make herself come on her own. “Come on, pet. Soak me. Come for me.”

Nicci moans again, and I reach down just once to push her legs wider so I have a better view. She’s swollen and dripping, her clit throbbing as she rubs herself against the thick ridge of my cock, and she closes her eyes, her head tilting back as the pleasure becomes too much for her to ignore.

“Open your eyes, principessa ,” I order her. “I want your eyes on me when you come.”

She lets out a distressed sound, half pleasure and half frustration, but she opens her eyes. They’re glossy with lust, dark with hate, and I can’t keep the smile off of my lips as I feel her rhythm stutter, watch her back arch, and her hips thrust forward as she gasps.

“I’m—oh god, I?—”

A moan spills out of her, rising to a shriek as her entire body stiffens, the muscles in her thighs trembling and twitching as she starts to come. I swear I can fucking feel her fluttering against me, and I sure as hell can feel her arousal soaking through my pants and boxers, my cock wet from her without ever being inside of her.

It throbs painfully, every inch of my body wound tight, desperate to be enveloped in her heat. It takes everything in me not to drag my zipper down and thrust into her, hard and fast, giving myself the release I so desperately need.

But it’s that feeling of need that holds me back, even as I watch her arch and grind against me, letting out another sobbing moan as her orgasm tears through her, pulse after pulse of pleasure. She looks as if it’s been a long time since she’s really come, since she’s felt anything like this, and that need within me builds, held back by the barest of threads.

Her head drops as she shudders through the last of it, and she doesn’t move, still sitting atop my clothed cock in the mess of her release as she looks down at me.

“Good girl,” I murmur. “You came hard, principessa . How long has it been since you had an orgasm?”

She gives me a stubborn, mulish look, but she knows better than to not answer. “I don’t know exactly,” she says finally, her cheeks flushing a darker red. “A long time.”

“With someone else, or by yourself?” Jealousy flares through me at the thought of someone else fucking her. Never again. No one else will ever have her again. I sure as hell won’t be putting her to work in any of my clubs where ‘extra’ services are provided. But I could put her in one of my high-class strip clubs, for others to look at and for me alone to touch. Just the thought makes my cock twitch against her, straining against the soft, swollen, wet view of her pussy, and I grit my teeth as I feel pre-cum drip down my shaft.

Nicci’s teeth sink into her lip, and I know she felt it, that she’s biting back a moan. That makes me throb again, and I feel like I’m on the verge of going fucking insane.

“I haven’t touched myself in a long time, either. Not to a…finish, anyway,” she mumbles, clearly embarrassed. It only turns me on more.

“Good.” I reach for her finally, dragging her off of my lap and depositing her next to me before I can lose that last little bit of self-control. “You’re not to touch yourself at all, principessa . Not even a little. And you’re not allowed to make yourself come. Is that understood? Your pleasure, your orgasms, are a reward to be doled out by me.” I reach for the cuffs on her wrists, undoing them. “I could put these back on you if I wanted to, if you disobey. Leave you like this.”

Her eyes glint with that stubborn resentment that I’m growing used to, but she nods. “I understand, sir,” she murmurs, her voice still shaky from her orgasm, and I nod.

“Good girl.” I stand up, taking one last look at her. I see her gaze drop to the straining ridge between my thighs, and I wonder if she wants it. If she wishes I’d fuck her, the way I’m dying to.

“Make sure you shower again,” I add before I can let that thought go any further. “Clean up. I’ll see you tomorrow, principessa .”

When I go back to my room, it takes everything in me not to give myself the relief I crave. My cock is iron-hard, aching, but I ignore it. I change into clothes for bed and slide beneath the covers, forcing myself not to give in.

But when I fall asleep, all my dreams are full of Nicci, wet and naked and begging for me.

—

I wake in the morning to a sticky mess across my thighs and an unfulfilled, frustrated ache suffusing every part of my body. The moment I realize what happened, I grit my teeth, angry that she’s managed to have this effect on me. I haven’t come in my sleep since I was a teenager, but my dreams were full of her riding me—her hot, perfect cunt wrapped around my aching cock, and at some point, those dreams reached a fever pitch.

I should punish her for it, I think irritably as I go to shower and change into workout clothes. Images of her bound to the various apparatuses downstairs fill my mind, prompting another erection in the shower—one that I have to viciously force myself to ignore.

I’ve been waiting to fuck her until the need no longer feels as urgent, until I feel like I have control over the where and when. Until it no longer feels as if I’m going to lose myself in her the second I’m inside her. But my self-denial seems to be having the opposite effect. Instead, all I can think about is sex—in a way that I’ve never felt before. I’ve always enjoyed it, certainly, but I’ve never felt this driving need, this near-primal obsession with the thought of claiming a woman.

She’s already mine. I don’t need to fuck her for that to be true.

The best I can do is ignore her for the day and focus on what needs to be done. After last night, I have no intention of taking her for training or workouts today. She needs to rest, and I clearly need space.

Instead, I go work out alone, and then come home and shower again, before changing into a suit. I have an afternoon lunch meeting with Dimitri Yashkov, and I intend to look my best for it.

I have no idea if he’ll listen to what I have to say, but I also have no intention of being underestimated. Not after all these years.

My driver takes me to the Russian Tea Room, where Dimitri instructed me to meet him. I’m escorted into a back room by two of his security, where I see Dimitri sitting alone at a table, caviar service in front of him and an empty place setting on the other side.

He looks up as I approach. “Sit,” he says flatly.

My jaw tightens. “It’s been a long time since I’ve taken orders from anyone,” I tell him, in that same flat tone. “I still don’t have a taste for it.”

“Oblige me,” Dimitri says dryly. “And then you can explain why I shouldn’t have my men shoot you on sight, Savio Valenti.”

I drop into the chair opposite him, looking at the bottle of white wine in a bucket of ice next to the caviar. “Should I drink that?” I ask, bitterness lacing my tone, and Dimitri chuckles. He looks older than I remember him, more polished, the weight of the responsibilities of pakhan having honed his edges.

“Poison is for cowards.” Dimitri pours himself a glass and then one for me, taking a sip of his before inclining it towards me. “I may not be as bloody as my brother, but I would still kill a man to his face if I were going to do it.”

“Your brother.” I swirl the wine before taking a sip. It’s crisp and dry, and I’m sure a perfect companion to the caviar in front of us. “I heard he was back.”

“As are you. It’s going around, clearly.” Dimitri reaches for an oyster from the tray between us, adding caviar to it. “You haven’t answered my question.”

“Just as you are not your brother, neither am I.” I shift in my chair, ignoring the food. I didn’t come here to eat—I came here to make my intentions known. The wine, too, I ignore past the first sip. I want my thoughts clear. “There’s no part of me that regrets Barca’s passing. Nor do I blame you for killing him. I heard what he did.”

Dimitri’s jaw tightens. “He tried to have my wife killed. He deserved his end.”

“I won’t argue that. My point is that I bear no ill will against your family. As you said, Barca’s choices dug his grave. I won’t repeat his mistakes.”

“Then why are you here?” Dimitri frowns. “You must know the families won’t appreciate your presence. Your father and brother are both dead. Your family has been wiped out, except for you. Do you not think Antony Gallo will want to end you as well, to ensure that the Valenti problem is finished for good?”

“Maybe.” I reach for the wine, taking another sip. “You have a truce with the Gallo family, correct?”

“My father did. I’ve upheld it.” Dimitri’s eyes narrow. “Why?”

“If there were to be—a change, let’s say—in the hierarchy of the Italian mafia in New York, would you feel a need to step in? To uphold your father’s truce if it came to a potential war? Or would you step aside and let the mafia’s business be their own?”

Dimitri straightens in his chair, and I see his men shift out of the corner of my eye, clearly in tune with their boss’s body language. I can feel the tone of the meeting shift, see the way Dimitri’s expression goes cold, and I know that this conversation won’t last much longer.

If I’m careful, I can leave and regroup before it becomes violent.

“I’m a man of my word,” Dimitri says coolly.

“And a man of your father’s word? Or would you prefer to keep your family and your men out of a conflict that could become violent—and make a new truce with the new don?” I’m careful not to reference myself directly. Not to give Dimitri any reason to be sure that I’m talking about my own ambitions, even if he might be able to infer it.

“The truce stands,” he says, his tone more frigid than before. “And I will be obliged to back Gallo, in any conflict. Because I don’t wish for there to be one, I won’t tell him about this conversation today, Valenti. But I suggest you leave town. You’re not welcome in Manhattan any longer.”

With that, he stands, motioning to his men. Two of them are flanking me in an instant, and I stand up smoothly, keeping my expression blank as I nod to Dimitri.

“Thank you for the meeting, Yashkov. We’ll speak again soon.”

Dimitri doesn’t so much as flinch. “For your sake, Valenti,” he says, his bearing rigid and his face cold, “I hope that we don’t.”