Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
KENNEDY
Two in the morning.
And I’m still awake.
Eyes wide open, I follow the flickering moonlight as it filters through the wind-stirred trees. Shadows dance across the ceiling in a hypnotic ballet, each movement silent and sad.
When tossing and turning fails, I find myself reaching for my phone once more, a ritual I seem to repeat every ten minutes or so. It’s gotten to the point the screen’s bright glow doesn’t even phase my eyes anymore.
Nothing.
Not a single message or missed call to let me know he’s alright.
Ugh , can’t the lethal idiot spare two minutes from his harrowing mob mission to let me know he’s okay?
Or that he misses me.
Or hell, that he’s even keeping an eye on me like a stalker.
Frustrated, I slam my eyes shut and will my body to sleep .
But I just want to hear from him, and it’s driving me straight to the bowels of insomnia hell.
Not that I’m a stranger here. Nights have always been an anxious time for me.
After the night my Da was found dead, it’s like my brain permanently short-circuited. Enzo just managed to ratchet it up a hundred notches. And not even the opulence of his bazillion-thread-count sheets or cloud made from sleep angels can save me now.
I toss and turn, as nervous energy pulses through my body like a live wire, thrumming for me to get up. If Truffles was here, he’d be whining for me to stay still. But even he has abandoned me to disappear off to who knows where.
Probably canoodling with Dory again.
Frustrated, I totally unleash on the innocent pillow next to me—Enzo’s pillow—pummeling it with several harsh punches before resting my head against it again.
One whiff of his natural musky, earthy scent manages to soothe the low-grade fear that’s been a constant companion since I was a girl, but not by much.
For a guy who wanted me all to himself for a week, he’s playing hard to get like a champ.
Gah. It’s impossible to get to sleep here. I inhale the pillow next to me again, and blow out a breath. I know what the problem is. It’s the bed. It’s his bed. The scent of him swirls all around, impossible to ignore.
Not his cologne, which is heavenly. Or his body wash, equally addictive. It’s him . That sweet blend of hot-blooded Alpha male with just a hint of scotch and cigars.
When he’s here, I sleep like a baby .
Yeah, because he usually fucks you into a coma.
Shut up.
And it’s not like he does it with his dick. Which is weird, right?
I close my eyes. Instantly, solid muscles and ripped abs consume my thoughts before another thought enters the picture.
Oh, God. What if something happened to him?
I mean, he’s a D’Angelo. His own father was one of the most powerful men in Chicago, and he vanished without a trace.
Wide awake, I stare at the ceiling and quietly whisper, “Look after him, Da .” Which feels a little ridiculous...asking my deceased father to look after the notorious, psychotic kingpin.
Still, I do.
I check the phone again, then scroll to his contact information.
I flip to the internet, where my fingers suddenly scroll to all things Enzo D’Angelo. His unofficial fan page pops up first, a site created by and for fans of Big Daddy D .
Seriously? Does anyone actually call him that?
As soon as I go to click on a thread, a banner pops up requesting I subscribe to enter.
I roll my eyes, but who am I kidding? Of course I sign up.
And not just to see if I can find a dick pic, but because my mind is racing, wondering why I’m apparently the only woman in the northern hemisphere not to have sampled it.
I mean, make no mistake, he has one. A magnificently big one. I’ve felt it pressed up against my body many times. I’ve just never seen the monster cock with my own eyes.
But from the feel of him, he’s long enough to make me salivate, with just enough girth to make me the teensiest bit scared.
I find the latest string of comments on it. Several women rave about being, and I quote, “dangerously good.” One fan even posted the following disclaimer:
CAUTION!
Use at your own risk!
Serious choke hazard.
Massive dick may cause heart palpitations, sudden fainting, and a severe allergic reaction to bug-fucker dicks.
You have been warned.
I continue scrolling and laugh when I read one girl’s testimonial:
The fact that the man can walk upright without the assistance of an industrial, heavy-duty crane blows my mind.
Then I see a comment that catches my attention:
Alert!! Where in the world is Horse Dick D’Angelo? If he switched teams, I will be crushed.
MIA? As in, he’s missing. The message was months ago. Right around the time we met. I try not to make too much of it and read on. Message after message and months of women crying about the severity of their withdrawals and how much they miss Big Daddy, I choke back a bit of vomit and find this:
Keep hope alive ladies & check the map.
Spotted getting into a PJ with a woman.
Horse Dick Rides Again.
Wait, what?
Did Enzo just hop on a jet and leave me for two other women?
What in the actual fuck?
I’m two seconds from calling him and giving him a piece of my mind when I pull up his contact and stare at his picture—a private moment of him having a bizarre stare down with Truffles.
My sleep-deprived brain suddenly kicks into overdrive, bombarded with random thoughts from out of freaking nowhere.
What if the woman in question is actually with Dante? I mean, he and Enzo did leave together. And he’s got the same dark, wavy hair and panty-melting smile. And Dante seems, I don’t know, a player in his own right.
Or, what if it isn’t even Enzo or his jet at all? This could be up there with sightings of aliens and yetis. Just a bunch of sex-starved women clinging to the hope that Enzo the Sex God is skipping around like a wickedly bad Santa, ready to bestow his mighty Christmas stick to women near and far.
Or, what if this is one of the women he’s actually rescuing? Like the ones I saw with my own eyes. It’s easy to imagine Enzo as the king of the ruthless mobsters by day, and hot, dark hero by night.
That in his own special, maniacal way, he’s doing what he can to right all the wrong’s of the world.
Then again, there’s one more option left. What if his legion of fans are actually right? I mean, they’re spot on about the size of his obelisk of a dick, that’s for sure.
God, why can’t my hyperactive brain just shut down already?
Feeling deflated, I set down the phone and grab my purse. If Riles really did leave me cookies, they’re about to get demolished.
I rummage through it in the dark because everyone knows there are no calories in the dark, and finally pull out the box. It’s harder to open than I thought, and I pretty much tear it apart in my frustration.
That’s when I notice it—a small red dot glowing from the corner of the ceiling.
What the hell is that?
I stare harder, trying to remember. Was that there earlier? Maybe. Who ever looks up at the ceiling?
Is it . . . it couldn’t be . . . a camera ?
And does the red light mean that thing is actually on?
I switch on the light, and there it is—a camera, clear as day. And in my hand? Definitely not cookies. Not even close.
It’s the Titan 2000. The label reads:
Extra-long, Extra-thick,
Made for her Ultimate Pleasure
Engineered for maximum satisfaction wit h
lifelike texture and revolutionary technology
20-settings plus heat
Below, in fine print, it boasts, “Waterproof, rechargeable, and guaranteed to deliver toe-curling ecstasy—or your money back.”
Blech . Who takes back a vibrator?
And my baby sister found it, bought it, and stuffed it in my purse. I couldn’t be prouder of her if I tried. How I didn’t notice it earlier, considering it’s roughly the size of Florida, is beyond me.
But I’m definitely noticing it now—along with the watchful eye of Enzo’s spyware dangling from the ceiling.
Is he watching me?
Fondle a vibrator?
My pulse skyrockets at the thought of him spying on me, stalking me in my intimate, private moments. It should make me feel angry and violated, furious if I were even the slightest bit sane.
But it doesn’t.
Of all the things I could feel right now, I feel bold. And definitely a little bit naughty .
And whether he’s watching or not, my hand moves without permission. I know I shouldn’t do this. I’m asking for trouble. And possibly a straight jacket.
I slide a finger along its length, delicately stroking every ridge, smoothing my hand up and down as if every move is for the pleasure of two golden eyes hiding in the dark.
I guess when I’m sleep deprived is when I become brave. Or delirious. I look up at the small red dot and let out a ripe, delicious moan, “ Ahhh ...”
Nothing happens.
Hmm. I test the waters even more and shove aside the blankets, giving the light and whatever it’s attached to in the ceiling full view of my body.
Then, I undress. Slowly so what’s probably a smoke detector can catch every move. I slide the oversized cock between the valley of my breasts, down my stomach, and finally, to the delicate triangle of my thighs.
This wasn’t about Enzo D’Angelo, though my nipples tightened at the thought of him, furious with rage at my disobedience, barging through the door, spreading my legs, and burying himself in me with one swift thrust.
And this wasn’t even about getting myself to sleep, which, an orgasm usually does when I’m restless or anxious.
This was about me, reclaiming some small semblance of control, doing whatever the hell I want, whenever the hell I want.
And maybe Enzo isn’t watching at all, but imagining he is makes me hot enough to keep going. My finger tracing circles along the base, ready to get off with the mother of all vibrators.
“Is this what you want, Mr. D’Angelo?” I ask no one at all.
When I press the button, the buzz is so loud, I jolt. It takes me a minute to figure out the settings—fast, slow, pulse, jackhammer.
I ease it back to something I’m used to. Then, I imagine what he would do, and dial it up the slightest bit.
Half of me screams , What the fuck are you doing? while the other half of me—the one controlling Titan—presses forth like the charging of the bulls.
“Are you watching?” I asked, my voice raspy to the empty room. Out of nowhere, I add, “This could be you, Enzo. Shoving that big cock of yours where you want.”
Jeez. Who am I?
Propping up to my elbows, I smiled at the dark corner of the ceiling, lick my lips, and smile shyly. “Would you command me to spread my legs,” I say to the ceiling, spreading my thighs just enough.
Confident that he isn’t actually listening at all, I add, “Would you make me open up wider?”
Silence.
Well, except for the low hum enticing its way to my sweet little spot, as I prepare to go to absolute town on myself.
I suck my middle finger hard before slicing it down my body, ready to work in tandem with the toy. “Please, fuck me, Mr. D’Angelo,” I beg. “Fuck me hard.”