Chapter 7
Valentina Denaro
Hot one second, cold the next , Mario Luciano is the most confusing man on the face of the planet. I don’t understand what he wants.
Well, that’s not true. I know what he wants. As overwhelming as it was to have him pressed against me, the position left little to the imagination. He wants me.
He wants to hurt me.
I think from him, I could handle it. My body likes it. My heart may never recover, but I’ll find ways to manage.
Even if he hates me.
I swallow my pride and curl my hands into fists against the floor, bracing for his rejection.
“I know you don’t need my help, but wouldn’t my father be more humiliated if I abandoned him for you?”
Something in my words flips his attitude again. He steps forward, crowding me against the wall and looming over me.
“Wear my gift tonight,” he demands.
Thinking of the black lace lingerie heats my blood with embarrassment and arousal. I flinch when he leans down and grips my chin, forcing my eyes up to his.
“Prove you mean your words. Choose me from now on.” He tightens his hold and leans down. The icy hatred emanating from his handsome face stalls my heart. “Just know nothing you do will change my plans. I will have my revenge. Capisci ?”
Darkness overtakes my periphery as fear narrows my vision. Nothing exists beyond Mario’s intensity.
“ Sì , capisco ,” I whisper.
He releases my chin, pats me on the head, and disappears like the ghost he’s been for years.
Tears scratch the back of my eyes, but I wrap my arms around myself and curl forward, needing to hide my face for a few moments while I gather my composure.
I can’t fall apart here. My father and dozens of socialites mingle nearby.
Choosing Mario may be the biggest mistake of my life, but at least it’s my decision. My life hasn’t been my own since he betrayed my family and my mother abandoned me.
I tell myself I can handle anything he throws at me, even as my inner realist roars with laughter.
Heat courses through me as I recall how easily he overpowered me. He’s too big. Too strong.
My breast aches from his abuse but need pulses between my legs even as fear curls through my heart at the memory of his massive, hard cock digging into my stomach.
The dampness in my panties shames me.
I rise and smooth my hair before fixing my shirt and arranging my skirt.
There’s no point in wallowing in self-pity. Mario may want to torture me, but at least he’s brutally honest about his plans.
I don’t know what my father wants from me, but I’m not willing to give him more than what he’s already taken.
Ice travels down my spine and my skin crawls as horrible memories fill my mind.
I need a knife. It may not be much protection, but it would be better than nothing. I swallow and roll my shoulders back before stepping into the hall and returning to my father’s side.
I’ll have to continue to play his puppet, and my escape no longer holds the hope of happiness, but at least I have a way out.
I turn off my emotions and embody the perfect daughter as my father parades me around throughout the day.
Remaining in character takes more effort than normal. Every time I space out, the heat simmering in my body distracts me and my mind replays the overwhelming power in Mario’s hands.
He was my first and only crush. Maybe it’s only right for my body to come alive at his touch.
My apprehension grows as the evening draws near. When my father finally dismisses me from dinner, my hands shake so badly I stop outside my hotel room door and take several calming breaths.
I tell myself even the things I do while shut inside my room are just an act. A locked door has never meant privacy for me.
The moment the latch closes behind me, a terrible intimacy settles over my head. Even though I know Mario has been watching me for months—he admitted so at Camilla’s wedding—with his voice echoing in my mind, I feel more exposed than if I were under stage lights.
The simple act of putting on clothing becomes erotic—it could be a parka for all my libido cares—with his command ringing in my ears.
Realizing my thoughts are getting me nowhere, I shove away from the door, drop my purse on the front table, and pull the gift box out from under the couch.
A vague memory of scooting it across the floor with my foot and tucking it in the crappy hiding place with my bare toes drifts along the back of my mind, but everything between my talk with my father the night before last and Mario’s mauling today is a blur.
I swallow, scratching my dry throat, and reach into the box. The soft lace dangles between my fingers as I hold it out in front of me.
I’ve never worn anything so risqué. It’s overtly sexual while covering the most important bits.
I fight for perspective as I drape the top over my arm, grab the bottom—which is thankfully not a thong—from the box, and shut myself inside the bathroom.
With the door locked, the vent blocked, and the mirror covered, a wave of resentment washes over me.
I’ve been such a ‘good girl’ for so long, afraid my father will either betray me like my uncle or discard me like my mother, I thought my rebellious streak was gone, but it returns with a vengeance.
My childhood was fairytale perfect. I was happy. My parents adored me. My extended family, including my uncle, cherished me. I had friends in school and a cousin I shared all my secrets with.
A decade of suppressed defiance barrels through me.
Mario may be bigger and stronger than I am, but I am not powerless.
I toss the garments of lace onto the counter, snatch my hygiene bag off the shelf, slam the maroon nail polish down, and grab a new razor before stripping and stepping into the shower.
Waxing my armpits and legs has become as rote as dyeing my roots, but I typically only shave my bikini line when necessary.
And it’s necessary.
Except this time I shave more than I normally would, leaving only a triangle on my mons and removing every strand from my labia. When I set down the razor and lather myself in soap, the slippery glide of my bare folds is electric.
I give in to temptation and run my fingers over my sex as I recall how easily Mario overpowered me.
As the water washes away the soap, my natural lubricant coats my digits. I lean back against the wall, letting the spray sting my breasts, and gasp as a stream hits my nipple.
I imagine Mario’s calloused hand squeezing and pinching. The pattering of the shower isn’t enough, so I grab my breast and groan as pleasure streaks through me.
My clit hardens under my fingers. I circle and stroke. Pressure builds in my core.
When I dip a finger between my folds, doubt creeps in and dampens my enjoyment, so I return my focus to the sensitive bundle of nerves, but no matter how I touch my clit, I can’t tip myself over the edge.
Frustration surges through me. I pinch my nipple and shudder as my mind replaces my hand with Mario’s.
His threats pour gasoline on the fire in my veins. I flick my nail over my hard nipple and pull my clit hood up with my thumb.
Lightning fizzles along my nerves as I rub directly over my clit.
It’s not enough. I stroke harder. Faster.
His lips tease my temple as he grinds the muzzle of his pistol between my legs.
With a punishing scrape of my nail over my exposed clit, I shatter.
Too late I realize the voice bouncing off the tiles is my own. I clamp my hand over my mouth and struggle to breathe through my nose as steam fills the room. I slide down the wall and sit under the hot spray as mini spasms work through my core.
My euphoria gives way to exhaustion and shame tries to sneak into my heart, but one glance down at my body erases it.
Ever since my first period, being a woman felt like a curse. Soft curves, weak muscles, agonizing pain, everything about my body made me feel trapped and pathetic.
But with my chest flushed, my nipples jutting proudly in the air, my glowing skin, the long lines of my legs and endorphins rushing through my veins, I’m stunning. Glorious. Worthy of being worshipped.
I discovered my passion because of my uncle. I orgasmed for the first time while thinking about my father’s ex-best friend. I came all over my hand while fantasizing about the man who betrayed my family.
Rising on rubbery legs, I turn off my mind and bask in the afterglow of my release as I soap and rinse my body again, touching and exploring myself as though I’ve never seen my own body before.
After turning off the shower and opening the curtain, I turn on the overhead lights and yank the towel off the mirror, uncaring if Mario hid a camera behind the glass or not.
My reflection steals my breath. I watch as water droplets trace my curves.
I know why I hid from myself, but now I wish I had faced my appeal long ago. Maybe if I had looked with my own eyes instead of letting my father’s words infect my heart, I wouldn’t be as trapped as I am now.
After towel drying and slathering lotion over my body, I step into the black lace and marvel at how sensual it looks against my skin.
The high waisted bikini cut accentuates my hips while covering a surprising amount skin, but the strappy top lifts and pushes my breasts together, revealing an obscene amount of cleavage.
Mio Dio , I could take the model industry by storm.
With a self-deprecative scoff, I shake my head and grab the fugly nightgown my father expects me to wear off the hanger and slip it over my head.
The black lace shows through the white material. I smirk at my reflection before thoughts of my father’s hungry eyes destroy my mirth.
With growing sobriety, I paint my nails and let them fully dry before hanging my wet towel on the rack.
After loosely plaiting my wet hair into two French braids, I drape a dry towel around my nape, exit the bathroom, and open my closet. I drop the towel and wrap the chunky blue shawl around my shoulders.
As I tidy up the room for my father’s typical goodnight visit, an uncomfortable thought fills my head.
What if Mario isn’t the only one watching me?
My father could have easily planted cameras or listening devices in my room.
Am I falling for a vile ploy? Is Mario encouraging my father’s lust?
As much as I want to refute the idea, I can’t. If my uncle—he’s no longer my uncle, I remind myself—plans to destroy my family in the worst way possible, I can think of nothing better way than to trick me into flaunting the body that looks so much like my mother’s in front of my father.
Chills run down my spine.
Mario’s furious golden orbs fill my memory. The hunger shining from them eases my worry.
He doesn’t seem like the type of man to share. Plus, he specifically called me his future wife.
The electronic door lock beeps as someone inserts their card.
My heart pounds in my ears.
Would Mario visit if he thinks I’m not wearing his gift?
I release a silent breath of relief when my father steps into my room, until I realize how closely he watches me.
“Are you done pouting, Valentina?” he asks.
I swallow and tug my shawl more firmly around myself.
“I wasn’t pouting, Daddy. My stomach still hurts.”
I disgust myself with my own words, but when he perks up at the mention of my menstrual cycle, I hide my disdain and pour a glass of water for him.
“You know you wouldn’t make it without me, right?”
I freeze as his voice comes from right behind me.
“Of course.” I clear my throat and turn around. He’s too close. “I’m sorry I was ungrateful.” His gaze roams down to my painted toes, leaving a trail of filth in its wake. “Here, drink this,” I say as I extend the glass toward him and take a small step to the side.
No longer trapped between him and the counter, I move to the sitting area and pretend as though everything is normal.
When my father finally leaves, I press my forehead against the door and just breathe for a few minutes.
With my shoulders back and my chin held high, I slip the shawl off my shoulders and pull the nightgown over my head as I glide across the room.
Goosebumps pepper my flesh as the cool air brushes over me. I add a sway to my hips as I unbraid my hair and run my fingers through it. With my heart in my throat and my uncertainty growing, I crawl across the mattress before I lose my nerve and slide under the covers with the grace of a goddess.
At least I hope I look graceful. I’ve never done anything like this before.
Confirmation comes in the form of another gift box.
The next night, a maroon lingerie set appears on my loveseat, and the night after that, a white set sits on the corner of my bed, each one a different fabric and style.
Daily life continues as normal, but every night for over a week, I give myself to Mario when I slip his gifts onto my body.
With how risqué his offerings become, I know he means to mock and belittle me, but I don’t care. My confidence grows every time I study myself in the mirror.
Until I wake one morning with a telling heaviness in my abdomen and painful cramps. I stagger to the bathroom and grimace at the spotting in my panties. The bubble I created around myself pops when room service delivers an anonymous gift with breakfast.
After opening the first gift Mario sent me at the start of the day, I pull my knees to my chest and rub my aching temples.
I can’t wear the thong or the push up bra, not with my tender nipples and need to wear a pad.
With a defeated sigh, I run my fingers over the pretty trim and carry the box to the bedside table before dragging myself to the bathroom to dress for the day.
Even though Mario is out for revenge, I won’t lie to him and pretend I’m wearing the garments when it would be so easy for him to prove I’m not.
Three days pass without incident. No other gifts arrive. My period never progresses beyond minor aches and light spotting.
Doubt and desperation plague me. I have no escape if Mario abandons me. In a pathetic attempt at power, I wear the thong and push up bra to bed, only to regret it the moment I slip under the covers.
I’m alone again.
The black cloud of depression hovers over me. Not even whispering my troubles to my mother helps.