Chapter 13
Valentina Luciano
My legs fall to the mattress . I lie like a boneless heap as Mario Luciano, my newlywed husband and long-time tormentor, drops his forehead to the mattress beside my head.
After sucking down a few lungfuls of much needed oxygen, I push his underwear off his foot with a sluggish limb.
He chuckles and nips my ear.
“You promised,” I mumble.
“I did. Are you sure you’re ready?”
I nod only to gasp as electricity sparks through my frayed nerves as he pulls his cock free in one smooth, wet glide. The intensity makes the world spin faster.
He groans and leans back on his heels.
Too exhausted to move, I flinch and whimper when he runs his fingers over my drenched sex. He scoops his seed, my release, and the sticky remnants of my virginity onto his digits and smears them over my ruined wedding dress.
“ Mio Dio , you’re so fucking sexy,” he murmurs.
The hunger in his eyes fills me with feminine power even as my mind quails at the thought of more sex.
I shake my head.
“You promised,” I say again.
He smirks.
“I took my cock out of your pussy at least twenty seconds ago. We still have a few hours until midnight, so…” he rumbles with a mischievous glint in his darkened amber orbs.
My insides give a weak squeeze, but I shake my head.
“Tomorrow can start right now. Twenty-four hours. Set an alarm if you want, but I’m done. No more. Please,” I beg.
His dramatic sigh unlocks a door I forgot I’d hidden in the back of my mind. One of the reasons I had a crush on him was because of how playful he was in his understated, stoic ways.
I swallow, but the ball of emotions in my throat grows. Fresh tears seep from the corners of my eyes. I cover my face with my hands in embarrassment.
I don’t want him thinking I’m a weak, silly girl who weaponizes tears or can’t control herself after a few orgasms.
Holy fuck, what have I done? I had sex with my uncle. I came all over my first crush’s cock. I begged and writhed under the man who betrayed my family.
Why don’t I feel an ounce of shame?
He hurt me. Terrified me. Humiliated me.
I loved every second of it.
I’ve never felt so alive. So needed. For the first time since my mother abandoned me, I was the center of someone’s world. Mario had eyes for no one but me. Nothing existed beyond the joining of our bodies.
I thought I chose him out of desperation, but I was lying to myself.
Even when my father told me he was a traitor, I still loved him. That’s why his betrayal hurt so much.
I love him.
Mario Luciano. My husband. My lover.
I’m so fucking screwed.
To my surprise, he scoops me into his arms, sits on the edge of the bed, and settles me on his lap.
“I’m sorry. I don’t know why I’m crying,” I lie into my palms.
“I fucked you silly. You’re allowed to cry. I’d be insulted if you didn’t,” he quips.
An incredulous half-scoff, half-sob breaks from my chest, but his nonchalance only makes me cry harder.
He tightens his arm along my back and tucks my head against his chest. I lean into him and cry until my head feels hollow and arms feel like a million pounds. When I give a pathetic sigh and wipe my tears away, Mario cups my chin and lifts my face to his.
“You know this won’t stop me from fucking you silly again, si ? If anything, it makes me want to push you further. Hurt you more. Pleasure you to within an inch of your life,” he says.
“I know,” I reply.
My eyelashes become too heavy, but I force them open after a long blink.
He nods and pulls my ripped neckline down my shoulder.
“You promised,” I mumble.
With my body and mind pushed beyond my endurance, I can only sigh when he slips my arm out of my sleeve.
An eerily animalistic sound of anger rumbles through the room. Adrenaline floods my veins and my eyes pop open.
I follow the direction of Mario’s gaze and stiffen at the dark purple bruises on my arm from Pietro’s attack this morning.
Was it only this morning? It feels like a lifetime ago. So much has changed since then.
“Who hurt you?”
The possessive fury in his eyes drops my stomach into my toes and floods my veins with magma until my answer curdles my stomach and chills my bones.
“Pietro Denaro.”
Mario quirks a brow in disbelief.
“Daddy dearest would never harm his precious little princess,” he scoffs.
His denial hurts. My sharp inhale rings in my ears and leaves me feeling foolish. Anger overrides all else.
I push off his lap and wobble in the high heels before gaining my balance and yanking my other arm out of its sleeve. With fury in every move, I rip the bodice a few more inches down the front and wriggle my hips out of the skirt.
Yards and yards of fabric pool around my feet. I angle my bruised hip toward him.
“Who else besides you and him can get close enough to hurt me like this ?” I argue with a gesture toward the black and blue monstrosity on my hip.
He’d have seen it earlier if he hadn’t been so transfixed on my sex.
Despite the lascivious gleam in his amber orbs as he studies my naked curves for the first time, disbelief hardens his expression.
I throw my hands up like the pampered princess he accused me of being and turn toward the bathroom, hoping for a hasty retreat, but my heel tangles in the puddled wedding gown and I trip.
Strong arms stop my descent and plaster my back against a hard, masculine chest. My heart tries to pound out of my ribcage as my husband’s massive cock presses against me.
“I’m not lying,” I manage through gritted teeth.
He gives a noncommittal grunt.
“Check the footage from my hotel room this morning if you don’t believe me. I need to pee,” I deflect.
Without a word, he scoops my legs out from under me, cradles me to his chest, stalks into the bathroom, and sets me on the countertop between the sinks. I hiss in shock at the frigid marble. Disgust curls through me as the filth coating my thighs squishes and cools.
Mario drops to a knee and grabs my ankle. I instinctively pull away, but he lifts his golden orbs and steals my breath with an unyielding stare. My nipples pebble and clit pulses. I wrap my arms around myself to hide my body’s traitorous reaction. The tilt of his eyebrow says he saw anyway.
I watch in mute shock as he unfastens the buckle and slips my strappy high heel off my foot. His thick, scarred fingers make my ankle look tiny and fragile.
A sordid thrill shivers down my spine. He could break me so easily.
So why didn’t he?
Too raw to delve into that train of thought, I shelve it for later and store away the visual of him kneeling at my feet. My heart swells even as my mind screams for me to look away and guard against his intoxicating power.
He stands without warning. I lean back, but he grabs my hips and pulls me forward.
“Hold on, paperotta ,” he commands.
I squeak and grab onto his shoulders as he lifts me off the counter and wraps my legs around his waist.
The hard planes of his chest flatten my breasts and his cock bobs against my ass, but he ignores his hard-on and wraps an arm around my back.
With a predatory prowl, he strides past the largest soaking tub I’ve ever seen, steps into the shower, and closes the glass behind us.
“Wait! I really do need to pee,” I say before he turns on the water.
He sighs as though I’m the biggest inconvenience in his life before opening the glass door and setting me on my feet in front of the water closet. With a pat on my ass, he urges me inside and slides the door closed between us.
I turn in disbelief but blow out a breath and run my hand through my sweaty hair when I realize the door has no lock.
After emptying my bladder and using half the roll of toilet paper trying to clean myself, I sigh and give up.
Alone for the first time since I laid in bed this morning, my adrenaline nosedives and inexplicable emotions batter me from all directions.
I rise on shaky legs, flush, and reach for the door.
Mario opens it before I get the chance. He picks me up, carries me to the sink, and sets me on my feet.
My body betrays me with a sharp inhale as he traps my hips against the counter with his bulk and reaches around me.
I blink in dazed euphoria as he washes our hands, the slippery glide of soap between our flesh undeniably erotic and surprisingly intimate.
I force my gaze to the mirror. Sleep hazes the edge of my vision, but I don’t understand why he’s being gentle or showing me care when he promised nothing but pain and humiliation.
When he turns off the water, I shut off my mind. Whatever his plans may be, I’m at his mercy and fretting over every little thing will only harm me, so I focus on the present.
He picks me up again as though I weigh nothing and closes us in the shower. When he sets me on the built-in bench, I lean back against the wall and silently thank him for not abandoning me. I’d probably fall and crack my head open if he left me alone right now.
My heart stops when I see his back for the first time.
Thick, jagged scars and thinner white lines crisscross over the expanse of his entire back. Vomit climbs up my throat.
He turns on the water and adjusts the temperature before pulling me to my feet and positioning me under the spray.
It’s too cold, but I don’t have the energy to complain. Even when he soaps a loofah and begins scrubbing me head to toe, I don’t argue. I should be embarrassed, but he’s seen everything anyway, so what’s the point?
With a melancholy sigh, I hold whichever position he moves me into, lifting my arms and legs and turning as he gently directs me with his hand and the scrubber.
He hangs the loofah on the wall hook and pushes me under the spray again before tilting my head back onto his chest and filling his palm with shampoo.
I die a million glorious deaths when he massages my scalp with the perfect amount of pressure. Suds leak down my face, so I close my eyes and fight against the urge to melt into a boneless blob. He presses his thumb to a sensitive spot at the base of my skull. I moan.
“Careful, paperotta , or I’ll fill that pretty mouth like I promised,” he murmurs.
Warmth pulses through my veins, but I clamp my teeth together and shake my head.
He guides me into the spray and rinses my hair. After conditioning my locks and washing my face, he reaches to turn off the shower, but I grab his wrist.
He cups my breast. Electricity zaps through me, but I reach for the loofah and soap and spin in his arms to face him.
“My turn,” I say.
His brows lift. A blush warms my cheeks.
“I mean your turn,” I correct.
“Why?” he asks.
I don’t have an answer, so I shrug.
“Eyes only on you, right?”
Surprise flashes through his amber orbs, but he hides it with hunger.
“ Sì , paperotta . Only me,” he says.
I nod, step back, and work the soap into a lather before stalling out. There’s so much of him it’s hard to know where to start. Deciding to go with the most obvious, I place my hands on his pectorals. Bubbles squish from the loofah and trail down his muscles.
I clear my throat and set to work, intending to wash him as clinically as possible, but he intrigues me too much, and before I finish soaping his chest and shoulders, I’m lost in a weird spell cast by hunger and satisfaction.
I feast on the visual delight of his body, but shy away from his jutting cock.
He allows it, but when I try to step around him, he captures my wrist, steals the loofah, and hangs it on the hook before turning his back to me.
My stomach sours and pain fills my heart.
He said my father stabbed him in the back and left him for dead. I didn’t want to believe it, but the proof is right in front of my face.
No wonder he hates me. I’d hate anyone associated with the person behind such a brutal attack, even if they weren’t directly involved.
When he looks over his shoulder at me, I avert my eyes and unconsciously glance at the loofah.
“It’s too abrasive. Use your hands,” Mario commands.
I swallow and fight against a wave of emotions.
“Unless they gross the pretty little princess out too much,” he snarls.
I shake my head and flatten my palms on his back. His muscles bunch in surprise. I bite my lip to hide my gasp of delight, but he chuckles and sends a scorching glance over his shoulder at me.
I run my hands over him, exploring every inch of his broad shoulders and muscular physique.
He isn’t ripped like the gym rats on social media, but that’s mainly because he has more bulk on top of his muscles.
He uses his strength in everyday situations instead of lifting weights or conditioning certain parts of his body.
I marvel at his size. If it weren’t for the scars, I’d think he was invincible.
My chest hitches on a sob, but I don’t deserve to cry, so I push it down and trace my fingers over the worst of his scars. Thicker than the width of my pointer finger and almost as long, the raised, jagged scar must have hurt like hell.
And not just from the wound itself.
My father’s blade made this scar. The knife Mario hid in my skirt as I married him was the same knife my father used to stab him in the back.
I should have stabbed my father after Mario revealed himself. It would’ve been a fitting end for Pietro Denaro to die by the knife he used against his best friend. My wielding it would’ve made the moment even more poignant.
Unnamable emotions barrel through me. I lean forward and press my lips against my husband’s jagged flesh. Silent tears rain down my face as I kiss every scar on his back.
I don’t know exactly what happened between them ten years ago, but it broke both men.
Mario must have felt so betrayed, angry, and alone.
When I kiss the last scar and still have more tears to shed, I begin all over again.
I can’t apologize with words, so I pour my regrets into the kisses.
No one should have to suffer so much in one lifetime.
Especially not the man I love.