Chapter 22 Vin
Vin
The next day, I’m halfway through the lunch Sophie packed me when I get the text.
Rocco at the Arsenal
again. Causing
problems.
The text is from one of my guys I stationed near her restaurant to make sure nobody fucks with her. I’m in the car immediately, the half-eaten sandwich abandoned.
The back entrance to the Arsenal is propped open with a milk crate when I arrive. Sloppy.
Rocco’s voice carries from the kitchen, loud and aggressive. My fists clench automatically.
“—never satisfied you anyway, did I? All those times I fucked you and you just laid there like a dead fish.”
I freeze outside the door, listening.
Sophie’s voice is cold, colder than I’ve ever heard it. “You’re fired, Rocco. Get out of my restaurant.”
“Dead fish,” he repeats, and I can hear the sneer in his voice. “Never came once with me, did you? Not fucking once.”
My jaw locks.
“No,” Sophie says simply. “I didn’t. The sex wasn’t great for me. But that’s not why you’re fired. You’re fired because you’re a terrible employee, you have no respect for me or this kitchen, and I’m done.”
“Not great for you?” Rocco’s laugh is ugly. “You think that asshole you’ve been fucking can make you come? I saw the way he looked at you. He doesn’t give a shit about you. You’re just a—”
I’m through the door before he finishes the sentence.
He doesn’t see me coming. My fist connects with his jaw and his head snaps back, body following. He crashes into the prep table, sending pans clattering to the floor.
“Vin!” Sophie’s voice is sharp, but I barely register it.
Rocco tries to scramble up, and I’m on him again, pounding him in the gut until he doubles over. I grab a fistful of his hair, yanking his head back.
“She told you to leave. You don’t listen well, do you?”
He spits blood. “Fuck you, man. She’s just a—”
My knee finds his ribs and something cracks. He howls.
“Say one more fucking word about her,” I growl, my face inches from his. “Just one. See what happens.”
Sophie’s hand on my arm is tentative. “Vin. He’s done. Let him go.”
I want to break every bone in his worthless body for talking to her like that, for touching her, for—
For what? For fucking her and not making her come? Why the fuck do I care?
I shove Rocco away from me so hard he stumbles into the wall. “Get the fuck out. If I see you within a mile of this place again, I’ll kill you. That’s not a threat. It’s a fact.”
Rocco staggers toward the door, clutching his ribs, blood dripping from his mouth onto Sophie’s floor. He doesn’t look back.
The kitchen falls silent except for my ragged breathing and the hum of the industrial refrigerator.
Sophie moves past me, grabbing a mop like nothing happened, like I didn’t just beat a man half to death in her kitchen.
“You didn’t have to do that,” she says quietly, dunking the mop in soapy water.
“He was disrespecting you.”
“He’s been disrespecting me for months. I handled it.”
“By letting him call you a dead fish?”
She pauses mid-swipe with the mop, looking up at me, her big brown eyes holding mine. “He was just trying to hurt me because I fired him. It doesn’t matter.”
“And what about you? Were you trying to hurt him by telling him he never made you come?”
Pink floods her cheeks, but she doesn’t look away. “I told you the sex with him wasn’t great.”
“If you weren’t coming, that’s one hell of an understatement, princess.”
She goes back to mopping. “It wasn’t personal. I’ve never come with anyone.”
The words hang in the air between us like smoke.
“Never,” I repeat slowly.
“Never.” She wrings out the mop, the water running red-tinged down the drain.
My mind is racing through every time I’ve fucked her, the way she moaned, the way she begged. The way she said sì, signore and opened her mouth for me and let me do whatever the fuck I wanted. And she never came. Not once?
“Even with me.”
“Even with you.” She says it like it doesn’t matter, like it’s no big deal that I’ve been pounding into her for days and never once made her—
“Bullshit.” I grab the mop from her hands, toss it aside. “You’re lying.”
“Why would I lie about that?”
“I don’t know, Sophia. Why would you?” I crowd into her space, backing her against the counter. “Why don’t you tell me?”
“Tell you what?” Her brow furrows in genuine confusion. “I have no reason to lie.”
I search her face for any sign of deception, but there’s nothing but confusion. Either she’s the best actress I’ve ever met, or it’s true.
I step back, running my hands over my face. “So you’re telling me you’ve never had an orgasm in your life.”
“I didn’t say that. I’ve had plenty on my own, just not with a partner.”
“Not even close?”
She considers this. “I was close with you a couple of times.”
I cringe. Close but didn’t come. Is she talking about when I denied her orgasm? Fuck, I didn’t realize I was denying her the first orgasm she’d ever had with someone else. “And you’re okay with that?”
“It’s not ideal, but yes. Sex isn’t just about orgasms, Vin.”
I stare at her like she’s sprouted a second head. “What the fuck else is it about then?”
“Closeness, connection, feeling safe, feeling wanted.” She ticks them off on her fingers.
“Safe. You feel safe when I shove my cock down your throat until you can’t breathe?”
“Yes.” No hesitation. Her eyes lock onto mine, and my chest tightens. “Because even when you’re rough, I know you won’t actually hurt me, not in a way I won’t like.”
I don’t know what to say to that.
She mistakes my silence for disinterest and turns back to her cleaning. “It’s fine, Vin. You don’t have to care about this. I know you don’t do relationships. I know this is just… whatever this is. I’m not expecting you to—”
I snatch her arm and yank her back around toward me. “You don’t get to end the conversation. You’re talking about letting men use you, like this is a habit of yours.”
“Why are you so mad? Isn’t that what’s happening here?” She pauses, her voice curious, not accusing. “Isn’t that what you’re doing now?”
I scowl. “I’m not mad. I don’t give a fuck about your orgasms. That’s not my problem.”
She nods. “That’s what I’m saying.”
“Me fucking you is not about making you happy or making you feel good. I’m using you because it’s convenient, because your pussy feels good, because—”
“Because you’re hungry and I’m a good cook?” She’s smiling now, smiling at me while I’m being an asshole.
I just glare at her.
“Okay, Vin.” She glances down at my hand gripping her arm. “Is there anything else you need from me, or can I get back to work?”
I hold her in place for a minute before releasing her, then watch her move around the kitchen like I didn’t just beat her former fuck buddy half to death, like she didn’t just tell me that I’ve never made her come.
She doesn’t seem bothered, doesn’t seem hurt or angry or even particularly interested.
That fact that she is so unbothered bothers the fuck out of me, and the fact that I’m bothered by that bothers me even more.
“When was the last time you fucked him?” The question is out before I think it through.
She pauses, thinking. “A few weeks ago, maybe?”
“Not since I’ve been staying with you.”
“No.”
“Not since we fucked?”
“No.” She looks at me, head tilted. “Why? Does that bother you?”
Yes. No. FUCK. I don’t know.
“I want to make sure we’re clear about what this is. And what it isn’t.”
“We’re clear. You’ve been very clear, actually. No relationships. No feelings. Just sex and food.” She smiles at me, sweet and fucking infuriating. “As amazing as a life of being ass-fucked every time I try to make dinner sounds, I think I’ll be okay when it’s over.”
When it’s over.
“What the fuck does that mean?” I snap.
“I just mean I know this isn’t forever. I know you’re here because you need a place to hide out. I know you’re not interested in anything more than what we’re doing. So I’m not going to be heartbroken when you leave. You won’t have a stalker.”
She says it so matter-of-factly, like she’s talking about the weather, like the idea of me leaving doesn’t affect her at all. I watch her carefully, looking for any sign that she’s lying, but there’s nothing but calm acceptance.
“So it’s not over,” I say slowly. “Yet.”
“I hadn’t really thought about it.”
She shrugs and bends down to pick up a fallen towel, and I’m instantly hard. Fuck. Every time I see her ass, I lose my God damn mind.
Is this part of her game? Or is she really this okay with being used?
“Why do you think you get to decide?” I sneer at her.
She straightens, towel in hand. “Decide what?”
“When this is over. You think that’s your call?”
Understanding dawns in her eyes. “Oh, I didn’t mean to imply that I—”
I’m on her before she can finish, hand fisting in her hair, yanking her head back. “You don’t get to decide shit, Sophia. I decide when I’m done with you. You understand?”
Her pulse jumps in her throat. “Sì, signore.”
I shove her to her knees, hand still tangled in her hair. She goes down easily, eagerly, those big brown eyes looking up at me with something that looks like—what? Trust? Surrender? Manipulation? I can’t tell what’s real and what isn’t anymore.
“Open your mouth,” I growl, already pulling my cock free with my other hand.
She obeys immediately, lips parting, tongue out, ready for me.
I hate that I can’t tell if she wants this or if she’s just giving me what I want so she can glean whatever information she can to give back to her father.
I push into her mouth hard, watching her eyes water as I hit the back of her throat. She doesn’t gag, just takes it, hands resting on her thighs, letting me use her.
“You never came with Rocco,” I say, fucking her mouth in slow, deliberate strokes. “You never came with any of them.”
She makes a soft sound of agreement around my cock.
“But you kept fucking them anyway. Kept cooking for them. Kept letting them use you.”
Another sound. Her eyes are streaming now, mascara running, spit dripping down her chin. She’s never looked more beautiful.
“Why?” I demand, pulling out so she can answer. “Why let them use you if you’re not even getting off?”
She gasps for air, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. “Because—” Another breath. “Because it felt good to be wanted. To take care of someone. To be with someone—”
I shove back into her mouth, cutting off her words.
Because I don’t want to hear it. I don’t want to hear about how she confuses being used with being cared for, how she thinks cooking for some asshole and letting him fuck her is the same as having someone who actually gives a shit about her.
I don’t want to think about how she’s enjoying the way I’m degrading and using her when I want it to be a punishment. Because I don’t want to stop.
I fuck her face harder, chasing away the thoughts with the heat of her mouth and the soft sounds she makes when I go too deep.
She never tries to stop me or pull away. She just takes everything I give her and asks for more with those trusting eyes streaming tears and mascara down her face.
And when I come hard and deep, so far down her throat she has no choice but to swallow, she makes this little humming sound of satisfaction that makes me want to do it all over again.
I pull out and she coughs, gasping, spit and cum dripping from her lips.
“Clean yourself up,” I mutter, tucking myself back into my jeans.
She nods and rises on shaky legs, moving to the sink to wash her face.
As she dries her face, I watch her. She’s never come when I fucked her. Why the fuck does that bother me so much? It shouldn’t. A woman’s orgasm has never once been a focus for me. I absolutely do not give a fuck.
But Sophie…
My phone buzzes, but I ignore it.
Sophie glances at me, her face clean now, eyes still slightly red. “Everything okay?”
“Fine.” I pocket my phone. “When do you close tonight?”
“I was supposed to close an hour ago, but…” She gestures at the kitchen, still messy from my fight with Rocco.
“Finish closing. Then we’re going back to your place.”
“Did you want me to make you something first? I have—”
“No.” I move toward the door, needing distance and air. “Just come home when you’re done.”
Home.
Fuck.
I’m out the door before she can respond, before she can see whatever the fuck is showing on my face right now. Because somewhere between beating Rocco’s face in for disrespecting her and learning that Sophie has never had an orgasm with anyone, something shifted.
And I don’t fucking like it.
She’s supposed to be bait, a weapon. She’s not supposed to matter. But standing in that kitchen, watching her clean up blood without flinching, listening to her calmly explain how she’s never expected anything from the men she fucks—
I want to break something. I want to hunt down every man who’s ever used her and make them pay for treating her like she was disposable. And I want to make her come so hard she forgets her own fucking name.
And that is a mother fucking problem.
I resolve instead to break her. To break her down, humiliate her, degrade her, and fuck her until I finally find her fucking limits and make her beg me to stop.