18. Alexander
Chapter 18
Alexander
“ L et’s get out of here,” I whisper as my hand slides under the hem of her top, splaying out across her abdomen. Her skin is so damn soft.
I want to lick this woman from head to toe.
I sweep my thumb out, gazing it along the underside of her bra. Jesus Christ, she’s wearing lace. That knowledge has pre-cum leaking from my cock.
Chloe tilts her head back, resting it on my shoulder, and a faint moan falls from her lips as I pepper kisses along her jawline. She wants me as badly as I do her, I can tell. That kiss in the shower the other morning proved it.
She’s fighting whatever this is between us, but I’m not backing down. I’m a man who knows what he wants, and I’m not afraid to pursue it … or, in this case, her . The push-and-pull we’ve had these past few weeks will only make the payoff that much sweeter in the end. She’s like the ultimate prize.
“We can’t leave. They haven’t cut the cake yet,” she breathes.
“They won’t even notice we’re gone.”
“But I want some cake,” she confesses .
Of course, she fucking does.
I bury my face in the crook of her neck, my lips curving up against her skin. “If amore mio dolce wants cake, then cake she will have.”
I hesitate before reluctantly releasing her and reaching for her hand. I thread her delicate fingers through mine, unwilling to let go. Since we arrived, I haven’t touched her. Not because I didn’t want to, but because I didn’t trust myself. All bets are off now.
My initial reaction to her as she descended the stairs back at the house still has me spooked, but when we reenter the function room, my head is held high. Maybe those fuckers that have been lusting over my woman all night will get the message loud and clear.
She is more than my plus-one.
When we reach the table, I reluctantly release her hand and pull out her chair. I want her to sit on my lap, but public displays of affection are frowned upon in my world.
Italian families are like an unbreakable web—everyone’s connected, someway, somehow. I can’t let this get back to my father. If he catches wind of it, he’ll be on the first flight here, convinced that there’s a chance I’m considering settling down and giving him the one thing he wants most: a grandson. The Mancini heir. His heir. And that’s a risk I can’t afford to take.
I’d never knowingly bring a child into this world for those reasons alone.
Once seated, I pull out my phone and search for Antonio’s number.
Me: Chloe wants cake.
Antonio: I’ll make sure she gets a piece once it’s cut.
Me: You don’t understand; Chloe wants cake right now.
Antonio: I mean no disrespect to you or Chloe, boss, but we haven’t sung Happy Birthday yet, so she’ll have to wait a little longer.
I grind my back teeth together as I type my response.
Me: Antonio … my balls are bluer than cousin Vinny’s shirt, and she’s refusing to leave until she gets cake.
Once I press send, I look across the room, watching him read my reply. When he throws back his head and laughs, my annoyance grows.
Antonio: She’ll get cake soon, I promise.
Me: She’ll get cake now, or you will be looking for another job tomorrow!!!!
Antonio: After everything we’ve been through together … all the years … you’d fire me over a piece of cake?
Me: Damn straight, I would.
Antonio: Dude, you have it bad.
Me: Just get me the fucking cake, pronto.
Antonio: My wife is going to kill me when she sees a piece missing. Do you know how much she paid for that monstrosity?
Me: Don’t know, don’t care. And better her than me, she may show you some mercy … me, on the other hand …
Antonio: This coming from the man who threatened to kill Chloe’s dad with a gun that didn’t even contain bullets.
Me: You may be one of my closest friends, but you are skating on thin ice. And just an FYI, if my balls explode before the cake gets to Chloe, I’ll make sure my father knows you are the one responsible for him not getting his heir. I’m sure you wouldn’t want to get on the wrong side of Giovanni Mancini.
Antonio: You could always go in the bathroom and flog your log. That would give your balls instant relief.
Me: Flog my log? How old are you, 12? And no! Why would I do that when I have a beautiful woman beside me who’s willing to take care of my needs? Get me the fucking cake, Antonio!
Antonio: Relax, I’m getting you your fucking cake. If my wife divorces me over this, you’re paying for the lawyer.
Me: Consider it done!
I chuckle to myself when I see the waitress come back to Antonio with a knife in hand, and watch on as he moves, not so inconspicuously, toward the enormous three-tiered cake that stands proudly in the centre of the room, drawing everyone’s attention with its grand presence.
“What’s he doing?” Chloe leans in and asks.
“Getting you your piece of cake.”
She gasps. “You didn’t!”
“I most certainly did.”
When Chloe goes to stand, I reach for her hand again. “Where are you going? ”
“To tell him I can wait like everyone else for my cake.”
“Don’t,” I say, tugging her back into her seat.
“Alexander!”
“Chloe,” I growl in return. She is getting that piece of cake whether she likes it or not.
Antonio slides up beside it like a guilty child and quickly surveys the room. My lips twitch as he carefully takes the knife in his hand. His fingers twitch as he slides the blade through the bottom layer of the cake. His movements are deliberate and slow as he tries to extract a small slice without anyone noticing.
“Oh no,” I hear Chloe whisper from beside me, because just as he’s about to lift the piece onto his plate, a hand shoots out, grabbing him by the ear with a firm and unmistakable grip.
“Antonio Bianchi,” his mother-in-law shrieks. “What do you think you’re doing?” She twists his ear, and there’s no mistaking the warning in her eyes.
I bark out a laugh as he stands frozen, the piece of cake halfway to his plate, caught like a deer in the headlights. The room falls silent for a second, everyone pretending not to notice—except for the mother-in-law, giving him a pointed look and a tug that sends him stumbling.
“You want a slice, you greedy man?” she adds, loud enough for everyone to hear, “Then you’ll wait like everyone else.”
A fucking hour and twenty minutes … that’s how long I had to wait for Chloe to get her piece of damn cake. All the while, sitting there as Antonio sent me daggers from across the room. He’d been banished to the table where his mother and aunts sat, where they could keep a close eye on him .
His failed attempt to steal a piece of cake had earned him a dressing down from his wife—in front of the entire room—and a clip across the back of his head from his mother.
Chloe reached out and pinched a chunk of my thigh when I laughed. When I had said, “Ouch, what was that for?” she tried to make me go over there and confess my part in it all. There was no way in hell I was going to admit to that. I didn’t have a death wish. Italian women can be brutal when they have been crossed.
It was comical at best, and a part of me felt bad for him. Even more so when the cake was officially cut, and he was denied a piece for what he’d done earlier.
I wasn’t left unpunished for my role, which soon became known as #Cakegate among the guests. Chloe confiscated my plate the moment it was placed down in front of me, removed the piece of cake, wrapped it in a serviette, and snuck it to Antonio when we said our goodbyes.
Although the cake did look delicious, I had more important things on my mind … like eating her.
I also had the pleasure of watching Chloe eat. It’s become a secret fascination of mine—well, torture may be a better word.
Every time that fork disappeared between those pillowy lips of hers, my cock swelled further, to the point it became painful. It was so hard by the time she finished eating, I’m surprised it didn’t burst through the zipper of my trousers.
I reach for Chloe’s hand as we head outside after saying our goodbyes.
Antonio gave her a hug and a kiss on the cheek—which pissed me off—and then, to make matters worse, he completely ignored my outstretched hand, which only made me more furious.
I guess he’s still holding a grudge over #Cakegate .
“Poor Antonio,” Chloe says as we slide into the waiting limousine.
“He’ll get over it,” I grumble.
“I think I might bake him a cake tomorrow … you know, as an apology.”
“You don’t need to apologise to him, Chloe.”
“Oh, I know. I’m not apologising for me … I’m apologising for you. You put that poor man in the dog house. His wife was not impressed.”
“It was a piece of fucking cake. Correct me if I’m wrong, but isn’t that the whole purpose of cake … to be eaten? I don’t know what the big deal was. I think they all overreacted.”
“If I had spent a small fortune on a cake for our child’s birthday and you did something like?—”
“Our child?” I cut in, my voice rising a few octaves. “I have zero intention of procreating despite my father’s relentless pressure.”
She gives me a side-eye, settling back in her seat with her arms crossed over her chest. “It was a metaphor, Mancini. Relax. I can barely take care of myself, let alone bring a kid into this world.”
“Finally, we can agree on something.”
“Humph,” is her only reply.
As Nico exits onto the freeway, I pull out my phone and text Marco.
Me: I want everyone out of the house, including you, by the time I arrive. Nobody is allowed to reenter until I say so.
Thankfully, Carmella is staying at her sister’s tonight. I gave her the night off since Chloe and I were going out. She’s the only one on my payroll who lives at the house, so I would’ve felt awkward asking her to leave as well.
I have big plans for Miss Carmichael when I get home, and I don’t want any disturbances.
Nico slows as we drive through the front gates and down the long driveway towards the house. I notice my men congregating in a small group off to the side.
“Oh, has something happened?” Chloe asks, sitting forward in her seat and observing them out the side window as we pass.
“No, I asked them to exit the house.”
“Why?”
I glance over at her and smile as I reach for her hand and bring it to my mouth. “I wanted some alone time with you.” I won’t elaborate further; I thought I made my intentions clear before the #Cakegate fiasco. “Are you okay with that?”
She lifts one shoulder so I arch an eyebrow. I thought we were on the same page. “I’m okay being alone with you. I’m just uncomfortable with your men knowing what we’re about to do.”
“I asked them to leave; I didn’t tell them why.”
“I’m sure they can put two and two together. It isn’t half obvious.”
“If it makes you feel better, I can let them back inside, and we can go upstairs to my bedroom. I just thought, if, by chance, we don’t make it up there, there would be nobody inside that could see you in a compromised position.”
“When you say don’t make it up there … do you mean …?”
“I might want to fuck you on the staircase or spread you out on the dining room table and devour you … because I’ve had that exact fantasy a time or two. ”
Her eyes widen to the size of saucers. “You have?”
“ Bella ,” I say, bringing her hand to my mouth once more. But this time, instead of kissing her knuckles, I suck a couple of her fingers between my lips, swirling my tongue around her digits before releasing them with a distinct pop. “There’s something oddly captivating about the way you eat. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve had to sit there with a raging hard-on during our meal.”
Her perfectly sculpted eyebrows jump. “You have?”
She glances over her shoulder at my men. “It wouldn’t kill them to stay outside,” she says, making me chuckle. “It’s not like it’s a cold night or anything.”
I grab the handle and yank the door open. After quickly stepping out of the car, I extend my hand to her. “I love the way you think, amore mio .”
I think I love you.
The thought hits me like a jolt, and a cold shiver runs down my spine.
No!
I’m not in love with her.
I’m in lust … there’s a big difference.