Chapter 11 Lucia
LUCIA
The morning after the dinner party arrives with an almost insulting sense of normalcy.
Giovanni sits at the head of the table in a dark robe, coffee in hand, unbothered in a way that feels deliberate, as though calm itself is one more weapon he knows how to wield.
As if the night before hadn’t been thick with threat and power plays and men who smiled while imagining where to put the knife.
Sunlight filters through the tall windows of our private dining room, spilling across the breakfast table in clean, elegant lines, catching on polished silver and crisp linen.
I watch him for a moment longer than necessary, then clear my throat.
“I want to go into town today,” I say, keeping my voice level. “I want to visit my uncles.”
He doesn’t look surprised. If anything, he looks prepared.
“No,” he replies, without inflection.
Just like that.
My fingers curl around my napkin. “I wasn’t asking permission.”
His gaze lifts slowly, the dark weight of it settling on me with unsettling precision.
“You were,” he says calmly. “You just didn’t phrase it that way.”
“I’m not a hostage,” I snap, heat flaring low in my chest. “Am I?” I add with a soft dare.
“No,” Giovanni agrees, unhurried. “You’re my wife. Which is considerably more complicated.”
I push my chair back an inch, the scrape loud in the quiet room.
“At the risk of sounding like a broken record, you don’t get to decide where I go or don’t go.”
“And we established, also like a broken record, that I already do,” he says, then adds, almost kindly, “You simply refusing to accept it hints at a touch of na?veté on your part, but I’m sure you’ll accept the inevitable soon enough.”
I stare at him, fury and fear tangling so tightly I can’t tell where one ends and the other begins.
“I’d say dream on, but we both know you rarely sleep, so I’ll settle for a ‘watch me’.”
His nostrils flare for a moment before he’s back to his unruffled best.
“And while we’re on the subject of acceptance,” I say sharply, “I haven’t even brought up the fact that you brought me into a house Isabella Bellandi apparently helped decorate.”
That recaptures his attention, but maybe not in the way I’d hoped. Something sharp flickers behind his eyes, quick and unmistakable.
“Call me depraved,” Giovanni says slowly, leaning back in his chair, a smug smile lifting the sensual curves of his lips, “but I love the flush of jealousy on you, cara.”
I scoff, loud and incredulous.
“You would. If I was even remotely jealous,” I lie brazenly.
He studies me openly now.
“Ask the question you’re circling, dragunidda.”
I don’t hesitate.
“Did you sleep with her? Back when you were considering her as your wife?”
The air shifts.
“No,” he says immediately, any trace of humour gone. “I was never tempted.”
I search his face, hating that I need to, hating more how much the answer matters.
“And she did not decorate this house,” he continues. “She offered her decorator’s services. I agreed to meet with them so as not to cause offence. But I never hired them.”
Relief hits me harder than I expect, sudden and vivid, loosening something tight and painful in my chest.
Giovanni sees it.
The smug bastard always does.
“I see that look, amuri,” he murmurs.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Sì, you do. And know this. I keep giving. At some point, I expect a return.”
My mind betrays me, racing back to the way his mouth and hands have undone me without ever demanding more than I was ready to give, to the way he has wielded restraint like a promise instead of a threat, tantalising me with what that delicious devotion would feel like when his titanium control snaps.
“What exactly are you suggesting?” I ask, wary.
His gaze darkens.
“Something persuasive. Especially if you want me to reconsider your little jaunt to Queens.”
I don’t plan it. I don’t weigh it. But it feels like one of those things that unleash with very little prompting, a thought or deed forming without permission and deciding when it wants to be brought into being.
“Fine,” I say, standing abruptly.
His brows lift a fraction, his eyes raking my robe-clad form, lingering on the usual places he likes to linger, knowing full well it turns me on more than I’ll ever admit. But there’s thinly amused wariness there too, which gives me a kick.
“Lucia—”
Too late.
I cross the space between us before I can talk myself out of it, my pulse roaring in my ears, the enormity of the moment catching up only when I sink to my knees in front of him, the marble floor cool beneath my skin.
His breath stutters.
“Christ,” he mutters. “You better not be fucking toying with me, ragazza.”
I shake my head, my hands already moving, my thoughts narrowing to sensation and intent, to the way power can shift when you choose it instead of having it taken.
When I tug at the ties of his robe, his composure finally cracks.
His coffee cup clatters onto the table and his eyes turn hooded.
He watches me like a hawk as I drift my fingers down his torso, from collarbone, between chiselled pecs and over clenched abs.
I revel in the tiny tremors that shake through his muscles when I slide one finger along the top seam of his boxers.
His cock jumps within the confines of expensive cotton and my mouth dries, then immediately floods at the thought of what I’m about to do.
This ambitious venture I’ve only ever done once, a very long time ago, and with results that still make me cringe. Back then I’d been hoping to quieten Dominic Redwood’s pressure for sex. It’d bought me the short time I’d needed to realise he was an arsehole I needed to dump.
Now…?
Now, I’m not buying myself time so much as showing my husband he doesn’t hold all the cards. And that blazing, feral look in his eyes right now?
Yes, I won’t deny it’s also addictive.
And that lends me the strength I need to delve my fingers beneath the elastic of his underwear, take Giovanni’s shaft in hand for the first time.
My throat moves in a convulsive swallow at his size.
I stroke him from root to tip, repeat, repeat, glorying in the smooth, hot velvet texture of him. Enlightenment dawning at the addictiveness of touching him like this. Why women take pleasure in this. The power. The heady knowledge of delivering pleasure. The—
“Who taught you this?” he snaps gruffly, his voice rougher now, threaded with something dangerously close to fury and reluctant awe.
I don’t answer. I won’t open that door. I won’t give him that part of me.
Not least because the look in his eyes declares blatantly that he will have issue with me dropping another man’s name into this moment.
And also because what I’m doing now comes nowhere near what I did back in my distant past.
“Focus,” I murmur instead, surprising myself with the steadiness of my voice.
His eyes narrow into feral slits, the faster rise and fall of his chest declaring that he is fully under my control.
And so, not willing to give away momentum, I lower my head, flick my tongue over his sensitive crown, and taste my husband for the first time.
I watch as his cock jumps within my grip, his jaw clenching tight before, “Madonna mia,” spills through.
He’s salty. Musky. Addictive.
I wrap my mouth over his broad, rose-blush crown, suck him into my mouth.
“Fuck. More, dragunidda. Give me more,” he utters gutturally.
Encouraged, I take him deeper.
Wrap my lips firmer around him and drop my head. He fills my mouth to breaking point, and my jaw aches as I struggle to take even more, greedy for more of this feeling, this… control.
He hits the back of my throat and even the gag that flares up is welcome.
I raise my gaze to his and watch his mouth gape open, his tongue sneaking out to stroke his bottom lip before he sucks the flesh into his mouth, teeth visibly digging in as he groans.
“Look at you, blowing your husband like you were born to it,” he mutters, eyes gone totally black. “Be a good girl and give me more, baby.”
I commence a rhythm I’ve watched many times on sites I shouldn’t have visited.
And with my hand, my tongue, a surprisingly intense suction that makes him suck in his breath and groan repeatedly, I pleasure Giovanni until his hands clench the armrests, his fingers digging in as his hips rise to meet my descending lips.
“Lucia,” he warns in a barely audible tone.
I know what’s coming, pun intended, and I glance at him, eyes watering as I moan.
And with a roar that startles birds from the nearby trees, Giovanni erupts in my mouth, his powerful body caught in ripples of release.
I take everything he has to give, noting with surprising alarm how my own body has grown hot and slick with arousal, the act of giving sending waves of pleasure through me.
Several minutes pass as he catches his breath.
And when it’s over, he pulls me up and kisses me slow and deep and deliberate, unabashed about tasting his release on my lips. His forehead rests briefly against mine, his breath warm against my skin.
“We’ve taken another step,” Giovanni says quietly, hands now iron-tight on my hips. “There’s no walking this back. And I reserve the right fully to demand this kind of breakfast going forward.”
My heart pounds, uneven and unrepentant, the need to blurt yes pushing forcefully up my throat before I swallow it down.
“I think the words you’re looking for are Grazie, Lucia.”
He studies me for a long moment, an unfathomable look in his eyes, then nods once.
“You can visit your uncles, bella.”
“But let me guess, with conditions?” I say dryly.
“With protection,” he corrects. “And don’t mistake my agreement for surrender.”
“Sure, noted.”
I’m too flush with triumph to argue the toss.
When I pull away, he lets me go, his eyes fixed on me until I leave the terrace.
I retreat to the bathroom, my reflection flushed and unfamiliar, my emotions tangled and raw as the water heats and steam fills the space.