Chapter 16 Evi
EVI
As I sit at the edge of our bed, hands clasped in my lap, the quiet starts to pulse. I can feel it in the air, in the tremor of my heartbeat as it echoes too loudly inside my chest, in the faint ticking of the old clock down the hall. Every sound seems sharper, magnified by my nerves.
I can’t keep still. I’ve changed into my black silk slip, the one that feels like liquid against my skin.
I haven’t had the courage to wear it yet.
It was meant to be beautiful, delicate, seductive.
Tonight, it feels almost symbolic—something dark and bold, ready to transform me into someone more daring.
Sandro said he wants to teach me something about trust. His voice was low, his tone unreadable, and it’s been circling through my mind ever since.
The memory of it makes me tingle with nervous anticipation.
I want to please Sandro, and I’m curious about what he likes—what he thinks I might like—but I’ve never heard of men punishing their wives for pleasure before.
I’ve heard enough whispers over the years to know that many men in our world use their strength as a weapon.
I’m not so naive as to be unaware that many mafia wives often end up in abusive situations, their husbands treating them more like possessions or punching bags than people.
Some take their wives apart just to prove they can.
Still, he promised I’d never have a reason to fear him, and I believe him—mostly.
But belief doesn’t quiet the ache of anxiety that stirs in my stomach.
Because, while I don’t think Sandro is like that, I can’t deny that something dark and dangerous surrounds him.
There’s an unspoken acknowledgment that no one messes with him.
Even my older brothers seem mildly scared of Sandro when they talk about him.
He is not tender, not soft, not tame—but from his first touch, Sandro has only ever been gentle with me. I think I’m safe with him. I just hope I’m not making a mistake.
My palms are damp when I press them to my racing heart, but no matter how many deep breaths I take, it won’t calm.
And I tense when Sandro’s silhouette fills the archway of the bathroom.
He looks as devastatingly handsome as ever, wearing nothing but low-slung joggers, his broad shoulders on full display, a fresh bandage covering his wound.
His damp hair is pushed back from his face, a few shadows of fatigue smudging the edges of his eyes.
He’s cleaned up from the fight, but the faint scent of violence still clings to him.
He’s carrying something in his hands—lengths of rope, strips of dark cloth—and my pulse launches into a full-on sprint.
“Sandro,” I whisper, my voice catching halfway.
His gaze slides to me, steady, unreadable. “You’re nervous.”
I swallow hard. “A little.”
The silence stretches, thick and heavy. He walks toward me—slow, deliberate steps that make the air in the room feel smaller—then leans in to set the rope and cloth on the bed beside me.
When he comes to stand in front of me, I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes.
There’s heat there, yes, but not cruelty.
He studies me like he’s searching for something deeper—something beyond the surface.
“Do you trust me?” he asks.
It’s not the kind of question I should answer lightly, and I pause, really considering the implications. Then I nod, my voice coming out a whisper. “Yes.”
He lifts his hand, brushing his knuckles along my jaw. “Then don’t think. Just feel.”
My breath catches as he reaches for the rope, his fingers sure and practiced. The sight of it sends a shiver down my spine, but not from fear. It’s something else—something raw and alive that I don’t have a name for.
“Give me your wrists.” The command is soft but brooks no argument as he extends his hand, palm up.
He doesn’t grab me. Doesn’t force me. Instead, he waits. The silence between us becomes its own kind of communication, and when I lift my wrists, offering them, he exhales softly—as though he hadn’t been sure I would.
The first brush of rope around my skin is gentle. He loops it slowly, deliberately, his calloused fingers grazing my skin in a rhythm that feels more like reverence than restraint. Each knot he ties feels like a statement.
The air hums between us.
He steps back, his gaze tracing over me, and says quietly, “Good.”
I can feel the heat in my face, the way my pulse thrums at the base of my throat. When he picks up one of the cloth strips, my breath stutters again.
“Close your eyes,” he murmurs.
I do, my tongue darting out to wet my suddenly dry lips.
The blindfold slides over my lashes, shutting out the world.
Darkness swallows everything, and my heart starts to race again—then slows, because there’s something calming about it too.
Without sight, I’m left with only his voice, his scent, the sound of his breathing.
“Evi,” he says, and I feel the warmth of his breath near my ear. “You’re trembling.”
“I—” My voice falters. “I don’t know what to do.”
His hand settles on my waist, and the touch grounds me instantly.
“You don’t have to do anything,” he says. “That’s the point. You trust me to lead.”
The words ripple through me, and suddenly I understand what he meant before.
That this isn’t about punishment—not in the way I’ve been imagining.
It’s about surrender, about giving up the constant vigilance I’ve carried my whole life, always ready to prove my worth, always preparing to defend myself.
For once, I don’t have to be in control.
I can hear him circling me slowly, and every sense sharpens to fill the void left by sight. I catch the faint sound of fabric rustling when he moves, feel the way the bed shifts as he settles onto it behind me. And when his fingers brush the back of my neck, I bite back a gasp.
“Breathe,” he says.
I do, and the air feels different when I let it in—deeper, steadier, as though my body is finally learning a new language.
His hands find my hips, one powerful arm wrapping around my waist, and he pulls me back onto the bed, the covers sliding like satin beneath me. His voice is low, close, when he says, “Now lie back, and put your hands above your head.”
One large, warm hand guides me down, supporting me from the nape of my neck until my head finds my pillow.
Then he shifts, his fingers wrapping around the rope that binds my wrists as soon as my knuckles find hard wood.
I feel the soft tug as he adjusts something, then the complete lack of freedom as I subtly test my restraints. He’s tied me to the headboard.
My breath quickens, my pulse fluttering, and I fight the instinctual wave of panic that threatens to take over.
With deliberation, I force each muscle in my body to relax, despite the adrenaline racing through my veins.
And though I can’t see him, I can feel Sandro—every breath, every shift in energy.
When his lips brush the side of my neck, goosebumps erupt across my flesh, making my nipples pucker against the soft silk of my slip.
“You’re doing well,” he murmurs. “Better than you think.”
The praise sends a tremor through me, unexpected and dizzying. My throat tightens. I didn’t realize how much I needed to hear that—to be told I’m not a disappointment, that I’m enough.
As if he can sense it, Sandro’s fingers flex against my skin, and his tone softens as he whispers, “You’re safe with me, Evi.”
Something inside me unravels.
All the fear, the uncertainty, the years of hearing that I would never be enough for anyone—it starts to dissolve. In its place grows a warmth that spreads outward, until I feel it everywhere, pulsing beneath my skin like light.
“Now, bend your knees, Evi, and spread those beautiful thighs for me.”
I do as he says, and a rush of nervous anticipation floods my stomach. On instinct, I want to press my knees together, to keep my modesty. But I fight the urge, keeping my legs parted even though they quiver with nerves.
I’ve never felt so vulnerable. Or so alive.
And when I feel his hot breath wash across my pulsing clit, I nearly come undone. I suck in a sharp breath, my head tilting back as my muscles tense.
“Mmm, so wet and ready for me, aren’t you, wife?” he rasps, and the raw need in his voice, the way he calls me wife, like I’m his alone to possess and enjoy, sends a fresh rush of excitement flooding to my core.
Then his lips brush a kiss on the inside of my knee. And slowly, tantalizingly, he works his way up my leg. I squirm beneath him, my breath catching before it races out of me, and my clit throbs with a pulse of its own.
But when he reaches that point where I need him most desperately, instead, he shifts to suck the tender skin along the inside of my hipbone between his teeth.
I moan, the desperation growing inside me as he makes me wait.
Soft fabric rustles across my ribcage as Sandro’s hand slides upward to cup my breast, and I can feel his warmth through the thin fabric of my slip.
Then he lightly pinches my pebbled nipple between his finger and thumb and rolls it.
The zing of pain at the unexpected roughness lances through me like a bolt of lightning, and I cry out as the jarring sensation quickly melts into a fresh, intoxicating wave of pleasure that turns my core molten.
“That’s my good girl,” Sandro murmurs, his breath whispering across my sex as his second hand reaches up to palm my other breast. “I can tell you like that. Hell”—he inhales deeply, the sound carnal and wickedly depraved—“I can smell how good you think that feels.”
Heat floods my cheeks as I realize he’s talking about how wet I must be now. But I don’t have time to be embarrassed for long as his tongue strokes out, lapping between my folds in one long, luxurious stroke.
I cry out, my back arching off the bed as pleasure blasts through me, and the rope snaps taut around my wrists after I forget about them completely.
I have no control over my hands, no way to stop Sandro—though I can’t imagine why I would—as his strong fingers release my aching nipples to wrap around my thighs, and he holds my legs open so his mouth can devour my clit.
He lavishes my body with attention, his lips sucking, his tongue swirling until stars burst behind my eyelids, and the pleasure is so exquisite, I can’t breathe, let alone think.
The fact that I’m helplessly at his disposal only makes the excitement burn hotter, and suddenly, I want to experience everything Sandro intends to do to me now that he has complete control.
I’m gasping by the time he comes up for air, his lips parting from my clit with a wet kiss that makes me moan. I’m so close to the edge, I know it would take nothing to tip me over, and I writhe, my hips bucking uncontrollably as I seek the warmth of his mouth once more.
“My greedy girl,” Sandro purrs, the dark pleasure in his voice telling me he knows exactly how desperate I am. “You have to be patient if you want my cum.”
A shiver racks my body as scorching chills flash across my skin. How does he make it sound so hot?
I don’t know what to say. My lips part as my mind races, my need so intense that I would do anything, say anything, for relief.
“You think you can take my cock without coming before I tell you to?” Sandro asks.
No. Not unless he plans on letting me come as soon as he touches me. But I nod eagerly, too overwhelmed by the stimulation to take him seriously. It’s not like that’s something I can control. Right?
Sandro hums, the sound low and approving as his lips skate slowly up my body, lingering to brush across my silk-clad nipples before they find my throat. I can feel his hips settle between my thighs, the weight of his body covering me like a warm blanket as his woodsy, masculine scent fills my nose.
Then his cock is pressing between my folds, the tip swollen, the skin as soft as silk against my tender flesh that’s been ravished relentlessly since our wedding night.
I’m sore from the countless times we’ve had sex, the constant ache a reminder of Sandro throughout the day. But I wouldn’t have it any other way.
And now, as his hard length finds my entrance, it’s all I can do not to beg him for more.
As if sensing my desperations, he slides into me in one slow, deep thrust, and I gasp as our bodies meet, the base of his cock grinding against my clit.
I’m a goner. There’s no way I can hold back, and I sob with the force of the orgasm that rips through me without warning.
My back arches, my legs wrapping around his hips as my walls throb around his thick erection.
God, he feels so good, so perfectly right for my body—like the key to my lock, only he can undo me.
I can’t stop the pulsing waves of euphoria that crash through me, washing out to my fingers and toes, carrying blissful relief.
For a moment, I feel weightless before I slump back onto the bed, my legs like noodles as they slowly unwind from Sandro’s waist. Breathing heavily, I soak up the intoxicating satisfaction.
Then, a soft tsk issues by my throat, making the hair on the nape of my neck stand on end. Sandro’s lips ghost across the shell of my ear. “Now that was naughty.”