Chapter 11
VIOLET
Ican’t get over how different my apartment looks with him in it. Mainly smaller.
Gianni stands in the middle of my living room, seeming too big for the space.
I close the door, lock it, and deadbolt it. Then I double-check the locks. It’s habit, and as soon as I finish and am satisfied that everything’s secure, I realize how paranoid it must look to actually watch this process happen.
He doesn’t say anything, his eyes simply tracking me. No doubt he’s taking mental notes.
"Make yourself comfortable," I say. I feel silly as soon as the words come out of my mouth. Where the hell, exactly, is he supposed to make himself comfortable?
The pull-out couch is half-buried under a blanket and two throw pillows. My laptop is open on the coffee table next to a cold mug of tea. A box of Cheerios sits on the kitchen counter, and behind that is Patrick’s water bottle—blue with white tiger stripes on it.
I freeze for a moment. Do I tell Gianni about my son? No. Not now. If he puts it together, then yes. But my son is the most sacred subject in my life. I’m not offering information about him if I don’t have to.
Gianni's gaze moves across the room and pauses on the water bottle. Just for a beat—half a second, maybe less. Then it moves on, and his expression doesn't change.
He doesn't ask. I don't explain.
"Whiskey?" I offer.
"Please."
I open the cabinet above the stove and pull out my one bottle. Evan Williams. $14.99 at the bodega on the corner, purchased after I finished my first week at Russo Industries and needed something to celebrate with but haven’t touched since.
It is, without question, the least expensive bottle of liquor Gianni Russo has been offered in years.
I pour two glasses and hand him one. He takes it and drinks.
He doesn't wince, doesn't glance at the label, doesn't do any of the things I expected a man who probably keeps single-malt Scotch older than me in his office to do.
He just drinks it like it's exactly what he wanted.
And something about the way he does it makes me more comfortable, more relaxed, just as surely as if I’d been the one to take the sip.
"How long have you been living in this apartment?" He leans against the kitchen counter, takes another sip of his drink. His sleeves are still rolled, and the overhead light catches the ropy muscles of his forearms and the exposed muscles of his upper chest.
"A little over a year."
"Do you like the place?"
"It's safe." The word comes out before I even think it. Safe. What kind of person says that when someone asks if they like their apartment?
“Safe?” he asks, an eyebrow lifted.
“Yeah. I’ve lived in some rougher neighborhoods before. It’s nice being able to walk down to the bodega and not have to worry about getting mugged.”
He nods, takes another sip. It feels totally foolish to lie to him, but I do it anyway. My whole life is a lie, in a sense. What’s a few more on top of it?
"In your book," he says, "there's a scene where she lets him into her apartment for the first time."
"I remember."
"She's terrified, but not of him.”
“Then of what?”
“Of what it means to finally let someone into the space she built for herself.” He pauses, head tilting. “No, space isn’t the right word—her refuge.”
My throat tightens. Because he's right. That's exactly what I wrote, and I wrote it because it's exactly what I feel.
"In the book," I say quietly, "she's braver than I am. Artistic license and all that.”
"I don't think that's true. You seem quite brave to me."
He steps closer and his hand finds my waist, his thumb resting against the curve of my hip. My breath catches and my pussy clenches. He sets his drink on the counter and his other hand comes up to my jaw, tilting my face toward his. I can see every fleck of amber in those gorgeous, dark eyes.
"Tell me to stop," he murmurs.
A small protest forms in my mouth, but the words die on my tongue. I rise on my toes and kiss him instead. It’s not a tentative or hesitant kiss. Not even a little. It’s a hungry kiss, and he meets me with the same ravenousness.
One of his huge hands slides to the small of my back, pulling me flush against him. The kiss deepens instantly, his tongue strokes mine, my cheap whiskey lingering on his breath. I fall into the kiss like I’ve never fallen into one before.
Suddenly, he stops and pulls back a few inches. I’m so wet, so turned on, that I can hardly think straight.
"Chapter nine."
I blink. "What?"
"Your book. Chapter nine." His hands are still on my hips. "He undresses her slowly—one piece at a time. He makes her wait. But you wrote it wrong."
"I wrote it—"
"Wrong." He slides my blouse off over my shoulders and his mouth finds the newly exposed skin. I shudder. "In your version, he's gentle, careful. He asks permission before every move."
"That's—" My voice breaks as his teeth graze my shoulder. "That's called consent."
"That's called fiction." He pulls the zipper of my slacks down, then hooks his thumbs under my waistband and pulls down. The air hits my bare skin, and I'm standing in my kitchen in my bra and panties while Gianni Russo looks at me like he’s a wild animal in desperate need of a rut.
"In reality," he says, "he doesn't ask. Instead, he reads her.
He watches the way her breath changes." His fingers trace my sternum, between my breasts, feather-light.
“Like that. He watches the way her thighs press together—" his knee pushes between mine, and I gasp "—like that.
He doesn't need to ask, because her body is already answering. "
"That's presumptuous." I swallow hard again.
"Is it?" His hand slides behind my back, unclasps my bra with a single smooth motion, and it falls away. His gaze drops and holds and is so intense I can practically feel it on my skin.
"Tell me I'm wrong," he says.
I can't because my nipples are hard and my underwear is soaked and my body has been answering him since the moment he walked through my door, and we both know it.
The backs of my knees hit the pull-out. I sink onto it and he follows, caging me with his body but never crushing, never overwhelming. Those dark eyes hold mine as he places his hand on my bare hip. His palm is warm and rough at the edges.
In that moment, I find myself wondering what kinds of things he’s done with these hands. Has he killed with them?
“Tell me I’m wrong,” he repeats.
“You’re not wrong. Not even a little.”
The exchange sends a wave of heat through me that I can’t quite understand. It’s fear and intensity and arousal all at once. But when his thumb brushes the underside of my breast, the thoughts rush out of my mind.
I inhale sharply and he notices.
“We’re going to go slowly.” He speaks against my lips. “I want to feel every reaction.”
His fingers find the waistband of my panties. He slips his hand down, beneath cotton, and strokes me once. The contact is electric. I arch; he presses me back down with the weight of his chest.
“Easy, Violet.” His voice is low, sensual. “Let me take care of you.”
Two thick fingers glide through slick heat and circle my clit perfectly, just the way I need.
Gianni applies just the right amount of pressure, his thumb flat against my clit.
He watches my face the entire time, as if memorizing every expression I make.
When he slides one finger inside me, I bite my lip to stifle the sound.
He adds a second finger, curling them just so, and the pressure is still perfect and relentless.
His thumb glides along my lips, then returns to my clit, stroking in tight, steady circles while those fingers thrust inside me.
He finds the perfect spot as if he’d already known where it was, and I come undone.
The orgasm builds so fast I can hardly process it.
I come the first time without warning, a sudden and sharp unraveling that yanks a moan from my throat.
My thighs clamp around his wrist, but he doesn’t stop.
Gianni draws out the orgasm until I’m trembling, until the sensation is so much that I have to put my hand on his and guide it away.
He moves it, then lifts his fingers to his mouth. The sight of him tasting me, his eyes locked on mine the whole time, sends another pulse of arousal through me, right to my core.
He sits back just enough to remove his own shirt. His shoulders are broad and round, his chest sculpted with one long scar running down at an angle.
When he hooks my leg over his hip, I feel the hard length of him press against me through his trousers. He stills.
“Protection,” he says. His eyes lock on mine. “I have a condom in my wallet. I’m clean—I get a full health panel every month. But I won’t risk you.”
“I’m on the pill,” I say. My voice is steady, but my heart is racing.
“Good.”
He frees himself with quick movements. The sight of him—thick, flushed, the head already glistening—makes my mouth go dry. He settles between my thighs again, notches himself at my entrance, and pushes in with one long, controlled stroke.
The stretch is exquisite. I feel every inch, every vein, until he’s buried to the hilt and we’re both breathing hard, as if trying to wrap our heads around just how damn good it feels.
“How does that feel?” he asks.
“Perfect.”
He grins, leans down and kisses me hard and deep. Then he pulls back, pushing into me again, setting a deep, hurried pace, each stroke dragging against every sensitive place inside me.
His hand finds mine, lacing our fingers and pinning it above my head perfectly—dominant and anchoring. I moan as I wrap my free leg around his waist and meet him stroke for stroke, opening my eyes just enough to watch his thickness plunge into me over and over.
“God, you feel like heaven.” His voice is thick with want, breaking just enough to let me know he’s putting in some effort to keep his release in check.
His body is a work of art I get to watch. His muscles tense and flex, his gorgeous face wincing as he drives deeply into me, hitting just where I need. It’s almost unreal.
The second orgasm builds slower, coiling low and hot. Then it breaks.
“Oh, God, Gianni!”
I clench around him, and he growls low in his throat, hips stuttering once before he regains control.
He doesn’t let me come down. Instead he pulls out, flips me onto my stomach effortlessly, and drags my hips up so I’m on my knees.
The position feels filthy and perfect at once.
He enters me again from behind, deeper now, one hand splayed possessively over my lower back while the other reaches around to circle my clit once more.
“Again,” he commands against my ear, voice dark. “I want to feel you fall apart one more time.”
“Finish with me,” I ask. “Please.”
I can’t believe the words coming out of my mouth. I’ve never felt so needy with a man before. Something about Gianni brings it out of me, and I can tell by the way his mouth curls that he likes it.
The angle is devastating. Each thrust hits that spot inside me with merciless accuracy while his fingers work my clit in tight, unrelenting strokes.
I fist the blanket, muffling my sounds against the cushion.
Pleasure spirals higher, sharper. When the third orgasm crashes over me, it’s almost too much.
My vision whites out and I shudder against him.
Gianni pushes hard into me right at the peak, letting out guttural moan as he releases.
I feel him pulse, feel his warmth flood into me as he buries himself as deeply as he can.
There’s something so primal about the way he finishes inside me, something claiming.
He reaches forward as he comes, taking my breasts into his hands, squeezing my nipples in a way I didn’t know I needed.
He pulls out and rolls me onto my side, banding his arm around my waist like he has no intention of letting go. His lips brush the nape of my neck, and I notice the softness of his kiss—a total contrast to the way he absolutely took me just a few moments ago.
“Are you ok?” he asks.
“Very much so.” My fingers find his where they rest over my stomach. “That was more than I expected.”
He presses a kiss to my shoulder. “We’re just getting started, Violet.”
The apartment feels smaller than ever—but in a good way. It’s just him and me and the pull-out bed underneath us. It hits me as I lay there that he never asked about the bedroom, didn’t try to take me there when things heated up.
But if he knows, he doesn’t say anything.
And as I lay there, I feel something I haven’t felt maybe ever.
I actually feel safe.