Epilogue
Matteo
Almost three years later…
Iwake before the sun. Always do. It’s an old habit from a life built on vigilance and violence. But now, instead of scanning shadows for threats, I bury my head between the legs of the woman sleeping beside me and drag my tongue along the seam of her delicious cunt.
Azra—my wife and obsession—naturally relaxes her thighs as a husky murmur of my name whispers through the room. Her cheeks are still flushed from our escapades last night, and she carries my scent, but I stimulate her clit as if I’ve been deprived of her taste for centuries rather than just hours.
It takes everything I have to keep the pace slow and savory. All I want to do is plunge my tongue deep inside her and fuck her with it until she screams loud enough to wake every guest at this resort. The only reason I don’t is because I have a record to break.
We won’t mention my obsession with her sleepy, love-drunk look she gives me every time she realizes her dream was real, or I’ll bring her out of her post-sex slumber now.
Three years and I still can’t believe she’s real. I still reach out every night just to feel her breaths against my chest and to reassure myself she didn’t become trapped in the depression that almost took her from me.
I used to think marriage wasn’t for men like me. Men carved from the underworld and raised by the rules of the mafia are meant to be too hard and too far gone to believe in monogamy.
But then Azra walked into my life, and every belief I had shattered like glass.
Thank fuck that conception was the only thing that broke.
My girl is strong, and her strength has only grown over the past three years.
With my hands under her ass, I angle her hips so her clit drags past my nose with every subtle rock of her pelvis. Her arousal coats my taste buds, and I growl. My wife is close to detonation, and I’m done pretending I haven’t noticed.
I won’t set a new record this morning, but I don’t give a fuck. The ride doesn’t need to be long to be thrilling. Azra taught me that. She knocked me on my ass with one sideways glance, and I’ve been having the time of my life ever since.
A low, lusty rumble rolls up my chest when Azra’s fingers rake through my hair two seconds later. Her grip is tight, and her tugs add a snippet of pain I’ll forever love.
“Good morning,” she murmurs huskily, her voice a mix of lust and grogginess from just waking up.
“Morning.” I wait for her shudders to ease from the gravelly delivery of my greeting before I curl my tongue around her clit and suck it into my mouth. I have no qualms with her taking off like a rocket, but I don’t want to miss a drop of her juices.
She bucks against my mouth, then tosses her head back and moans when I tease her entrance with two thick fingers. Her pussy loves having something to cling to as she orgasms, and I’m too much of a good, obedient boy not to follow the silent commands of her body.
“Yes…” Azra hisses when I stuff my fingers deep inside her and then furl the tips to stimulate her G-spot.
As I fuck her with my fingers, I do a long, leisured lick up her slit. I lick her clit while moaning through the sensation of her pussy sucking at my fingers.
“Always so greedy.”
She shoves my head back between her legs, and I chuckled against her drenched slit.
“Shut up and kiss me, Ruso.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
I tongue her clit, then suck it into my mouth, triggering an intense orgasm. Her whole body trembles as her shoulder blades meet. She tastes amazing, and her screams are just as delicious.
While keeping her clit firm with soft, gentle licks, I slow the thrusts of my fingers. We’re not done yet—not even close. I am merely giving her a minute to catch her breath before I utterly drain her lungs of oxygen.
Within seconds, Azra rolls her hips upward as her hand returns to my hair. Heat creeps up her thighs as the scent I’m wholly obsessed with filters into my nose.
How the fuck I ever thought sampling the same pussy would be a punishment is beyond me.
Excluding the days when she threatened to stab me if I kept offering to eat around the cord of her tampon, I’ve eaten my wife’s pussy every day for three years straight, and I can’t get enough.
I love how she tastes and moans. I love every part of her—even when we’re not fucking.
My balls pull in close to my body as her moans reach an ear-piercing level.
“Yes… there… Oh god, that feels so good.”
That’s all I need to hear to go to town on her pussy. I bury my face deep between her thighs and eat her as if starved. I don’t stop licking, poking, and moaning until she screams my name loud enough for it to ring in my ears all day.
Azra’s impatience gets the better of her. She tugs on my hair hard enough to rip several strands from the roots, then circles her hand around my throbbing shaft a nanosecond after I hover above her.
The pulsating ripples of her orgasm are still shuddering through her when she lines up my dick with the opening of her pussy and nestles it between the wetness.
“If you go slow, I’ll kill you,” she murmurs in warning, her breaths fruity since she released so many ketones last night while we fucked the hours away. “I want you to fuck me. Hard.”
Never one to disappoint, I murmur, “Yes, ma’am,” before I slam home.
Her tight, wet pussy feels so amazing I have to stop for a minute. She feels good, so good, and I don’t see me lasting long. Don’t take that as meaning our escapades will be over. I’m more than a one-and-done man, and Azra has learned that over a dozen times this week alone.
Once I have a morsel of control, I tilt her hips to the preferred angle to fuck her hard and fast before I withdraw to the tip.
Her breasts bounce when I ram back in. I push in and out of her on repeat until sweat beads on my forehead and rolls down my cheeks.
It’s not hot. Winters in Carlisle are cold enough to freeze your tits off if you’re left in the elements.
If you don’t believe me, be sure to ask Antonio if you’re wicked enough to be sentenced to hell.
I fulfilled Azra’s request for his burial site to be an open pit full of vermin to a tee.
Don’t look at me like that. That fucker was dumb enough to think not touching my wife would free him from my wrath.
Neither my family nor Henry Gottle Sr. agreed.
Fucking a woman’s psyche so bad she sees suicide as her only option is punishable by death in the Cosa Nostra.
Was back then, and it is even more so now that Giovanni and Valentina added a daughter to their brood six weeks ago.
“Louder, la mia tigrotta. How am I meant to kill them for looking if the noises aren’t incentive enough for them to risk death?”
She shudders around my cock, her tight squeezes bringing me to within an inch of the finish line.
I knew the day my eyes fell on her that she had a sick, twisted side waiting to flourish.
Her smirk when she took in Don Adami’s mangled hand awoke the beast inside me even more than removing the family heirloom while it was still on his finger.
With my fingers digging into her ass, I pull her on and off my cock until her eyes roll backward and the fire I’ve seen in her eyes since day one sparks. I fuck her hard and fast, my hips pistoning so ruefully that her tits clap at my brilliance.
As her shouts for me to fuck her echo around the room, I nail her to the mattress. My pumps are cruel and claiming, but the instant they’re accompanied by the raring spurts of my cum, Azra succumbs to the tension. Her muscles pull taut as the most beautiful expression in the world crosses her face.
This wasn’t me. Up until three years ago, admiring the face of a woman in ecstasy wasn’t something that interested me. Now I’m an addict.
My addiction is so incurable that before Azra can get close to relaxing, I flip her over, fist her hair, then enter her from behind.
I drive her through climax-ville over and over again until she collapses from exhaustion and takes me down with her.
Cum slicks her thighs, and the room reeks of sex, but her smile is one for the memory books. Her expression is effortless and content, and it makes me feel like the luckiest prick in the world.
As I free a strand of hair from her sticky forehead, I drink in all her perfect features. Her hair is a dark halo across the pillow, and her face is soft in a way she only lets me see. I trace the line of her jaw with my index finger, memorizing her all over again.
I could do this every day for the rest of my life and never grow tired.
When I brush my lips against her collarbone, she murmurs something. Her voice is too soft and sleepy to decipher exactly what she says, but it’s something along the lines of wondering if she’s dreaming.
Suddenly, her eyes pop open, and they glare at me with murderous intent.
“What?” I murmur, my innocent act impossible to pull off. “You were wondering if you were dreaming, so I thought a pinch was the quickest way to prove you weren’t.”
“You couldn’t just tell me I’m not dreaming?”
“I could have.” I smirk. “But where’s the fun in that? If you’re not threatening to kill me, la mia tigrotta, I’m not doing this whole husband thing right.” I capture her lip between my teeth and give it a playful tug. “Also… sparring with you is my favorite kind of foreplay.”
She smiles, slow and warm, and I swear my chest aches with how much I love her. I could stay like this forever. But Azra glances toward the window, and her eyes widen.
“What time is it?”
I shrug. “Fucked if I know.” I waggle my brows. “Time for a second helping of breakfast?”
She sits up abruptly, then grabs her phone to check the time. “We’re late!”
I hook her ankle and tug her back down the bed. “There’s nothing to worry about.”
“Matteo—”
“Revenge waits,” I say, kissing the inside of her ankle.
“Love waits.” This time, I kiss behind her knee.
“Support waits.” Now her thigh. “Everything waits for you, Azra. It always has.” My voice drops, rough with memory.
“Just like it did three years ago, when you needed time to find yourself again.”
Her expression softens instantly, and I think I have her. Then she kicks me in the shoulder firm enough to push me off the bed.
While peering down at me with twisted, fuckable lips, she murmurs, “As sweet as that is, I’m unwilling to pay double this year for being late.
I have better things to spend our money on.
” You have no fucking clue how hard I get when she uses references like “our.” She’s as wealthy as I am, but she knows what is mine is hers, and what is hers is also hers.
“Like my own motorcycle, so we can ride together.”
“Absolutely not.” She stops throwing on the slip I peeled off her last night as we stumbled into our room. “If you think I’m giving up the opportunity to have your body rubbing against me, you don’t know a damn thing about me, sweetheart.”
She rolls her eyes, faking that she hates my arrogance.
She’s a shit liar.
“Fine,” she eventually submits. “Then how about I remind you that the sooner we get this over with, the sooner we can return to the honeymoon phase we’ve barely tiptoed out of in the past three years.”
That does it.
I’m on my feet in an instant, dressed even faster than that, then dragging her out the door.
Shoes forgotten, and our ceremony clothes half buttoned, I drag her out into the morning light.
Our room opens directly onto the sand of a private cove we return to every year on the anniversary of the day we first saw each other.
It is quiet, untouched, and completely ours when we don’t invite others to be a part of the celebration.
The ocean breeze blasts us with cool, salty air, and Azra’s laughter rings out across the beach. It has seriously become my favorite sound in the world.
We run, hand in hand, across the sand, and every giggle when we almost stumble makes me fall in love with her all over again.
Under an arch of white flowers, the celebrant waits.
She’s accustomed to our chaos by now. The space is set up for a small, intimate ceremony for two.
We invited our families the first year we renewed our vows, but now, with our nieces and nephews multiplying like wildfire, it’s harder to gather everyone in one space.
Although this is fucked to admit, I prefer it this way.
I love my family. I would die for them. But this, us, is solely mine to treasure, so the more intimate the better.
This is why we’ve discussed kids but haven’t set anything in stone. We like our life how it is, so why add more chaos to the mess until we’re ready to share?
Azra squeezes my hand as we step under the arch.
The ocean breeze carries the celebrant’s soft voice, but I don’t pay her an ounce of attention until she requests that I repeat my vows after her.
I can’t take my eyes off my wife. Her eyes are wide and lusty, and the breeze is cool enough to pucker her nipples against her satin slip.
She is the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen, and she is solely mine.
“Azra,” I say, my voice low and confident.
“I vow to protect you, to stand with you, and to choose you every day and for every moment. I vow to be your strength when you need it, your peace when the world is loud, and your partner in every battle we face. I am yours, Azra. In every way a man can belong.”
Azra says her vows next. She promises loyalty, partnership, and a love that will never waver. She promises to walk beside me, even when my world is darker than hers.
Then the celebrant reaches the last line. “Until death do you part.”
“Even after death,” I correct her, my voice a vow in itself. “Because what we have doesn’t end. Not in this life, and not in the next. It is eternal.”
As Azra’s smile breaks me open, the celebrant pronounces us husband and wife, unaware that Azra was mine before any ceremony, and I’ll be hers long after the world forgets our names.