Chapter 14 #3
“There it is,” he says with satisfaction. “Your G-spot. Feel how good that is?” He strokes it again, and I nearly come apart. “I’m going to make you come so hard.”
His fingers pump in and out of me, the wet sounds obscene in the quiet room. I can hear how soaked I am, can feel my arousal coating his fingers, dripping down to the sheets.
His mouth returns to where I need it most, and the dual sensation is overwhelming.
“That’s it,” he murmurs between strokes of his tongue and thrusts of his fingers. “Let me feel you getting close.”
I’m climbing so close to the edge I can taste it. And then he stops.
I could cry from frustration. “Don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”
“I won’t.” His voice is a dark promise. “But I want to feel you fall apart completely. Can you do that for me? Can you let go?”
I don’t know what he means by that, but right now, I’ll promise him the whole world if he only makes me come.
His fingers move inside me again, finding that devastating spot. “Trust me, doe. Trust your body. Can you do that?”
“Yes. Yes, I trust you.”
“Good girl.” His mouth returns, and this time he doesn’t stop. Doesn’t tease. Just works me with single-minded focus, his fingers curling and stroking, his tongue relentless.
“Talk to me,” he demands between licks. “Tell me how it feels.”
“It’s—oh God—it’s so good. Too good. I can’t—”
“You can. Stop thinking. Stop worrying. Just feel this. Feel me.” His fingers press deeper, his pace increasing. “Give me everything, Adora. I want it all.”
The pressure builds, different than before.
Deeper. More intense. Frightening in its power.
I feel full, stretched around his fingers, and there’s a pressure low in my belly that’s unlike anything I’ve experienced.
It’s not just pleasure anymore, it’s primal and overwhelming, like my body is gathering itself for something huge.
His fingers are relentless, hitting that spot inside me with every thrust. His tongue works my clit in perfect rhythm, and the dual stimulation is breaking me apart.
“I can feel you getting close,” he says against me. “Your pussy is clenching around my fingers. You’re so wet I can barely keep them inside you. That’s it, doe. Give it to me.”
“Vincenzo, I think—something’s wrong—you have to stop. I think I’m going to pee.”
“You’re not going to pee, I promise. Let it happen.” His voice is a command. “Don’t fight it. Let go for me.”
“I can’t,” I sob, terror racing through me at the pressure that’s building alongside the pleasure. I’m going to die of embarrassment.
“You can. You’re Adora fucking Montoni, remember.”
His fingers curl again and again into that spot deep inside me with brutal precision, and I shatter. I have to cover my face with my hands to muffle the sounds I’m making.
My orgasm is different than anything I’ve felt before.
Deeper. Wetter. More intense than I knew was possible.
My body convulses violently around his fingers, my inner walls clamping down so hard it must hurt him.
And then—oh God—liquid gushes out of me.
Not a trickle. A flood. It sprays over his face, his chin, soaking his mouth and tongue.
He doesn’t pull back. He gives a deep groan and keeps his face buried between my thighs.
The release is so intense I can’t breathe. Wave after wave of pleasure crashes over me, and with each one, more liquid pulses out. His fingers keep working that spot, drawing out every last drop, prolonging my orgasm until I’m shaking uncontrollably.
When it finally ends, I’m gasping for air, my thighs trembling violently on either side of his head. The sheets beneath me are soaked through.
For a moment, Vincenzo stays between my legs, breathing hard. His face is drenched, his chin, cheeks, even his nose glistening with my release. He looks absolutely feral, and in the possessive way that makes my stomach flip.
“Fuck, Adora.” His voice is reverent. “You just squirted all over my face. Do you have any idea how fucking hot that was?” He licks his lips, tasting me. “I’m never going to get enough of you.”
He presses a kiss directly to my oversensitive clit.
“I’m going to die of embarrassment,” I moan, my hands still covering my face.
“What are you talking about?” he scolds gently, crawling back up my body. He swipes his forearm across his damp face, grinning from ear to ear. “My perfect, beautiful girl. You did so well.”
“I—I think I—” I can’t even say it. Mortification is burning through me.
“You squirted,” he insists. “It’s hot as fuck, doe. I’ve never made a woman do that before. You drenched me and soaked the sheets.” He gestures to his wet face, his damp shirt. “Look at this. You marked me. And I fucking love it.”
I peek at him through my fingers, and he’s still grinning like he just won the lottery. Pleased with himself. Proud, even.
“You’re not disgusted with me?”
He pulls my hands away from my face, forcing me to look at him. “Doe, that was insanely hot. Feeling you let go like that, trusting me enough to lose control completely, you have no idea what that does to me.”
The mortification begins to fade, replaced by something warmer. He’s not lying. I can see satisfaction in his eyes, and pure male pride.
“You’ve been stressed, haven’t you?” he asks.
“I’ve been so stressed,” I admit. “About the wedding. The confession. Everything. And now…”
“Feel better?”
“Yeah. I do.” My body is loose and languid and my mind is finally quiet. For the first time in days, I’m just here. Safe. Held.
“Good.” His thumb brushes my cheek. “That’s what I’m here for. To make you feel good. To give you a break from carrying all of this alone.”
He kisses me deeply. I can taste myself on his tongue, and something about that intimacy makes fresh heat pool low in my belly.
I’m shaking in the aftermath, boneless and overwhelmed and completely undone.
“I didn’t know it could be like that,” I whisper against his mouth.
“Now you do.” He settles beside me, pulling me against his chest despite the pain it must cause his healing ribs. “And we have a lifetime for me to make you feel like that again. And again. And again.”
If I can get the confession from my father.
If we both survive the next few weeks.
Too many ifs. Not enough time.
The package arrives five days before the wedding. It’s an elegant cream box with a white satin ribbon. Expensive and beautiful, exactly the kind of gift you’d expect for a wedding.
When Matteo brings it to me in the living room, I actually smile.
“Oh, how lovely,” I say, taking it from him. “Someone’s sent an early gift.”
The box is luxurious. The ribbon is real silk. Whoever sent this has exquisite taste.
“There’s no card,” Matteo says.
“It’s probably inside.” I pull the ribbon loose, already imagining what it might be. Crystal, maybe. Or silver. Something elegant and expensive that I’ll have to write a gracious thank-you note for.
I lift the lid. Inside, nestled on white velvet, is a dead scorpion.
The stinger is raised, the scorpion’s black body frozen in death, perfectly preserved and pinned to the velvet like a specimen in a museum. No note. No card.
I know instantly who it’s from.
The box lid slips from my hands and hits the floor with a dull thump.
Matteo is across the room in two strides. He sees the scorpion and goes very still.
“Fuck,” he breathes. “Dashamir.”
“The wedding is in five days,” I whisper. My voice sounds distant to my own ears. “I still don’t have Dad’s confession.”
The room feels too small suddenly, the walls pressing in.
Matteo studies the scorpion with a grim expression. “He’s not a patient man. He expects you to understand the message without explanation.”
“Time’s running out.”
He puts the lid back on the box. “Do you have a plan?”
I think about the wedding. My father surrounded by his peers, drunk on champagne, ego, and the satisfaction of watching his enemy marry into his family.
He’s expecting me to kill Vincenzo at the wedding.
If I don’t have his confession by the time he raises his glass to toast us, he’ll know I’ve switched sides, and Vincenzo and I are screwed.
Dad will kill Vincenzo, and Dashamir will start his chainsaw and cut me into pieces.
Cold sweat breaks out on my lower back.
“I’m working on it,” I say.
Matteo’s silence tells me exactly how unconvincing that sounds.
After he leaves, I stare at the box on the coffee table.
Five days to extract a confession from a man who’s never admitted to anything in his life.
I have to make this work. There’s no other option.
At dinner that night, Dad sits at the head of the table, and I take the seat to his right. Close enough to pour wine. Close enough to monitor how much he’s drinking.
I hold up a bottle of his favorite Chianti, smiling like a nervous bride seeking her father’s approval. “Can I top you up?”
He nods absent-mindedly, distracted by his own thoughts, and I keep his glass full.
We eat in relative silence at first. Roasted chicken, potatoes, vegetables. Food I barely taste. I’m too focused on the wine level in the bottle. On the subtle loosening of his posture as the alcohol works through his system.
By the second glass, he’s starting to relax. By the third, he’s talking more freely.
“You’ll make a good wife,” he says, studying me. “Once the Vici is dealt with, you’ll be perfectly positioned to marry someone more suitable. Someone with actual power.”
I force a smile and pour more wine. “You’ve always been so good at planning ahead.”
“That’s what separates men like me from the rest.” He takes a long drink. “Vision. The ability to see ten moves ahead while everyone else is stuck in the present.”
“Is that how you’ve stayed on top for so long?” I ask carefully. “Seeing moves others don’t?”
He nods, warming to the topic. The wine is making him expansive. Boastful.
This is good. This is what I need.
“Will you ever marry again?” I ask, topping up his glass. “You must get lonely.”
“Marriage is a tool, Adora. I hope you understand that. Some women don’t.”
Hope flares in my chest. He’s going there. I’m going to get him talking.
“Some women think they have a choice,” he continues, his voice taking on that cruel edge I know so well. “They think they can say no to a man like me. They think their feelings matter more than alliance. More than power.”
My phone is in my pocket. I already pressed record on my voice notes app before we sat down.
“What happens to women like that?” I ask, trying to sound interested and not heart-poundingly desperate for him to keep talking.
He leans back in his chair, swirling his wine. “They learn. One way or another, they learn their place.”
This is so close to what I need, but he’s not saying enough. Not admitting anything specific.
“The old families understand that,” I say carefully, pouring more wine into his glass. “The traditional families. They understand hierarchy. Order.”
“Some do.” His expression darkens. “Others think they’re above it. Think their bloodline makes them special. The Vicis were like that. Generation after generation of arrogance, but what were they? Animals. Filth.”
He takes a long drink, and I watch his face flush with anger and alcohol.
“Enzo Vici, he was the worst of them. And his son?” He laughs, the sound ugly. “Thinks he’s some kind of avenging angel when really he’s just a killer with delusions of honor.”
My jaw tightens. I force myself to stay quiet. To nod along.
“No respect. No loyalty. Just violence and that goddamn superiority complex.” His voice is rising now, wine-loosened and bitter. “The boy’s a rabid dog. An animal who needs to be put down. He doesn’t understand strategy, doesn’t understand politics. Just blood and revenge and—”
“He’s not like that,” I burst out.
Dead silence from Dad.
Then he turns to look at me. “What did you say?”
Horror crashes through me.
My mind races desperately. “I mean, the Vicis are not smart enough to learn. They’re animals. You’re right.”
“You defended him. You just defended the Vicis.”
“No, I didn’t. I was agreeing with you.”
“Don’t lie to me, Adora.” He sets his wineglass down with a sharp click. The sound makes me flinch. “You said he’s not like that. Like you know him. Like you respect him.”
“I don’t! I swear it.”
“After everything he did to you.” He’s standing now, looming over me. “After he hit you and treated you like garbage, you’re defending his family? What has he promised you? What has he said?”
“Nothing! Dad, please.” I’m standing too, backing away. “I misspoke. I’m nervous about the wedding and I wasn’t thinking.”
“You weren’t thinking?” His laugh is cruel. “No, you were thinking. You were thinking about him.”
“I wasn’t! The wedding toast, remember? The poison. Five days and he’s dead.”
“A daughter of mine. My own flesh and blood taking a Vici’s side.” His voice drops to something cold and final. “Get out of my sight.”
He takes a step toward me. That’s all it takes. One step, and every survival instinct I’ve spent twenty years learning screams at me to move. I’ve negotiated with Dashamir Dervishi, but my own father is too much.
I bolt for the door, a sob rising in my throat.
That was my last chance to get Dad drunk enough to confess, and I destroyed it by defending Vincenzo.
We are both dead.