Chapter 25
GINA
The next morning, I awaken to the sound of Biscotti scratching at my bedpost.
I’m wearing my sexiest silk nightgown and panties, as I’d hoped that after the museum party Dante would come to my room.
But I’ve been alone in the enormous bed all night, with only an attention-hungry puppy for companionship.
I bend to pet Biscotti as I make my way toward my bathroom for a leisurely shower. It’s only 7am, and we don’t have to be at the shooting range for another two hours.
I stop to look at myself in the full length mirror.
Why didn’t Dante come to me last night? It can’t be that I’m not attractive enough. Not in this luxurious lingerie Antoine handpicked just for me.
I look like one of the centerfolds I’ve seen at the newsstand — those fresh-faced girls smiling out from glossy covers in skimpy bikinis.
But maybe that’s not Dante’s type.
Dante likes the dark-haired vampire types. Like Mary. Amazonian women with mesmerizing eyes and dark power shooting out from their fingernails.
Maybe that’s why he didn’t come to me last night. There’s no way I could match Mary’s sultry, voluptuous beauty.
I peel off the right strap of my bra. Then the left. I unhook the clasp and let my breasts stand free.
Perfection.
Dante doesn’t know what he’s missing. Any red-blooded man would take me in a minute.
How dare Dante treat me as second-best.
Mary is dead. He’s mine now, whether he knows it yet or not.
I wiggle out of my panties and step into the shower. Warm water spills over me, chasing the pent-up tension away.
I lather the lavender body wash slowly over my arms, my breasts.
I imagine Dante in the doorway watching me. Black suit. Dark eyes.
If he won’t appreciate me in real life, he damn well must worship me in my fantasy.
That’s my rule.
In my head, Dante’s voice is low as he watches me. I see him open the top button of his trousers and clasp his thick cock.
Don’t rush, wife. I like watching you.
I caress my nipples until they become erect.
fantasy Dante doesn’t move.
He just watches.
Then I take down the detachable shower nozzle and rinse the foam off my breasts and my belly.
I move it lower.
The warm water hits my pussy and, indirectly, my clit.
I gasp.
I raise my leg and rest my foot on the elevated niche in the wall — that ledge the shower designer installed for shaving.
For me it serves a different purpose. In this position the water pulses against my clit at exactly the right angle.
In my head, fantasy Dante watches me brace against the tile, dripping, holding myself open for him.
His voice lowers.
Whose pussy is this?
Yours, I tell him in my head.
Say it out loud.
Yours, Dante.
He steps closer.
Pulls the nozzle out of my hand and turns it on me harder, holding it where he wants it.
He pins my wrists above my head with his other hand. Then he nibbles on the side of my neck.
You don’t come until I say.
I whimper out loud in the empty bathroom.
He keeps the water on me. Slow torture. I’m shaking.
Please, I beg him in my head. Please. Please.
He makes me wait.
Lets the wanting climb until I think I’ll go insane. Then his mouth at my ear:
Now, good girl. Come for me.
I come hard against the water, biting my own lip so Ciro can’t hear from down the hall.
My leg trembles on the niche. I have to brace my forearm against the tile.
The pleasant aftershocks roll through me for a long minute.
Then I let the spray rinse the rest of myself clean.
I stand there breathing hard.
And remind myself —
Mary is gone. He’s mine.