31. Bianca
Bianca
I shiver as Marco’s thick, capable fingers delve into my hair, teasing the strands loose from my nightly braid. My curls have always been a source of shame instead of pride. They’re too unruly, the kind of hair that belongs to a different type of woman.
The kind of woman who’s never had blood on her hands.
But Marco doesn’t care about that. To him, the blood on my hands only proves my soul is as beautifully stained as his, that we’re bound by the same dark depravity.
I want to say I’ve grown bored of him, that his touch no longer elicits any fire within me, but that would be a lie.
After all this time, my desire for him has only grown.
The way my knees weaken when his tongue dives into my mouth should be studied because I’ve never had the taste of someone unravel everything that I am before.
He hasn’t been drinking, but his tongue along mine might as well be whiskey based on how it spins my head. From the second I saw him standing at the altar, I recognized he was going to be a problem. That knowing this man would shift something fundamental within me.
I thought hate would be my catalyst, but what I feel when he grabs my hips and hoists me onto the island is anything but. Marco sweeps the ingredients for the lemon cream puffs onto the floor, and dough and flour go flying, a white plume exploding around us.
He slides me back along the smooth island top.
Already bare from the waist up, he slips off a pair of loose gray sweatpants before dragging my pajama shorts down my hips.
Bracing my hands slightly behind me, I lift myself off the counter to help him strip them completely off.
As soon as he sees me splayed out before him, he groans like he’s in pain.
Nudging my camisole aside until my breasts are free of the silk, he rests a hand on my bare waist, his sinful tongue claiming the pebbled bud of my nipple. Pleasure rockets through me, and my back arches, pushing my flesh even more into his mouth.
His fingers dig into my side as his free hand traces the faint blue veins along my thighs.
Following the maze of my veins to the apex of my legs, he urges my knees farther apart and teases my slit with the calloused pad of his thumb.
I cry out, the twin sensations of his mouth above and his thumb below tangling together in the middle of my body and pulling tight enough to break me.
My excitement coats his fingers as he stokes my opening, finally sinking two fingers into me with a sigh. They curl along that spot inside me, and I clench my teeth, my skin flushing hot as a strangled whimper bursts from my throat.
“Fuck, you sound so pretty like this.”
His teeth clamp lightly around my nipple with enough pressure to sting, to zap electricity through my nerve endings, but not enough to injure the sensitive skin. I gasp, earning a grunt of approval.
I ride his palm, my head blanking as his teeth scrape across my breasts, bucking for him as his hand quickens. He sucks more forcefully, and with a surge of need, I yank him up the length of my body.
“I want to come while you’re inside me.” As I murmur against his mouth, my quivering legs hint that my request may arrive too late.
“Whatever you want.” His voice is a raspy growl as he climbs up onto the island, bracing himself above me.
His eyes lock with mine, and I swear uncertainty glints in them as he hesitates. I feel like I’m staring at a man who’s incredibly close to leaping off a cliff.
I trace the scruff of his jaw. “Please, Marco.”
My husband requires no further convincing.
Pressing on the inside of my thighs, he spreads me wide like he’s about to enjoy his own personal feast. He finds my opening a second time with the head of his cock and thrusts.
I release a depraved moan I’m certain I’ve never made before, undulating my hips as he begins to move. With every thrust, he’s branding me, carving out a place for himself that no one else will ever be able to fill.
I lose myself in the rhythm we create together, crying out as Marco unravels me bit by bit in a sea of flour and powdered sugar. Our bodies grow sticky with the squeezed lemon and handmade icing we labored over.
Everything is messy and chaotic and imperfect, and the experience is akin to ripping off a pair of too-tight shoes that pinch your toes or unhooking an ill-fitting bra that suffocated your lungs all day.
It’s the absence of a haunting ache, and the feeling is so intense that the sudden freedom brings tears to my eyes and a soul-deep relief.
I barely notice the rigid counter beneath me as Marco captures my toes in his teeth, my leg trapped against him as he ruthlessly fucks me. My vision whites out, and a low, desperate keening spills from my lips.
“Come for me, love,” he coaxes. “Let me hear you scream my name.”
With just those few words, my core seizes, and my orgasm ripples through me. Marco curses and angles my hips so he can plunge to the hilt, prolonging the ecstasy as if he’s desperate to milk every last ounce of bliss from me.
His fingers, coated in sugar and lemon zest, slip into my mouth, and I suck. As my eyes roll into the back of my head, Marco stiffens. Abruptly, he pulls out of me and curses.
“Fuck, I’m coming. I—”
A hot stream of his cum splashes over my chest and stomach. He continues pumping into his tight fist until my skin is painted in his desire and irrevocably claimed.
From across the room, the oven’s timer shrieks, underscoring our heavy breathing. Skin slick with sweat, Marco offers me a bright grin, his earlier melancholy nowhere to be found. “Ready to eat? Because I’m starving.”
Marco wipes me up as best he can with a clean dish towel and redresses, leaving the buttons of his jeans tantalizingly undone. He helps me slip back into my robe and cinches the tie with a self-satisfied smirk.
Admittedly, I’m more than ready for another round, which must be written all over my face because my husband purses his kiss-swollen lips and drops his hands from my waist.
“Don’t look at me like that, principessa. We need to fill the zeppole with pastry cream…Bianca, don’t look at me like that…or else the trapped steam is going to collapse the centers. If they cool completely with the hot air sealed inside, they’ll turn into soggy cardboard within minutes.”
I snort. “You’re such a nerd. Fine, fine. Let’s cream pie the suckers.”
His laugh lightens my heart as, side-by-side, we ready the dessert and talk about everything and nothing.
He recounts his first solitary attempt at baking, a disastrous batch of brownies that he accidentally cooked into a solid brick, which resulted in a chipped front tooth.
In return, I confess to the time Livia and I snuck a dead bullfrog beneath Aldo’s pillow.
For all his frightening power, my father is utterly undone by amphibians, and the memory of his absolute shriek of terror still makes me smile.
It’s only when the light outside grows pink and dusty that I realize how long we’ve been up.
Marco delivers a languid, open-mouthed kiss. “Go. I’ll get things cleaned up down here.”
I practically float the entire way to my bedroom. With the exception of the night I took MDMA, I can’t remember a time I’ve felt so content, so at peace.
In the shower, the hot water sluices through my hair and over my shoulders and back, and I turn to stick my face under the spray as my mind drifts off to a topic other than Marco for the first time since I saw him in the kitchen.
The assassin’s attack on Marco has bothered me for a while now, but pinpointing exactly why has proven difficult. Either the sex or the dessert cleared my head, though, because the revelation strikes while I’m shaving my legs.
Il Silenzio—the real Il Silenzio—is dead, and I’m pretty sure I’m the one who shot him.
I always believed he earned his name based on his ability to kill without drawing attention to himself, but maybe, just maybe, the true reason is deceptively simple.
What if the famed killer just doesn’t have a tongue?
If the Council was going to employ an assassin, a man who can’t easily share their secrets would be perfect.
If the Council had, for some reason, imprisoned the true Il Silenzio before the failed hit, an imposter would explain the sloppy attempt, though it still doesn’t enlighten us as to who was actually behind the mask.
I wonder who betrayed him and why? Without more to go on, I may never know, but it pisses me off that Zanni would use Marco and me to tie up his loose ends.
As I dress, I grow increasingly annoyed with myself.
My thoughts have been racing for days, to the point where I can’t sleep, and yet all it took was losing control with Marco for an epiphany to strike.
Until now, I never once considered that my restraint might hold me back, and I dislike having to reassess my entire sense of self.
Back in the kitchen, Marco loads the dishwasher with the final mixing bowl. The place is sparkling again, the warm aroma of vanilla and lemon mingling with the lingering scent of sex. When he spots me in the doorway, the satisfaction that curls his lips causes a surge of wetness between my legs.
He pauses in the act of picking up a piping bag. “What’s wrong?”
I bite my lip. I don’t necessarily want to hide my suspicions from Marco, but I don’t have any proof. “I don’t think the attacker the other night was Il Silenzio. I want to do some digging and see what we can find out.”
To my surprise, Marco nods. “All right. I’ll have Luca look into it. We don’t have much to go on other than the gun he used and the fact that he’s left-handed. It should at least be enough to get a list started, though.”
He accepts my theory, just like that. No questions. No sneering or patronizing me with a pat on the head before telling me to leave the planning to the men.
Warmth blossoms beneath my sternum. Lifting myself on my tiptoes, I do a happy little bounce.
It feels good to collaborate with someone without being degraded, threatened, or gaslit.
I’m actually shocked at how good. I stifle the reaction quickly, but when I risk a glance at Marco, the smile he’s unsuccessfully attempting to stifle tells me that he noticed.
“Come here.” Marco motions me closer, and I obey without thinking. “I haven’t found any fruit to finger, so it’s up to you to take one for the team.”