Chapter 12 – DARIO
DARIO
E ven three months later, there’s still wariness in Posy’s eyes. She’s settled in, back to lounging around the house and nagging Ray or Sal to drive her to the mall. She knows she’s not allowed anywhere without protection.
Everyone in the organization has fallen in line, but that doesn’t mean there aren’t knives being sharpened. The mantle of power has passed, and for some, it’s been an opportunity, but for others, it’s the end of an era they’re not willing to let go of.
Maybe that’s why Posy’s still holding back, the sense that the sword of Damocles is hanging over our heads. Lucca wants to lure his enemies into the open and finish them with a hail of gunfire. For as sophisticated as he is in terms of style, his notions about wielding power are basic as hell.
I pointed out that when the cash keeps flowing undisturbed, feelings will inevitably be soothed, and loyalties should realign themselves with reality.
Already, the surviving Biancos and Amatos have kissed the ring.
The Grazianos were always hot headed, but the sons are too young to commit to a vendetta.
Still, I’m sure there will be another bump or two in the road. Nothing Posy needs to worry about. I tell her this, and she says she believes me.
But she tests me constantly.
Every morning, she makes me tell her I love her. And after we fuck. And before she falls asleep. And whenever she’s bored she texts, and if I don’t respond quickly enough, she calls.
She never says “I love you” back. She smirks and sashays off, usually to go rummage in the fridge.
If I didn’t make her workout with me, she’d be as big as a house.
As it is, her waist’s filling out. I like it.
Her tits are a little bigger, too, and the extra padding has made them more sensitive.
When I graze my teeth over her nipples, she shrieks and contorts like a fish dangling from a line.
It’s cute as hell, and so much fun to catch her and hold her steady enough to slip inside.
And then there are the drive-bys like what she’s doing now.
It’s ten in the morning, Miles and I are working, and she strolls into the office in a stretchy white mini skirt and skintight matching shirt.
Hair in a messy bun. No shoes. She looks like a drunk hooker, and if Miles looks up from his desk, I’m gonna blind him with a letter opener.
She saunters to my desk and leans over, propping herself on her elbows with her arms squeezing her tits until they almost spill out of her top. It’s wasted effort. You can’t miss them. She’s obviously not wearing a bra, and her nipples are visible through the fabric.
“Want to play Monopoly?” she asks, popping the “p.”
“I’m working.” I finish the trade I was working on, keeping half an eye on those luscious tits. I feel like her nipples have gotten darker recently. Maybe it has to do with the weather.
“How about chess?”
“Later.”
“Wanna fuck?”
I exhale and shut my laptop. Yes, I want to fuck. Constantly, now that I know what it feels like to make Posy cum—like solving a Rubik’s Cube, but a million times better.
But Posy isn’t the one walking around the house in a constant state of painful arousal. That’s me since I don’t take her whenever I want anymore. I’ve eased back, tried to encourage her to come to me when she wants it. That means we have less sex, but she’s more present when we do.
And she reaches for me now, sometimes, at night when we’re in our bed. Especially if we’ve watched a sappy movie, or if she’s beaten me soundly at whatever game we played after dinner. But she’s still not aggressive sexually. Definitely not in the middle of the day.
This is another test that I can’t understand and can’t seem to win.
“Do you wanna fuck, Posy?” I throw back at her.
“Sure.”
She hops onto my desk and peels her top off without a second thought.
“Miles, get out.”
The door clicks shut so quickly, he must have already been on his way.
“Well?” She’s arranged herself on my desk, knees bent, feet curved over the edge, skirt rucked up to her waist. No panties. Her tits strain for the ceiling, the nipples definitely a duskier color than usual. Maybe because of the chill in the air.
She lets her thighs fall further apart and flashes me her pretty pink pussy, already slick with cream. I was hard when she walked in the room. I’m throbbing now. I unbuckle my belt, unzip my pants, let them fall, and I’m stroking my aching cock up and down her wet slit when it occurs to me.
I’m missing something.
“Dario?” She struggles to her elbows so she can glare at me. “Do you need foreplay or something?”
I don’t. She usually does. That’s one thing wrong with this picture.
“What’s wrong?” I demand.
“You won’t give me the dick for some reason.”
“Why are you being so vulgar?”
“Why the twenty questions, Dario?”
Her chest flushes. She’s getting mad. Did I not tell her that I love her enough times today? Did someone say something to upset her? Is it that fucking video?
If it’s that video, whoever shared it, I will kill them, and then I’ll skull fuck the pulp of their brains.
“I love you,” I try.
“Hell of a way to show it.”
Enough is enough. I scoop her up and sit in my chair, cuddling her to my chest. She’s warm and soft and grumpy as hell. I give her a little shake. “What’s wrong with you?”
She mumbles into my shirt.
“What?”
She rears back. “I’m pregnant! How did you not notice?”
“You’re pregnant?”
“I’ve gained fifteen pounds! None of my bras fit! I make Ray hang his jacket out in the garage because it smells weird!”
“Like coffee grounds.” I’ve noticed.
“Like dirty mop water.”
I disagree, but it seems like the wrong time to do so out loud.
“Aren’t you going to say anything?” She scowls at me with those beautiful blue eyes. Fucking shame about genetics. Our child will most likely have my plain brown eyes.
Our child…
A rush roars through my veins.
“Will you love it if it’s like me?” It’s the first question in my mind.
The nature versus nurture argument is never settled, but it’d be na?ve to pretend that I might not create an aberration like myself.
I’ve got control over myself now, more or less, but when I was younger—well, I’ve never been surprised that my father doesn’t care for me.
I’ve always been grateful he never threw his hands up and had me put down.
“If he’s like you,” she corrects.
“You know already it’s a boy?”
“Or her ,” she goes on. “And yes, I will love him or her. I already do.”
She rests her forehead on mine, and I revel in the feel of her sweet breath on my face.
“Will you love the baby? Like you do me?”
There’s a tremble in her voice. I don’t know, but the truth won’t comfort her. Good thing I have no compunction about lying.
“Yes,” I say.
“Always yes?” she whispers, her uncertainty and fear clear in the wavering words.
“Yes,” I murmur as I kiss her, and I wonder what it will take for her to trust me—and what happens when, of course, she can’t.