Chapter 20
Twenty
Mercy
Oh, Cisco.
He is the picture of unhinged and unraveled as he slams the door shut and presses his palms against it, head bowed.
It’s dark in here, but he won’t turn on the lights.
If he did, everyone in the piazza would see us.
It’s still bustling with activity despite the pitter-pattering of rain.
The jazz musician must have moved undercover, because he sounds farther away.
I lean back against the boardroom table and fold my arms, refusing to feel guilty.
I don’t ‘fuck’ you. I devour you.
Cisco’s words in the ruins below the Vatican were the beginning of my current state of horniness.
The rest came after I confessed my darkest shame, and he never blinked.
He just looked like he wanted to tear the world apart for me.
Then the bastard had the nerve to put me in a separate room, as if what’s happening between us can still be denied.
I tried to take the edge off in the shower. Imagine my dismay when my body betrayed me. Orgasm denied.
That’s when the horrifying notion struck me: I think this is what it means to go monogamous. One dick forever. One dick I’ve not even had inside me yet. The shock. The audacity. The cautious thrill. The fear . . .
What if he can’t keep up with me?
What if he thinks I’m too much, and rather than hurt my feelings, he just . . . drifts away?
There’s no way I’m going to force Cisco into a life with me as my mother did with my father. If we’re to be a couple—forever—it’s only fair that Cisco knows what he’s getting into.
So if you think about it, I’m doing him a favor.
“A Novena? Really?” I tease, switching back to English. I run my hands down my curves, smoothing the creases in the blue silk. “That’s the best you could come up with?”
He rounds on me, eyes dark and simmering. The intensity gives me pause. Did I push too far?
“Nine minutes,” he grinds out.
“What?” I blink.
“You know how a Novena works. Nine minutes is how long you have to pray the first devotion.”
“Technically, we’re halfway through our fake Novena.”
He calmly rolls the sleeves of his clerical shirt to his forearms, exposing the dark threads of his tattoos. The move is less unhinged and more calculated. More crime and punishment.
The last time he got this look, he spanked me and tied me up.
I narrow my eyes. What’s he playing at?
He slots his hands into his pockets and fumbles with something. Probably his damn rosary beads. He asks, “Do you not know how a Novena works?”
“Yeah, I do, but . . .” I squirm. Fidget. “I thought . . . seriously? We’re actually going to pray?”
Not fuck?
“You pray,” he corrects.
I swallow hard. If I don’t get off soon, it’s going to build and build and bubble beneath my skin until I do something far worse than fondle his cock under the table.
My mind starts to wander, and my gaze drifts to the window out to the piazza. How late is it? If Cisco has changed his mind about me, then surely I’ll find a fix at a local bar.
“Mercy,” he clips. “Look at me.”
“Why aren’t you praying, too?”
He huffs a small laugh. “Because you’re the one who needs to pray for forgiveness.”
“Me?” Outrage roars through me. “You’re the one who accused me of fucking a demon. If anyone should be praying for forgiveness, it’s you.”
“I will apologize, but first, you must understand something.” His hands go still in his pockets. He leans forward, eyes glinting with carnal mischief. “There are rules in this family, piccola. They do not care about this.” He flicks the white cotton at his throat. “It belongs to the Church.”
“Doubt it. Your Nonna was only too happy to give you a timer for your prayers.”
“I said they don’t care about the Church.
My family only cares about God and respect.
” He points at the tomato timer. “God.” He points at me, and then the ground.
“Respect. If I let my woman make a fool of me in public, then no one follows my orders. And if no one follows my orders, then when Uncle Paolo turns up, I’ll be forced to unleash the hunger. ”
The last word ends on a growl. He waits for my response, but all I hear are the words ‘my woman’ echoing in my head. I’m thinking, at least he won’t be too pissed off when he returns to his room and finds my bag and the sword there too.
“Is that what you want?” he asks, voice softer. “For innocent people to die?”
“Of course not.” He’s right. This really isn’t the time to get aroused.
I’m the worst at reading the room when my body takes over.
Bitterness lashes through me, and I quip, “Making me apologize first kind of diminishes your apology. Just saying.” I pause.
“And guilting me into thinking innocent people will die if I don’t respect you is just rude. ”
“It’s true.”
“Maybe. But I’ve seen you go dark—twice—and you haven’t killed me yet.”
A short, mocking laugh chuffs out of him.
“To call it dark is an understatement. You’re still alive because you’re different.
” His eyes grow bleak as he looks in the general direction of the kitchen, as if he can see through the wall.
“I don’t even know if my family will be safe.
But I know why you play games for my attention, anima mia.
And I promise you, my apology will come with a reward. I need you to show that you trust me.”
The gravity of his tone strikes a chord beneath my ribs, and I stare at my feet.
“I’m sorry.”
“No,” he clips. “Save your words for your prayer.” He strides toward an upturned chair, takes a cushion, and then drops it on the floor at my feet. “Prove you can wait for my lead while we are in this house.” He points to the cushion.
“In ginocchio.” On your knees.
My mouth goes dry at his commanding tone.
“Not that I’m agreeing,” I murmur, “but what kind of reward? And what kind of prayer?”
His lips curve, just a touch. It’s the smile of a wolf stalking its prey. “Always a transaction with you.”
I shrug off the hurt. “A girl’s gotta get paid.”
He goes tense all over, nostrils flare, and then he exhales sharply. He rubs his scruff, almost as if he’s grinding back words, or hunger. Or maybe anger.
Great. Now I feel bad, and it’s been a long day. “Look, babe, maybe we just—”
“Whatever you want,” he declares. “That’s your reward.”
He said that before, but this time, there’s an element of tension in his posture, alarm, too. Maybe fear.
My gaze dips to his Roman collar, and my clit throbs. My knees hit the cushion so fast that I almost give myself whiplash. It’s like my body knows the prize is gold before my mind catches up.
“Bene,” he mutters, almost surprised.
He casually twists the dial on the tomato timer and then sets it on the condiment table by the door.
Tick, tick, tick, tick. The sound fills the room. Nine minutes.
I press my palms together and close my eyes, perfectly pious.
“Okay, what prayer?” I ask. “Hit me with your best shot. You might have to remind me of the words, though, because, spoiler, I’m not really a nun—”
The metallic click of a belt unbuckling steals my breath and quickens my pulse. Footsteps grow closer, and then I feel a wall of heat at my front. A zipper pulls, loud and close.
My eyes snap open, and I’m face-to-face with Cisco’s tattooed fingers wrapped around the base of his exposed cock.
“I think I love you,” I rasp.
“Not yet, piccola. But you will.” He pumps his fist up the veined shaft to the dusky crown glistening with precum. He’s so aroused. I’ll bet that was throbbing the moment I touched it. “Open your mouth,” he orders, voice gravelly.
I part my lips, but only a few millimeters. He exhales roughly through his nose, frustrated. Perfect. I want him unhinged and as desperate as I am.
“Wider.” He taps the side of my jaw with his cock. “As if you’re taking communion.”
“Praise Jesus.”
I smirk, open wide, and stick out the flat of my tongue.
He grumbles something I don’t catch, then guides his tip toward my mouth. He pauses, hovering just out of reach. My mouth waters for a taste. His brows slam down in warning. “If you interrupt or play the brat, the timer starts over. Capito?”
Tick-tick-tick-tick.
Honestly, if I knew sucking him off was his definition of praying, I’d have pounced on him a long time ago.
“Whatever you want, Padre.”
“Mercy—” His hand whips out to grip my jaw and tilt my face up. “You will take me slow, you will listen, and you will obey. Understood?”
“Yeah, yeah, I get it.” I press my thighs together to ease the ache in my pussy. Hurry up. “Big man. Big rules.”
Big cock.
Some kind of wildness lurks behind his brown eyes. His grip tightens on my jaw to the point of bruising.
“No teeth,” he growls. “No games. You will learn to be good for me.”
I open my mouth as wide as I can and wait like a good little girl, even though I want to bite, just to see what he’d do.
Another softly muttered, “Bene.”
My body heats at his praise. No one else has ever had this power over me, but with Cisco, I’m a mewling, wet, spineless mess every time he uses that commanding tone.
I love it.
He glides his cock’s velvety tip over my tongue, then along my upper lip to the other side. His eyes grow impossibly darker as he circles in the corner.
“This is my favorite part of you,” he rasps. “Rovina mia . . .”
My ruin.
When I remain still, his left hand fuses with my hair and wraps it around his knuckles. He draws my head back just enough that when he slides over my tongue again, I feel his fight for control in every shaky motion.
It’s exquisite torture.
I try to take more, but he holds me steady, fingers flexing in my hair.
“Take a breath,” he rasps. “Get used to me. I do not want you hurt.”
Except he doesn’t wait for me to breathe. He groans and pushes in and over my tongue, sliding that head against the roof of my mouth. He’s thick and heavy and so hard it’s obscene. I choke down a groan, swallowing him deeper.
“Dio . . .” Cisco’s breath hitches. “Easy. There is time.”
Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.
He’s going too slow. My panties are soaked, thighs shaking. I want him to grab me, force my head down, and use me. I want to be fucked, hard and messy, while the whole damn family waits upstairs for their holy man to finish his prayers.
But Cisco’s pace remains steady. Impossibly steady. He slides in my mouth, out, in, out.
“You want to break me,” he mumbles. “But you do not know how close I am already. You don’t want to see me lose control.”
I hum my disagreement, eyes burning with want.
“I will never run, Mercy.”
Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.
Something in my chest cracks. Panic crashes up, threatening to drown me. I nearly reach for the wounds, or maybe my clit, but if he thinks I’m not in the right headspace for this game, he’ll stop.
His cock slips out of my mouth. The absence is agony.
“You do not like this,” he notes, frowning.
Shit.
“You’re too slow.” I look up at him, eyes full of challenge. “I want to choke on it.”
He laughs, and it’s the most beautiful sight I’ve seen. His eyes light up. He relaxes. It’s genuine.
“Of course you do,” he says. “Because you want to feel nothing. You want to drown in this.” He taps his cock on my lip, once, twice, and then drags it across my cheek. His voice grows softer, the humor fades, and then he taps my sternum with his finger. “So you don’t have to think about this.”
I flush hot. “So fucking what if I do?”
Instead of rage, he kneels until we are eye level and cups my face with warm, large hands. He holds me steady, and I have no choice but to look at him. Sweat beads on his forehead. His breathing is labored. He is struggling, and he wants me to see it.
“This is your lesson, Mercy. You will learn to hold. To wait. To trust that I will stay until the end.”
My eyes squeeze shut as the memories slam into me. Dad, saying he’ll be back in an hour. Mom, saying it’s my fault for making men weak. The ice cream stain. The cold walls of the institution. The years of loneliness and uncertainty, hidden behind my hyper sexuality.
“You bastard,” I croak. “I hate that you know now.”
“No, you don’t.”
I shake my head, bottom lip trembling.
“Say it.” His demand is soft enough to hurt.
Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.
“I don’t hate you.”
He smiles. “I don’t hate you, too.”