20 | Breakfast 🔥🔥🔥
SANTO
Fiorella’s moans dissolve into pleading. Her body arches. Her hips chase every thrust, desperate, wild, losing that lesson she thought she came here to teach.
I flip us before she can blink.
Her back hits the mattress. Her legs fall open. I drag her to the edge and slam into her, my forearms braced on either side of her head, my breath hot against her mouth.
She gasps, “Santo—”
“I know, baby.” My voice is a rasp against her mouth. “I know.”
I pull out slowly, watching her eyes flutter open. They’re hazy when they find mine—unfocused with lust and something infinitely more dangerous.
She feels it, the loss. The emptiness without me. Not just my cock—me.
I trail my hands down her body, unhurried, memorizing the feel of her skin beneath my palms. Soft. Smooth. Mine since the moment she stepped into my territory. My hands slide to the insides of her thighs, stopping just shy of heaven’s gate. I push them apart and dip between.
My tongue drags through her slick heat. I savor every twitch, every broken sound she makes, the way her fingers fist in my hair as her hips lift and grind into my mouth involuntarily.
Her slick tastes like absolution—holy water washing the blood and darkness from my thoughts.
It doesn’t take long. A few bold strokes, some rougher, quicker licks, and she’s gone—crying out as she comes undone on my tongue.
Mine. All of her.
I claim every sound she makes, every tremble in her legs, every goosebump rising on her skin.
I wait until she falls back against the mattress and brace myself over her, lining up my cock with her still-throbbing pussy.
And then I take her—deep, slow, and relentless—driving into her until she breaks open again beneath me.
Her moans spill out in a breathless, ruined symphony, sweeter than any choir I was ever taught to listen for. Holier, too.
I fuck her through it, holding her tight as she clenches around me, trembling, coming apart in my arms. She goes soft and boneless, whimpering my name, and that’s when I finally let go—burying myself deep and spilling into the heat of her.
A shudder rips out of me as I drop my forehead to hers, breathing hard, waiting for my body to obey me again. Her eyes blink open—wide, dazed, glowing.
Warm.
Not afraid—not ashamed, or disgusted.
And in that look, I know I chose right.
This is it—my kingdom come.
----
FIORELLA
I wake up tangled in expensive sheets that smell like soap, smoke, and something unmistakably male.
I squeeze my eyes shut, and pray for a headache. For a low throb in my skull, and a queasy sensation in my belly. For any sign of a hangover, really.
So I can blame the alcohol. The few sips of champagne I had. I could pretend I didn’t know exactly what I was doing when I let him take off my dress.
When I took off my bra.
When I let him rip my fucking thong to shreds.
God damn it—I don’t even have anything else to wear. I’ll have to go commando under my reception dress and sneak back to my room like the weirdest fucking walk of shame ever.
A bride sneaking out of her groom’s room. What a cruel, twisted joke.
I crack one eye open.
Dark wallpaper. Moody lighting. Black-and-white photos of Italian cities staring down at me like they know exactly what I did and are silently judging me for it.
I lie very still and inventory my body like I’m assessing damage after a car crash.
Head: unfortunately clear enough to regret things. Mouth: dry. Chest: tight. Lower half: sore in the best and worst way.
Fantastic.
Careful not to move my body, I turn my head.
The bed is empty.
Santo isn’t there.
Something sharp twists in my chest, a hollow ache settling behind my ribs. I sit up slowly, limbs heavy with last night’s exhaustion. Purple blooms across my knuckles now, the swelling mostly gone.
I stare at my wedding ring, then at the empty pillow beside mine.
With a quiet sigh, I slide out of bed.
The cold hits me like a slap—another rude awakening. My lingerie is scattered across the floor, my thong torn clean in half near the foot of the bed. I inhale slowly, steadying myself, then hurry into Santo’s closet.
At first glance, there’s nothing usable—just rows of tailored suits, tuxedos, and crisp dress shirts—but then I find it.
His underwear drawer. It’s hidden and handle-less. It slides open when I accidentally bump it with my hip.
I grab a pair of boxers and tug them on, then start searching for something more practical. He owns gym wear—I’ve seen him in it.
The wooden panel beneath the drawer gives under my fingers and slides open.
There’s two compartments in this one. There’s socks in the front, rolled with almost military precision. Behind them is a smaller space. It’s locked. The keyhole gleams faintly in the low light.
I stare at it.
That’s where he keeps his weapons. It has to be.
My gaze flicks around the closet, searching for the key. I find nothing, obviously.
I don’t even know why I’m looking. What would I do if I found it? Inventory il macellaio’s tools? Grab a gun and point it at him? I wouldn’t even know how to take the safety off.
I snort softly at myself, then pull a dress shirt from a hanger and head for the bathroom.
I take a quick shower and brush my teeth with a spare toothbrush I find in his drawer. For lack of anything better, I slip on the clothes I borrowed and push open the bathroom door.
The bedroom is still empty. He’s out doing God knows what.
I wonder what made him like this. What darkened his blood. How young he was when he learned violence. Whether he likes the life he built—or simply knows how to survive it.
The room looks like a still-life of bad decisions: untucked sheets, scattered clothes, and torn lace.
I sigh and slip out the door.
The hallway is empty, the house eerily quiet. I pad down the stairs, bare feet soundless against the plush runner, and head for the west wing. Annabelle is in her office, thank God.
“Hey,” I say softly.
She turns, eyes dropping briefly to my bare legs beneath Santo’s shirt, then sliding back up. Her face remains a marble mask of professionalism. “Hm?”
Heat creeps up my neck. I scold myself for not changing first.
“I was just wondering if the Valentis were here.”
“They’re staying at the guest house,” Annabelle replies, a little too quickly.
Relief loosens my shoulders. “When do you think they’re coming over?”
Her brow ticks—just barely. “Santo asked them not to come to the house today.”
“Ah.” I hesitate. “And where is he?”
For a split second, something flickers across her face. Then it’s gone. “I assumed he was with you.”
Her gaze dips again. I step behind the doorframe.
“Right. Thank you.”
I head for the kitchen, and find it empty.
Breakfast sits out on the counter, each dish meticulously plated. My stomach growls as I check the clock—it’s already past ten, and I skipped dinner last night.
One look at the delicate, untouched spread and I turn away.
I don’t want pretty food, I want something real.
The fridge yields everything I need—eggplant, tomatoes, garlic, basil. Muscle memory takes over.
I slice the eggplant thick, salt it, let it weep while olive oil heats in the pan. The sizzle when it hits the pan nearly makes me bounce with glee. I fry the eggplant and set them aside. Garlic next, blooming in oil until the kitchen smells warm and homey.
Crushed tomatoes go in after, simmering down while I tear basil and boil the pasta.
I combine everything at the end, tossing it straight in the pan until it clings together just right.
I don’t bother with a plate—I hoist myself onto the counter and eat straight from the pan, legs swinging slightly, fork scraping softly against metal. It’s perfect, even at eleven in the morning. Home, in a way I hadn’t realized I missed so badly.
I’m halfway through when the air in the room tightens.
I don’t hear him at first—but I feel it, the way the quiet shifts.
I look up.
Santo stands in the doorway. His shirt sleeves are rolled to his elbows, knuckles scraped raw again, jaw set hard enough to crack stone. There’s something dark still clinging to him, something violent and unfinished, like he hasn’t fully stepped out of it yet.
And suddenly, the pan in my hands feels very small.
His eyes lock with mine, and the jolt is instant—sharp and electric, like I’ve been caught doing something illicit.
“What are you eating?” Santo pulls out a chair and sinks into it, long legs stretching out beneath the table. His battered hands rest casually in his lap, veins bulging along his forearms.
“Pasta,” I murmur, taking another bite without breaking eye contact.
“It’s not even noon.” There’s no real reproach in his voice.
“I was craving it.” I stab a piece of rigatoni with my fork, dragging it through the sauce. “I wanted something real.”
His gaze drops to the pan, then back to my mouth. “So are you going to share with your husband?” He braces an elbow on the table.
“Nope.” I take another bite, moaning just a little too dramatically, purely for effect. “It’s so good. Way better than all those picture-perfect dishes they keep serving us here. This was made with love—you can taste it.”
Santo doesn’t move. “I bet,” he says quietly.
The way he says it makes my stomach flip.
I glance at the fork in my hand, then back at him. His attention is fixed on me now—eyes glued to my lips.
“Fine,” I sigh, like I’m doing him a favor. “One bite.”
I scoop up another forkful and lean forward, extending it toward him. Santo leans in and opens his mouth, never taking his eyes off mine as he takes the pasta from the fork. His lips brush the tines—barely—but the contact sends heat curling low in my belly.
He chews thoughtfully. Swallows.
“Norma,” he says after a moment. “Eggplant, basil, ricotta salata.”
I blink. “You know your Sicilian food.”
“I know many things.” His gaze flicks to my mouth again as he rises to his feet. “You did good, amore.”
I don’t know whether it’s the praise or the way he’s approaching me like a predator, but heat flares in my lower belly.
I lift the fork again, offering him another bite. He accepts it just as slowly, his hand sliding onto my thigh as he chews.
I tense beneath his palm—not because I don’t want him to touch me, but because I do.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t there when you woke up.”
My eyes snap back up to his. I shrug, feigning nonchalance. “I don’t care.”
His fingers tighten, just a fraction. “You were so far gone, I figured I’d make it back before you woke up.”
I take another bite, my gaze drifting to his fingers where they press into my skin. “Where were you?”
He doesn’t move, steady as ever. “Do you want to know?”
I study him for a long moment, then shake my head slowly. “No.”
His mouth curves, dark and satisfied. His hand slides higher, fingers slipping beneath the hem of his shirt, brushing the edge of the boxers I’m wearing—right next to where I’m already slick for him again.
Fuck my traitorous body.
I shift, trying to regain some kind of ground. “I didn’t have anything else to wear,” I murmur. “You ripped my—”
“What’s mine is yours,” he cuts in easily.
Both of his hands move now, hooking beneath my waistband. My breath stutters, and the fork slips from my fingers, clattering back into the pan, forgotten.
“And what’s yours is mine,” he adds quietly. “No?”
I swallow, my mouth suddenly dry. There’s no logic left to reach for—only the way his rough palms brand my skin, erasing every sensible thought I’ve ever had.
I nod.
“Così brava.”
The boxers are gone before my brain catches up, falling to the kitchen floor. I gasp his name as he presses me back against the cool marble, hands sliding to the backs of my thighs, lifting—guiding—until his mouth brushes my seam.
“Santo—” I try to sit up, heat flooding my face, desire drowning out everything else. “We’re in the kitchen.”
“My kitchen,” he murmurs, lips grazing skin. “My wife.” There’s a pause, and I can hear his smirk when he speaks again. “And I’m just having breakfast.”
Then his tongue drags through me—hot, unhurried, and devastating—and the world collapses until there’s nothing left but him.
----
THE brEAKFAST OF CHAMPIONS, am I right? ????