Chapter 13
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Pfeiffer
Twenty-three nights to go.
I’m a furnace of burning ash when I walk into Velvet. It’s been three days since Fiero Bellucci—Il Diavolo, mafia kingpin, my boss—made me come over and over on his tongue, and I haven’t cooled even a degree.
He hasn’t been around and, believe me, I’ve searched. Not obviously, but from beneath tempered lids. I haven’t said a word to anyone about our encounters and I don’t know who knows.
I get the feeling he’s keeping our rendezvous quiet and I should do the same. Not that I would tell anyone about the way he’s kissed me or the orgasms he’s wrenched from me without a thought for his own pleasure.
I don’t understand. If I’m paying off a debt, if what I’m doing here is meant to be some sort of punishment, why does it feel so good?
The rational side of me is waiting for the other shoe to fall. At some point he’s going to drop the mask—figuratively, if not literally—and give me exactly what he thinks I deserve, and it’s not going to be pleasurable.
I can only thicken my skin before it happens.
Tonight, the club is quieter than usual. A few regular visitors are seated on the sofas, mostly masked. Laughter comes from the bar where two people are sitting on stools being regaled with stories by José, the bartender.
I haven’t seen Hallie since the day in the coffee shop. In a way I’m thankful—I don’t want her to pry too much into the outcome of Fallen Angels. Not until I know what Il Diav—Fiero—permits me to say.
My stomach warms, remembering how he demanded I use his real name.
In a weird way, it made me feel special.
Everyone else calls him Il Diavolo, but he wanted me to call him Fiero.
With each recollection of his tongue between my thighs, I’m more convinced he wanted me to cry his name when I orgasmed.
A lusty shudder shakes my shoulders and I cut my attention to the screen, trying to block out memories that make me aroused in inconvenient places.
“Pfeiffer.”
I look up to see Vivienne standing over me, her features fixed into a disapproving glare I’m starting to know well. I straighten and face her, like a soldier might regard their superior.
“Your presence has been requested.”
My heart leaps into my throat.
“Go up to the Liberty suite as soon as you’ve changed.”
I swallow. “Changed?”
“There’s an outfit hanging on your locker.” Then she leans in and lowers her voice. “Take the back elevator so none of the staff sees you. Favoritism doesn’t bode well for morale.”
I glance back at her in shock. “F-favoritism?”
“Il Diavolo selected you, didn’t he?”
“Um, yes. I suppose. I don’t think it was out of favoritism though—"
“It’s not our place to debate his reasoning,” she clips. “Now go. I’ll stand in as host for you.”
What? Vivienne is going to stand in for me? It doesn’t make any sense. I’m a nobody here—a prisoner in many ways. But instead of arguing the point, I simply nod and walk quickly back to the staff area. When I open the door and see the dress hanging up, I gasp.
It’s beautiful. A long, floor-length backless gown in dark green satin with criss-cross straps over the shoulders and a cowl neckline. I check the label and almost pass out. It’s Givenchy, and obviously brand new.
I undress and slip the gown over my head, letting the beautiful fabric fall to my feet. At the foot of the lockers is a pair of diamante heels—more Louboutins—only these are thickly crusted with gems and must be worth hundreds of dollars. I slip them on and turn to face the mirror.
Instead of being bowled over by the sheer beauty of the outfit, I’m hit by a wall of nostalgia. This dress looks almost identical to the one I wore to my high school prom.
A dark fever winds around my spine, taking me back to a time I’ve worked hard to forget.
A time when my uncle had dug his claws deep into my skin and I was planning my escape to Boston.
It wouldn’t be long before I was on a Greyhound to Massachusetts with a couple bags and a heart full of fresh hope.
But the night of my prom…
It was like he knew his days were numbered and I’d be out of his grasp.
What he didn’t know was I’d been training for that moment. Two years of secret self-defense classes came in useful that night, but not before he violated me. Again.
My chest aches with a memory I’d managed to bury, and I have to sit for a moment until the dizziness subsides.
When I feel vaguely normal again, I make my way up to the Liberty suite, holding my breath as I knock on the door.
I enter on Fiero’s command and step shyly into the room. He’s standing right in the center, waiting.
He says nothing but his gaze rakes over every inch of my body, dropping to my gem-encrusted toes and stroking all the way up to the hair piled on my crown.
His chest rises and falls in a steady rhythm but there’s a tension to it that suggests he’s trying to contain something.
We both swallow at the same time.
“Do-do you want me to undress?” The last two times he’s summoned me, that was his first instruction.
“No.”
The absence of any other command and the lingering silence beneath his roving gaze is unnerving, and I become aware of my fingers tangling and untangling at my waist.
“Tonight, Pfeiffer…”
My gaze snaps to his. “Yes?”
“You’re going to make me come.”
My throat goes dry immediately.
“What do you want me to do?” I whisper, hoarsely.
He doesn’t reply. Instead, he draws his hands from his pockets and slowly unbuckles his belt. My heart pounds as he locks my gaze onto his, not tearing it away once as he pulls the leather through the loops and drops it to the floor.
I lick my lips nervously, pulling the bottom one through my teeth. He looks down for a beat, noticing, then captures my eyes again.
His fingers work the button on his pants, slowly pushing the zipper open. They drop to the floor and he steps out, kicking them to the side.
“Come here.” His voice cracks.
Swallowing again, I walk toward him, stopping a couple feet away.
“Kneel.”
I do as he says, settling on the floor between his braced feet. When I look up, his lips part. His breaths are shorter than before.
“Now take out my cock.”
I blink, knowing I heard right but hoping I didn’t.
“Take it out, Pfeiffer.” My name rolls off his tongue like he’s savoring it.
With trembling fingers I reach up to the black boxer shorts he’s wearing. They fit snugly around his hips and thighs, and there’s a huge bulge at the front that he’s demanding I handle.
My throat is so dry I might choke. I’ve never put my mouth around a penis before, let alone one belonging to a mafia boss whose feelings toward me appear to be mixed at best.
My fingertips hook over the waistband and he sucks in a sharp breath. I stare at the fabric, watching it bunch as I pull it down. It snags on the bulge and I have to pull it toward me to release his cock.
As soon as I do, it bobs up, the dark skin of it straining under the forced blood flow.
Dear God. I can’t help but stare at it.
Suddenly, my mouth isn’t dry anymore and the area between my legs is humming. It takes a few moments before I snap my gaze back to his. Then I wish I hadn’t.
He looks raging. His molars grind, his nostrils flare, and his chest is braced so hard I worry it might combust. In the corner of my eye his hands are bunched into tight fists and for a second I wonder if he’s going to hit me.
“Put your hands on me,” he grits out. “Stroke me.”
Blinking rapidly, I let his boxers fall to the floor and reach up again to wrap a hand around his cock. I’m surprised at how hot it is. How firm yet silky at the same time.
I start at the base, feeling the tickle of his hairs against my pinkie, then stroke him slowly to the tip. The crown shines with a kind of desperation, and a small pearl of liquid forms as I stare at it, mesmerized.
Without thinking, I stroke my thumb over the tip, catching the pearl like a rain drop. I bring my thumb up to my face, watching as the liquid catches the light. Then, without thinking, I flick out my tongue to taste it.
A tight, terrifying noise vibrates inside his chest and we lock eyes as I swirl the salty taste around my mouth.
“You licked my come,” he rasps.
My mouth falls open. “What?”
“Do it again. Stroke me. Lick me.” His voice is so low and broken, it takes a few seconds of pause for his words to form in my brain. Or maybe my own lust is too dizzying.
Whatever the reason, I don’t think; I just do.
I stroke my hand down his length then back up again. Another pearl forms and instead of licking it into my mouth, I wrap my lips around the head and softly suck.
A growl touches the crown of my head and when I glance up, his cock still in my mouth, his teeth are bared.
“God, I want to touch you,” he rasps, gutturally.
I pull my mouth free to reply. “No hands,” I whisper. And I still mean it. As much as he brought me pleasure with his tongue, I can’t bear the thought of a man’s hands on my skin. It will take me right back to those dark years.
Why would he want to put his hands on me anyway, if not to bring me pleasure? And he stated only moments ago that tonight is about him.
Confused, I put it down to him wanting to maneuver me—make sure I’m doing it right.
“Just tell me what to do,” I add.
Running his tongue along his top teeth, he lifts his arms and places his hands to the back of his head. His biceps expand the white cotton shirt so hard I fear it might rip at the seams. My clit flutters at the thought.
“Suck it again.”
I wrap my lips around his girth and suck, letting my lids fall closed.
“Deeper.”
I slide him into my mouth, as deep as he’ll go. My hand still fits around the base so I grip and stroke his length while I slide my lips up and down.
A long, loud moan reaches my ears, and at the same time, his girth thickens even more. I whimper around it, earning a small thrust of his hips.
“Fuck, Pfeiffer, this feels good.”
Emboldened, I open my throat and let him slide down a little further. Saliva floods my mouth so that when I withdraw, it makes a wet suckling sound.
“Mmph.”
He seems to like that so I do it again.
When he starts to rock gently, I lose myself. I take as much of him as I can, then pull back and swirl my tongue around the head.
I must be insane because I could do this all night. The feel of his skin on my tongue is intoxicating. The little pearls of come small indications I’m giving him pleasure. His moans escalating in pitch are like opium for my ears.
“Wait—”
I glance up again, my vision fuzzy.
“I’m going to fucking collapse,” he says, panting. “I need to sit.”
Realizing that in my frenzy I’d risen up onto my knees to take his cock deeper, I sit back on my heels and nod.
He keeps his eyes locked on mine as he backs up against the wall, then slides down it, tipping his head back.
“Do it again,” he rasps. “Exactly as you were.”
I crawl on my hands and knees toward him and lower my mouth onto his cock. It’s a little more difficult at this angle but very quickly, I lose my mind again, and suck him as deep down my throat as I can.
“Oh God. Fuck. I’m not going to last.”
I suck him harder, pump my hand faster, lick him like I’m starved.
“Jesus, Pfeiffer, you’re so damn good at this.”
I moan around his cock and his thighs tense.
“I didn’t expect— Ah shit. I’m gonna come baby.”
Baby.
That word makes my head spin and I double down. My pussy is throbbing and I feel so powerful I could get addicted to this. I have the Bellucci mafia boss at my total mercy, about to fall apart, and it makes me feel high, like I’m on some kind of drug.
My lips startle as a thick pulse rushes through his cock and a fist grips my hair pulling me back. I don’t release him though. I want to taste him—all of him.
Another pulse and a thick rope of liquid floods my mouth. I close my throat before another load coats my tongue. His thighs are like rocks on either side of me, his hips bucking up, even though he’s holding my hair, stopping himself from choking me.
When he stops jerking, he pulls me entirely off his cock. He releases my hair and I settle back on my heels, my mouth full of his come.
He sits up and cups a hand beneath my chin.
“Spit.”
I blink at him. He wants me to spit out his come?
“Come on Pfeiffer,” he says softly. “You did fucking good. Unbelievable for your first time. You don’t have to swallow it. Spit.”
I arch a brow and slowly shake my head. His eyes widen.
Then I take a long, deep breath and swallow it all down. He watches me, stunned, as I lick my lips then wipe the back of my hand across my mouth.
His eyes go black and his nostrils flare.
“Stick out your tongue.”
“You don’t believe me?” I ask, then I open my mouth and let him see how come-free it is now.
Before I know what’s happening, he’s on his hands and knees, my hair is wrapped in a tight fist and he’s yanking my head back. He leans over me, tilts his head and licks his tongue across the entire length of mine. Then he closes his teeth over my bottom lip and bites it just enough to sting.
While I lift my fingers to my lips, he’s back on his feet, pulling up his slacks.
Then, as awareness claws its way back to me, I realize I’m sitting in a pool of green satin, one foot back in high school feeling powerless and vulnerable, the other in the here and now, feeling like power is in reach and everything is possible.