30. Zoe
Chapter Thirty
ZOE
“ A re you drinking that or what?” Cesare points with his chin at the champagne flute in my hand. I’m gripping the thing so hard it is about to shatter.
“I will,” I gulp choppy air down to try to settle my stomach, my eyes constantly flipping to Ettore and Aurora in the distance. I can’t shake the feeling something was unsettling about our encounter earlier. “Thank you,” I add as I flip my eyes to the deciphering green eyes in front of me. I manage a small smile for him.
Cesare is hawking at me in a way that makes me feel like I have termites crawling under my skin.
“At least, drink up. If not for anything, the collection going viral is quite the achievement.” He fiddles with something inside the inner pocket of his jaded green suit jacket.
“That’s a good way to look at things,” I say, chugging the entire content. It tastes like glorified apple cider. That, or I’m just in a mood that takes the charm away from most things.
I’m unnerved.
There is something I cannot put my finger on. That and the fact that I’m surrounded by people who might or might not recognize me as the clumsy girl from the Met Gala.
I snatch another glass of champagne from a moving waiter.
“Nice party,” I lift my empty champagne flute to wave around us. “Your mother is… beautiful.” That wasn’t what I was going to say, but now that I think about it, I can’t remember what I was going to say.
Maybe I’m getting drunk. I can’t say how many of these I would need.
“Nice party?” Cesare chuckles dryly, “You sound like I’m hosting a frat party.”
I drop the empty glass on the tray of the next waiter to swing by, disappointed that there are only empty glasses.
A frat party.
I never had the opportunity to attend one. I never got the chance to go to college.
How can I move on when everything and everyone reminds me of everything and everyone I lost?
I take one step forward and something drives me ten steps backward.
My eyes sting and I stare down at my quivering hands, breathe in as much air as I can get through my constricting lungs, and try to tamp the uproar of discomfort in my stomach.
“A dance, if you will have me,” Cesare’s green eyes flicker with an underlying rascality. When I am about to contemplate whether I want to walk into what is now feeling like an entrapment, Ettore appears beside me.
His protective arm slips around my waist, and he clutches me to his side, sending a strong possessive message to his brother. I think he never liked sharing his toys as a kid, not even with his sibling.
“Looks like my brother has other plans,” Cesare gives a mock bow, his tone light but with an undercurrent of tension. I lift my eyes to pry at Ettore’s murderous glare. I clear my throat, shifting in his arm, and he snaps out of it.
“We will have that dance,” Ettore droops his head, and I nod like some broken doll. His voice has no room for argument, and it doesn’t take long before Cesare skedaddles to something else.
Ettore leads me to the dance floor, the ease he had about him from last night and this morning in the estate completely gone. He is back to having a rod stuck up his ass.
He steps away from me and gives me his hand. I place my trembling hand on his, and he clasps it firmly. He pulls me to himself, his free arm snaking my waist, and then he leads me to the amorous tune of a string quartet playing in the background.
We are surrounded by the sophisticated and glamorous ambiance, with guests in their high-fashion outfits, exquisite floral arrangements and candelabras.
“What happened with your mother?” I pry softly, trying not to ruffle his mood any more than it already is.
Ettore's grip on me tightens slightly. “It’s all good. Don't worry about it,” he releases me so I can spin and then pulls me to his chest again.
I nod, but when he swings me around in his arms, my eyes wander to Aurora and Carmine, dancing in the distance. At that exact moment, her eyes sway toward me, but from here, I can’t read the expression in them.
“Eyes on me, Zoe,” Ettore snarks, his dark tone is one of a naked wire connecting to the one somewhere inside of me.
“Can you handle it?” I tease. I must be drunk because I’m feeling a bit dizzy and paper light. “If I give you my full attention on the dance floor,” I slip out of his grip, and before he can clutch me to himself again, I seize control of the dance.
At this point, I can feel the eyes of some of the guests on me but it is the stony look on Ettore that I focus on. I make him my pole, swirling around him, occasionally rubbing my ass against his cock, while my hands travel around his body carefully. After all, he is still my master and I’ve got an invisible leash around my neck.
He makes throaty warning sounds and grinds his teeth, and it feels like the orchestra is now playing for me—the diva from the Bratva club. I know how to work this body around a steel pole, let alone around a devilishly handsome, body-burning, and soul-consuming man.
It is then I’m hauled off the floor, thrown over his shoulder, and out of the venue we go.
I don’t kick or push, no matter that my first instinct is to hide.
Being handled like this does something to me. It’s familiar. Only this time, instead of going into a panic attack, I’m finding that the rough handling is what I want when we are intimate. I don’t want to be treated like I’m broken.
“You are drunk,” he says, dropping me beside the door of the car.
He is parked a little away from the venue, so all I see from here are dots of lights in the distance and the faint humming of the music.
“Yes, but drunk with desire for you, nothing else,” I hold his gaze, which has gone so dark I can barely make out his eyes. My laughter sounds like crashing stainless dishes and I slap a hand against my lips to stifle it.
“Get in the car,” he growls, and I concur with my body now quivering for reasons other than fear because I can feel the intention in his voice. He slams the door as soon as I get in and spins to climb onto his side of the car.
He drives through the winding roads of the hills and woods surrounding the villa. He is not driving out of the villa, so he is looking for something.
My hands are burning to touch him, so I let them, placing both on the bulge of his pants.
“Zoe…” It sounds more like a growl than my name. His body is tensing under my touch, and the car is suffocating me with animalistic want.
It’s raw.
The engine cuts off just under a tree, away from streetlights and farther away from the wedding venue.
“Out,” he thrums, his voice low and commanding. “Go to the front of the car and bend over.”
I’m all kinds of things right now. The sensation of the searing liquid flowing between my legs and dampening my pussy, the heat coursing through my veins, and the frenzied hammering of my heart against my breastbone.
Leaping out of the car, I walk to the front and put my hands around one railof the grille guards. The night air licks my skin, causing goosebumps to burst out.
Ettore steps out of the car, his searing eyes trained on me, “Give me a safe word,” he stalks around like some predator grooming his prey until he is behind me. “You like to be fucked how I like to fuck, Zoe, but what we have been doing is barely the tip of how hard I want to fuck you.”
I scramble for safe words in my head, the sensation wracking my nerves and twitching my soaked swollen pussy.
I have never been asked to give a safe word. Men have always taken from me. They never cared if I broke or died from their brutality. And I have seen girls leave with clients and never return. Not because they were sold but because they were used by monsters with sick, disgusting fetishes.
But here I am with a man who bought me and could do whatever he wants to me, he could unleash all his horrid fantasies on me, yet, he wants me to give him a safe word.
Something comes alive in my heart. I can feel the sun rising in it.
“Vogue for stop,” I gulp as he grips the hem of my dress.
“And when I’m choking you with my cock, and you can’t get words out?” He leans his upper body on me and lines the slit of my dress, his weight and fingers stringing colossal waves of wildfire through me.
“Three fingers,” I stutter out.
“Good,” he rips my dress, the slashing sound hissing through the night and my legs vibrating from the exposure, “I bet you are wet,” his hand comes to cusp my pussy, and a hard smack stings my butt. “I knew it,” he splays some of my wetness up the crease of my ass, and another smack burns my butt cheek.
Then he pulls away, and when he comes back, his cock is priming my opening. “Wider, Zoe,” he groans, and I sprawl my legs apart.
He wastes no time and trudges into me with one hard shove; a smack follows that makes me tighten my pussy around his cock, another comes, and I’m almost coming. Then, the pounding commences.
His thrusts are raw and intense, filled with the urgency of our desire. I fear we might move the car with how hard he is pounding into me.
Soon after, my orgasm wrecks through me like a nuclear explosion with an intense heatwave of pleasure, contracting my stomach and pussy in a deliciously painful way, my heart suspended in my mouth.
My grip around the rail slips, but he is not done with me. His hands grip me by the waist so I’m bunched over, and he keeps ramming into me.
What we have been doing is barely a scratch of how hard I want to fuck you.
We are finally coming to terms with the fact that this fire between us is inevitably consuming.
That we shouldn’t keep trying to put it out.
His words echo in my mind as he continues to pound into me, each thrust sending pleasure and pain coursing through my body. The roughness, the raw intensity of it, makes me feel more alive than I’ve ever felt. My legs are trembling, barely able to hold me up, but Ettore's strong hands keep me in place, driving deeper and harder into me.
“Zoe,” he groans, his voice hoarse with desire. “You’re mine.”
His declaration sends a shiver down my spine. I am his. Completely. My body responds to his every touch, every thrust, and I lose myself in the overwhelming sensations.
His rhythm becomes more erratic, and I feel him getting closer to his release. The car’s hood is cool against my heated skin. I can barely think, my mind consumed by the intense pleasure he’s giving me.
“Ettore,” I gasp, my voice trembling. “Can I come again?”
He growls in response, his grip on my hips tightening. “Come for me, Zoe. Let me feel you.”
That’s all it takes. My second orgasm crashes over me, even more intense than the first. My vision blurs and my body convulses around him. Ettore follows right after, his release a powerful rush that leaves him groaning my name.
For a few moments, we stay like that, both of us panting and trembling from the intensity of our coupling. He’s still inside me, and I can feel his heartbeat against my back, wild and erratic.
Slowly, Ettore pulls out of me, and I feel a mix of emptiness and relief. He helps me stand upright, his hands gentle as they steady me. I turn to face him, and his eyes are dark with lingering desire and something else—something softer, more tender.
“You okay?” he asks in a concerned tone.
I nod, my legs still shaky. “Yeah, I’m okay.”
How can I not be?
He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, his touch surprisingly delicate after the roughness of our encounter. “Good,” he murmurs. “Let’s get you back home.”
Ettore helps me back to the passenger side, his arm around my waist for support. As I settle into the seat, I can’t help but feel a strange mix of emotions: exhilaration, vulnerability, and a growing uncomfortable sense of something deeper between us.
He climbs into the driver’s seat, and I can see the strain on his face and the effort he puts into maintaining his composure.
This fire between us is real and something neither of us can deny.
It’s infernal.