“Not there,” he says, patting his thighs. “Here.”
Oh.
Oh no.
“Straddle me,” he clarifies, as if I might be confused about the mechanics.
My stomach performs an elaborate gymnastics routine as I move toward him. This is fine. Just straddling a mob boss at a sex party while wearing no pants. Tuesday things. Normal girl stuff.
I settle onto his lap, my thighs spread across his, the thin cotton of my underwear the only barrier between us. His erection presses against me, hard and insistent, a reminder of what happened in the pool house. What might happen again. Here. In front of everyone.
My heartbeat sounds like a bass drum in my ears. I’m so focused on Giovanni that I don’t notice Rico approaching until he’s right there, dropping onto the couch beside us with casual entitlement.
“Aren’t you going to introduce your woman, cousin?” Rico’s voice carries a slight New York accent, smooth and practiced like a TV mobster.
Giovanni’s hands slide up my sides, then down to grip my hips, encouraging a subtle rocking motion that makes his intentions perfectly clear. I’m supposed to put on a show while he... what? Discusses the weather?
“The Gonzalez shipment arrived,” Giovanni says, completely ignoring Rico’s question. “Three days early. Might be worth looking into why.”
Are they seriously having a business conversation right now? While I’m basically dry-humping Giovanni in front of the entire party? This is some next-level power play bullshit.
Fine. Two can play.
I lean forward, pressing my lips against Giovanni’s neck. His skin is warm, slightly salty. I feel his pulse jump under my mouth, a tiny tell that satisfies something primal in me. His hands tighten on my ass, fingers digging in possessively.
“Did you hear what I said?” Giovanni continues, his voice remarkably steady despite my best efforts. “Three days early could mean?—”
I graze my teeth against his throat, and his sentence falters for just a microsecond.
“Excuse me for a moment,” he says, recovering, but I feel his heart hammering against my chest. “My whore is getting horny.” Then he turns his head to me. “You want my big cock again, baby?” Giovanni asks, his voice dropping to a growl that vibrates through me. “Twice in ten minutes? You’re fucking insatiable.”
The abrupt shift from business to dirty talk gives me conversational whiplash. I freeze against him, heat flooding my face.
Rico laughs, a sound like expensive whiskey poured over broken glass. “Must be nice having a girl who can’t get enough. My last one needed a fucking instruction manual and still couldn’t get me off right.”
The casual misogyny makes my skin crawl, but Giovanni’s hands are holding me in place, reminding me of rule number four: do not react.
“Fuck off, Rico,” Giovanni says, his tone casual but with steel underneath. “I’m trying to finish what she started.”
Rico holds up his hands in mock surrender, but his eyes—those calculating, cold eyes—linger on me for a beat too long before he rises and saunters away.
The cabana offers the suggestion of privacy, gauzy curtains creating the illusion of walls, but I’m acutely aware of eyes on us. Men watching from the pool deck, from the bar, from loungers strategically positioned for the best view. This is a performance, and I’m the star attraction.
What’s most disturbing is the electric current running through me at the thought. I should be terrified, disgusted, planning my escape.
Instead, I’m... excited?
The possibility of Giovanni taking me here, with an audience, sends a shameful thrill through my body that I can’t entirely blame on survival instincts or Stockholm syndrome.
I’ve never been an exhibitionist. Never even considered it. But something about the danger, the forbidden nature of it all, the complete departure from my careful, controlled existence—it’s intoxicating in the worst possible way.
Giovanni’s hands slide up my T-shirt, his fingers tracing patterns on my bare back as he studies my face, reading me like my expression is a neon sign.
“You like this,” he says quietly, not a question but an observation. His thumbs brush the undersides of my breasts, and I can’t suppress a shiver.
God help me, I think I do.
19