“Should I let him see your face when you come?” I ask, the question cruel and deliberate. “Should I show him what belongs to me?”
“No,” she whispers, the word barely audible. “Please.”
The plea in her voice pushes me closer to the edge. I bite down on her shoulder through the thin cotton of the shirt, hard enough to leave a mark. The pain draws a gasp from her, her body tensing around mine.
“Then come for me now,” I command, my voice steady despite the fire building in my blood. “Quietly.”
She obeys beautifully, her climax rippling through her in silent waves. Her fingers dig into my shoulders, her face pressed against my neck to muffle any sounds she might make. The feeling of her pulsing around me, combined with the knowledge that Rico is watching, unable to hear or truly see what’s happening, pushes me over the edge.
I come with my eyes locked on Rico’s, a direct challenge in my gaze. Mine. Not yours. Never yours.
When it’s over, I keep her on my lap, both of us still joined, our breathing gradually slowing. I run my fingers through her hair, the gesture almost tender if not for the calculating coldness in my eyes as I continue to stare down Rico across the expanse of the pool.
He raises his glass in a mocking toast.
20
I’m still in Giovanni Bavga’s lapwith his come still inside me when my brain comes back online.
I was semi-coherent during the sex. Or should I call it the “claiming”? Because that’s what Giovanni was doing just now, marking his territory like some primal alpha male. He wasn’t even fully focused on me—his attention was locked on his cousin across the pool. I only caught it by accident when pleasure crashed through me and I turned my head, my body still pulsing around him.
Rico. Standing there in the shadows by the cabana, jerking himself off with slow, deliberate strokes. His dark eyes burning with something that made my skin crawl—not just lust, but something deeper, more twisted. He was staring directly at us, at me, at the place where Giovanni and I were joined.
And when I twisted back to look at Giovanni, the realization hit me like ice water. They weren’t looking at me at all. They were staring at each other across that expanse of glowing blue water—locked in some silent battle I couldn’t begin to understand.
Two predators, using my body as the battlefield for whatever sick game they’d been playing since childhood. The tension between them was electric, dangerous, loaded with decades ofhatred and rivalry that suddenly made me feel like nothing more than a pawn.
The world filters in slowly—the splash of bodies in the pool, distant laughter, the smell of chlorine and weed and expensive cologne. My thighs are trembling. My heart’s still racing. And I’m sitting on a mobster’s dick at a sex party while wearing nothing but his T-shirt and the world’s most inadequate thong.
What the actual fuck am I doing?
The most disturbing part isn’t even that I let it happen. It’s that I’m already cataloging the sensations, filing them away like rare books I’ll want to revisit later. The weight of him inside me. The burn of his stubble against my neck. The way his fingers tangled in my hair, not gentle but not cruel either—just... claiming.
Twice. Twice in one night I’ve let him take me. First against the door, and now in front of a crowd where anyone could have seen if they’d looked hard enough. Both times, I didn’t just let him—I wanted it. I arched into his touch, I came apart under his hands, Ienjoyedit.
Sister Margaret would need smelling salts if she could see me now. Former bakery assistant, now performing live sex shows for the criminal elite. What a career pivot.
Giovanni shifts beneath me, and I have to bite my lip to keep from squeaking. We’re still joined, his cock still inside me, and every tiny movement sends aftershocks through my nervous system. His hand traces idle patterns on my bare thigh, just below where the T-shirt ends. Casual. Possessive. Like I’m already his favorite toy.
“Comfortable?” he asks, his voice low and amused.
I shouldn’t be. But I am. “Mmm,” is all I manage, which makes him chuckle.
Looking around to avoid the mobster’s gaze, I notice that Rico guy is gone now. The crowd has thinned. People driftingaway to more private spaces to continue whatever debauchery they’ve started here.
Giovanni seems different too—calmer, more relaxed. The tense, angry energy that vibrated through him earlier has dissipated, leaving behind something almost... pleasant.
My eyes drift to the wisteria tunnel where he recited the rules for tonight like they were gospel. Purple-blue flowers cascade from twisted vines, creating a living cathedral of color and scent. It’s the kind of place that belongs in a fairytale, not a crime lord’s backyard.
Giovanni follows my gaze. “My grandmother planted that the year we moved to the estate,” he says, surprising me with this voluntary personal information. “I was three.”
I try to picture Giovanni as a toddler and fail completely. He probably came out of the womb in a tailored suit, glaring at the doctor for failing to maintain proper sterile protocol.
“There used to be a big swing in the middle,” he continues, his voice taking on a quality I haven’t heard before. “The kind you find on a porch. My grandfather would sit out there for hours, just looking up at the blooms. They were much smaller then.” He pauses. “That’s my only real memory of him.”
The revelation feels strangely intimate—more intimate, somehow, than the fact that he’s still inside me. I don’t know what to do with this glimpse of humanity, this crack in his perfect mobster facade.
And then, out of nowhere, words start spilling from his mouth: