Total pages in book: 152
Estimated words: 144979 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 725(@200wpm)___ 580(@250wpm)___ 483(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 144979 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 725(@200wpm)___ 580(@250wpm)___ 483(@300wpm)
My mind is blissfully empty as he settles into the seat behind me. A few moments pass as he snaps on some gloves and prepares his tools. Once he’s ready, he brushes my hair aside, cleans my skin, and presses the stencil to the nape of my neck. In keeping with tradition, Society wives are marked with their husband’s family crest on the night of their wedding. The Vitale crest is a shield with a snake curling up each side, a crown perched at the top, and two crossed swords with a ‘V’ carved into each hilt.
Each mark holds significance for the Vitale family, and as a whole, it will serve as both a symbol of power and ownership. Every man in The Society will recognize that I belong to Angelo Vitale. It’s a language of its own in our world. A way of recognizing which woman belongs to whom. And therefore, it serves as a warning. Touch a marked woman, and you’d better mark your own days because they will surely be numbered.
I’d like to believe that I carry myself with strength, and in my world, I’ve already done the extraordinary. I’ve built a successful business and proven that I can survive on my own. So it hasn’t escaped me that this is an archaic, patriarchal ritual. But if I’m honest, there’s also something to be said for wearing his mark on my skin. It appeals to my baser desires. The ones that want him to boss me around, fuck me like I’m his property, and tell the whole world that I’m his.
There’s also a comfort, as temporary as it may be, to know that I’m safe now. My father can no longer make decisions on my behalf. I can’t be forced to wed another man I didn’t choose. And most importantly, I get a taste of the fantasy I always wanted…at least for a little while.
A mechanical hum fills the air as Angelo turns on the machine, and the needle makes contact with my skin. It stings, but it doesn’t hurt. He’s efficient, inking each line as if he’s been doing this his whole life. But then, it doesn’t surprise me. Angelo has always been good at everything he does.
My thoughts drift as the edges of the world soften around me. I feel like I’m floating, suspended on a slow tide in a vast blue sea. I’m weightless, pulled deeper into a state of bliss with every vibration against my skin. I could live right here beneath the stars, his warmth pressing against my back, his scent wrapping around me like a cocoon.
Unfortunately, it ends far too quickly when he switches off the machine. As he applies ointment and wraps the area, I feel a strange longing to return to that place where nothing else exists outside of this moment. Because I know what happens when this bubble bursts.
I wonder if he thinks that, too. We may have found a temporary shelter, but we haven’t outrun the storm.
I pivot and turn to face him. He doesn’t speak, but I can hear him sit back against the throne, and his gaze seems to burn through me, even with the blindfold.
“Can I take this off now?” I brush my fingers over the material covering my eyes.
“No.” His warm palm traces the curve of my face.
I close my eyes and lean into that touch, starved by years of neglect without it. I want to please him. I want him to burn with the same ache he’s branded into me.
I turn my face and kiss his palm, breathing his name as I do. The rough exhalation I receive in return is all the encouragement I need to push the boundaries.
I shift, legs bumping against his shoes as I scoot closer, reaching out to touch him. My palms settle on his calves, gliding over the curves of muscle as they wander upward to his hard thighs. They’re solid and warm, cloaked in the finest Italian wool.
It isn’t enough to touch him. I want to unwrap him and explore every inch of his body with my mouth. My nails scrape over his trousers, all the way up to the rigid length of his erection. A current of tension runs through him as I stroke him through the material, marveling at the sheer size of him. It’s…staggering.
Inhibitions unleashed, I do something I’ve thought about doing for a long time. I dip my head and press my lips against that hardness, kissing him all the way up to his zipper.
He draws in a ragged breath, fingers threading through my hair with a dominance that fans the flames of my desire. This isn’t Angelo the gentleman. This is Il Diavolo. A man who takes. A man who uses.
I want him to do both of those things to me.