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)
After a few minutes, when I finally feel like I can fucking breathe again, I open my eyes and glance down at Abella. She’s limp with pleasure—hair wrecked, mascara smeared down her cheeks—the vision of thoroughly fucked. There’s something about seeing her so degraded that I can’t help but enjoy it.
I could stay right here, buried in the warmth that feels so good wrapped around my dick. But she’ll be asleep soon if I don’t extricate myself now. I can see the rise and fall of her chest growing shallower, and heaviness settling over her eyes. I’ve exhausted her.
Reluctantly, I pull my cock free from her, glancing down at the mess. There’s a wet patch on the bed and all over me. Fuck, that’s hot. I make a mental note to have her do that again, on repeat.
I lean down and gather her up in my arms, shifting her to the dry side of the bed. I drape her on her back, then prop a pillow under her hips.
“I thought that was an old wives’ tale,” she murmurs sleepily.
“It can’t hurt.”
I stare at the cum leaking out of both her holes, and it feeds the beast in me. I scrape a rough hand over my face, then close her legs before I do something irrational—like fuck her again.
My gaze drifts up to find her watching me, looking far too vulnerable with those fucking bruises on her face.
Before I can think better of it, I reach down and brush my thumb across her cheek, regretting the decision to deal with Maurizio later. He may be suffering right now, but it isn’t nearly enough. It won’t be enough until I can unleash the full scale of my wrath on him.
Abella closes her eyes, softening beneath my touch. Again, I wonder if she’s still thinking of Matteo. If she’ll always think of him.
Perhaps in that regard, killing him only memorialized him in her thoughts. Death has a way of erasing every flaw, and I can’t compete with a ghost. But I couldn’t allow him to breathe one more second, either.
She lets out a soft breath when my hand retreats. “Are you leaving?”
“Rest for a few minutes.” I drape a blanket over her. “I’ll be back to clean you up.”
She nods, already drifting off.
I watch her for a while, the way I often did when she had no idea I was present. Then I go into the bathroom, strip off my clothes, and fist my cock. I replay everything that just happened and wash it all down the drain.
23
ABELLA
The feeling of a warm cloth between my thighs stirs me from sleep, and I fight to open my eyes. I’m strung out on exhaustion, feeling like I just did the hardest workout of my life. In reality, all I did was lie there and take Angelo’s cock.
The man is built for ruin. I’m not sure how I’ll survive him.
“Is that tender?” He sweeps the cloth over my skin, wiping away his cum.
If by tender, he means I just took a baseball bat up both orifices, then yes.
I groan in response, and he gentles his touch.
“It will get easier.”
I don’t want to ask him how he knows that—or more specifically, how many virgins he’s deflowered. I’m imagining a whole stack of them.
I angle my head back and let my gaze wander over him. Every stitch of his clothing is black—the trademark Angelo Vitale I-don’t-give-a-fuck aesthetic.
If Cosa Nostra had a signature brand, it would be him in those tapered, no-break trousers, fitted waistcoat, and dress shirt rolled up at the sleeves. Depending on the day, you might also find him with various accessories. Gold Rolex. Clubmaster sunglasses. Signet rings on his inked fingers. There are three he wears often: a gold skull, the Vitale family crest, and a square-cut slab of onyx.
He’s effortlessly stylish, and admittedly, he’s been my inspiration for many of the looks I’ve shopped over the years. But nobody can pull off Italian style like he does. He’s edgy and masculine. Clean lines, tapered fits, and tailoring that hugs his body so perfectly, the standard can’t be matched. This is my NSFW content.
Angelo Vitale in casual Mafia wear.
He glances up and catches me eye-fucking him.
“Keep looking at me like that, cara, and I’ll have to brutalize this pussy again.”
Those filthy words and the rough edge in his voice spark another ache between my legs. There’s not a gentlemanly thing about him right now. I think this is how I like him best—raw and unfiltered.
He finishes cleaning me and drapes a blanket over the lower half of my body. Then he retrieves something from his trouser pocket and reaches for my right hand.
“This tracks your temperature and cycle.” He slides the silver ring onto my finger. “It will tell us which days are best for conception.”