Beautiful Torment (Empire of Kings #1) Read Online A. Zavarelli

Categories Genre: Alpha Male, Contemporary, Dark, Erotic, Mafia, Virgin Tags Authors: Series: Empire of Kings Series by A. Zavarelli
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Total pages in book: 152
Estimated words: 144979 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 725(@200wpm)___ 580(@250wpm)___ 483(@300wpm)
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“Cara.”

The sound of Angelo’s voice pulls me from sleep, and when I open my eyes, it takes me a moment to orient myself.

He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, having extricated his body from mine. There’s no evidence in his expression that it ever happened, so I guess that’s how we’re going to handle this.

“Brunch will be served soon,” he tells me.

I try to sit up, but I just end up groaning.

“Are you sore?” A shadow of concern passes over him, and I know he’s probably questioning if he was too rough with me.

He fucked me for hours, tossing me around and testing every limit. At one point, he bent me in half like a pretzel and took me so deep I swear I felt my soul leave my body. He did, in fact, give all his cum to me like he promised. I’m quite certain there couldn’t possibly be anything left.

Flashes of memories resurface—his rough, commanding voice, teeth grazing my throat, growls of pleasure in the dark—and lots of orgasms. Orgasms that made me scream and cry and beg. There’s not a chance everyone on this plane didn’t hear at least some of it.

The thought of facing them today floods me with embarrassment. Well, everyone except for Genevieve. I hope she heard every second of it.

I force myself upright, undeniably wrecked from our marathon session. There’s an ache between my legs, and every muscle in my body is sore. It must be obvious because Angelo takes pity on me.

“Come here.” He gathers me up in his arms and carries me to the bathroom. “A warm shower will help.”

“Is that what you do for the other women?”

I don’t know why I say it, and I regret the words as soon as they leave my mouth. But Angelo just looks at me like I’m a puzzle he can’t figure out. After all, what right do I have to be jealous when I’m the one who let him go?

Whatever his thoughts might be, he doesn’t share. Instead, he opens the shower door and sets me on the bench seat inside.

He turns on the water and adjusts the temperature, and as the spray rains down on us, he begins to wash me. It’s an intimate, vulnerable position, and the survivor in me learned long ago never to accept help. But it feels like I don’t need that part of me when I’m with him.

I want to let him take care of me.

He washes my hair, then works his way down to my body, massaging the tension from my muscles as he cleans me.

When he reaches the most tender part of me, I shiver, torn between desire and agony. I know I can’t possibly take him again, but when my eyes trace the line of his rigid cock, I want to.

“Does my wife need more?” he strokes me between my thighs, coaxing a choked sound from my throat.

I nod, arching into his touch. I’m so sensitive, it won’t take long.

“I’m beginning to think I’m spoiling you.” Dark amusement laces his voice.

“No.” I shake my head, moaning when he increases the pressure.

“No?” He palms my breast and circles the nipple with his thumb. “You’d prefer it if I fucked you all day, every day?”

“I’m not opposed,” I pant. “But I thought you hated me.”

“Who says I don’t?”

I ignore that remark and reach for the bottle of soap, squirting some in my palm. When I slather it all over his cock and start to stroke him, a rough sound spills from his lips. I try to match his pace between my legs, but when he starts thrusting his hips into my fist, the sight alone sets me off.

I come hard and fast, the resulting spasms worth every second of soreness. Angelo takes over, palming his cock while his gaze drifts over my body. Nothing has ever been hotter than watching him pleasure himself while he looks at me. Then again, I think there’s very little he could do that wouldn’t be hot.

He proves it when he groans out his release and comes all over my breasts. The dark satisfaction in his eyes sparks my hunger all over again. Madonna Mia. This can’t be normal.

When I glance up at Angelo, I wonder if my face betrays this constant war inside me. I crave him, even as I’m grieving the loss of him—knowing I’ll have to leave.

I push those thoughts aside and sit there quietly, watching as he soaps his body and cleans himself. When he turns off the shower, I’m sad it’s over.

He tells me to wait, then returns a moment later with a towel and dries me off. Despite my assurances I can probably walk, he carries me back to the bed and wraps me in a blanket.

As he heads toward the closet, my gaze drifts over all six-foot-four inches of his naked backside. His body is ink, muscle, and perfect lines. But in the middle of that beautiful landscape, I notice a deep, jagged scar slashed across his back. I can only imagine how brutal the injury must have been to leave a wound like that.



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