I do as he commands.
I’ll do whatever he asks right now.
His tongue keeps going, faster and faster. My back arches and my core clenches tighter as it builds and builds, getting deep and hot and god, yes, I whisper his name, I moan his name, I say it loud, because he’s my husband now, and his mouth is ripping me to shreds.
I come on his tongue, my back arched, my legs trembling, my muscles quivering. I come so hard I see spots, nearly black out. It’s heaven. I need more and more and more and more.
His tongue laps against my lips and I hold him against me. We stay there and I’m breathing hard.
“You’re my wife,” he whispers and I look into his eyes.
And yes, he’s right: I’m his wife.
For better or worse. Even if I’d rather run and never look back.
I’m his wife.
“No more underwear for the rest of the day.” He helps me off the pool table and I adjust my dress.
“You know I have to talk to your family out there, right?”
“I don’t care.” He bites my lower lip hard. “Think about me.”
And he leaves.
I stand there, shivering. I have to lean against the pool table, and when I do, I look down at the ring on my finger.
There has to be a way out. I can’t let myself get consumed by him, but if I keep going, if I keep moving forward, one foot in front of the other, I’ll be nothing. I’ll give in, and he’ll own me, and I don’t know if I can live with myself after that.
Married to my bully. Married to a man I despise.
I close my eyes, pull myself together, and go rejoin the gathering, if only to spend another hour or two with Papa.
Chapter 10
Casso
Dark gray clouds roll across the sky as rain drips in drizzles along the normally sizzling sidewalks. “Rare rainy day in the desert,” Olivia remarks, staring out the window.
“We get ten of these a year and it happens to rain on the day we’re going to meet with that Russian. What are the chances this is a coincidence?” I squint out the front window.
“What did our English teacher tell us back in school? The weather’s a bad analogy for how the characters feel.”
“Yeah, well, in this instance, this fucking rain’s perfect.” I tap my finger against the glass as the driver drifts through the streets. “Have you thought more about our deal?”
“We don’t have to keep discussing it.” She doesn’t meet my eye and I wonder what she’s avoiding.
“I feel like we do, since we’re headed into a dangerous situation. I want us on the same page.”
“I’m playing along. That should be good enough.”
I smile slightly and put my hand on her thigh. She glares and brushes it away, but not before I feel her warmth radiating up from her skinny jeans. “I notice you’re wearing the ring.”
She stares at it, the diamonds catching what little light gets in through the cloud cover. “Felt wrong taking it off.”
“Even if you hate being my wife?”
“Even if I hate being around you in general.”
“Glad I know where I stand.” The car slows as it nears a quiet strip mall with brown stucco siding and little cacti planted in the rocks ringed around the parking lot. “You still didn’t have to put it on, nobody forced you to.”
“Are you trying to get me to take it off?” She raises her hand up and grabs the ring, glaring at me, daring me to do something.
Before she can rip the thing from her finger, I reach out and stop her. I stare into her eyes because I want her to know that I’m not messing around right now, I truly mean it when I say, “Keep it on. Please.”
She seems surprised. Maybe at the intensity of my stare or maybe at the please, but either way she pulls back and doesn’t remove the ring.
I like that she’s wearing it.
That’s a novel feeling—wanting her to wear my ring. There’s a strange sense of pride knowing that Olivia is mine, my wife, my woman, and she’s wearing my ring on her finger. It’s there for anyone to see, tucked against her skin, glittering as she moves.
The thought of marriage never enticed me. I knew I’d have to get married sooner or later but my idea of marriage was always tainted by my father’s relationships and the relationships I grew up around. Mafia guys don’t tend to have kind, loving partnerships, and I was never interested in being the big dick alpha asshole to some meek little mobbed-up princess.
And yet here I am enjoying the whole thing.
The car stops in front of a sleepy pizza shop. There aren’t many of these in Phoenix, mostly because there aren’t many Italians—but in terms of restaurants, there’s Mexican, Korean, Chinese, South American in general, that sort of shit’s all over the place. Cities like this are a mix of the people that live in them and the immigrant communities that make them great, and the food’s no exception. But I have to admit, it feels good to step inside and smell the baking cheese, the oil, the herbs, the rising dough. It reminds me of when I was young and my mother would cook even though we had people doing it for her. She’d wave them away and make jokes and the whole world would be laughter and lightness and joy. Then my father strangled her to death. Life’s never been the same.