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My hand curls around the dark leather of her pants, squeezing her thigh. I want her. In every way. But unlike the other time’s I’ve taken her, she’s different tonight. There’s less resistance. I don’t know why, but I want to reward her for it, worship her even, handle her gentler in a way I’ve never known how to fuck someone before.
“How do you want me now, sweetheart?” I ask her. Despite how riveting the fight was tonight, Ara is my only prize.
She leans up to kiss me, but it’s gentler than usual. Different than any way a woman has kissed me. A hidden message I don’t entirely comprehend but I match her lazy strokes and let her take from me what she will.
Her hips roll against my cock while her hands roam over my shoulders freely. Ara’s breath hitches as her feather light touch dances over the scar on my back. Without voicing it I shift to show her, aware she’s curious.
“Who did this to you?” she asks. I have numerous scars but it’s the most obvious one.
“How about I tell you while we both get naked. Does that sound like a good deal?”
Tension ripples from her but she nods and begins with her shirt. I watch as she unpeels the tight leather as I stand to undo my own belt and trousers. We study one another, every second straining the tension between us.
I casually reward her with an answer as we strip. “My father did when I was fourteen as a lesson to not defy any of his orders. He used a fireplace poker to brand me.”
She pauses, with one leg shuffling out of the leather. “Your own father did that to you?”
I casually shrug. It wasn’t the only scar made by his hand, but it was the most visible. “You might’ve been only introduced to violence at the age of twelve but it was the very first thing I can remember.”
My very first memory was of my father brutally beating a man to death when a business deal had gone wrong.
Ara looks like she’s either about to cry or vomit. “What did you do to deserve that scar?”
I impatiently sigh. It’s souring the mood so I’m quick to get the answer over with. Ara might pity me, but I have no ounce of emotional attachment to the violent world I was raised in. It made me stronger. It made me the best.
“I received this particular punishment because I beat the shit out of a group of seniors for calling Dario an incompetent prick. The year after, I made sure to fuck all of their girlfriends as well.” I remove my belt entirely while still watching her undress. She’s watching me in the same way although I can tell she’s uneasy with my confession. I elaborate. “My father discouraged our violence publicly. He was known for his and wanted to set us on a different path. A more cunning one as we incorporated further into Manhattan’s social circles. At the time, I didn’t care.”
Ara unclips her wig thoughtfully. “That’s horrible and yet sounds like exactly something you would do.”
I chuckle as I step out of my trousers, my cock rock hard. I drink her hour shape figure in, wanting to bathe in her perfectly bronzed complexion for days. Her black hair fans around her face, almost perfectly. “I think it’s about time I make that pretty little ass of yours, mine.”
She steps toward me and cups my face and I’m startled by the endearing look she offers me. It makes me as uncomfortable as it does the desire to have more of it.
“I’m sorry you experienced your own hardships too,” she says and I’m taken aback. I can’t even throw a smart-ass response back because she stretches on her tippy toes and kisses me as her hand wraps around my cock.
36
ARA
It’s strange to lay on top of Luca with his arm wrapped around me, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. A reminder he is after all just a man. I shouldn’t find contentment beside the monster who is the last person I should be sleeping with. And yet…here I am.
“So what I don’t get with this whole mafia thing is why you even pretend to have a day job?” I ask, curious now as I draw patterns on his chest. Although I’d been studying the Armani brothers actions for months now, I didn’t entirely understand it. You hear about this stuff in articles and on TV but I was never raised by the same laws that govern his.
Luca chuckles as he pushes back my hair from my face. The strawberry wig I’d removed hours ago is somewhere on his floor. “I like money, Arabella. I love that people fear me and know not to mess with me. And when they do I can execute discipline instead of asking someone else to do it.”
“You mean violence.” I perch myself on my elbow and look down on him. “Would you hurt your own family?”
Something dark crosses his features. “Be careful in the things you ask, Ara.”
Because although whatever unspoken semi-truce we’d come to, opening up Luca was evidently still off the table. However, I had caught a small glimpse of the boy he might’ve once been last night. It was strangely reassuring, that my vulnerability was matched with his to an extent but now that vault was shut tight once again.
I think back to how he treated his brother. As if Dario was poison to the family and yet when he was a teenager he would go as far to defend him for being called a name. From the research I’d done, Dario was also the only immediate family he had left. His father was reported to have a heart attack when Luca was twenty-two and their mother passed from cancer when he was only eight, which was three years after Dario was born and their father never remarried.
Knowing that and having Luca open up about it are two different things. I doubt he spoke to anyone about it. It always feels strange when those who have all the money in the world still are no exceptions to ailments and loss. At the end of the day, we were all very human.
I wonder if his father mourned their mother unlike mine. I wonder what type of woman she might’ve been. An uncomfortable weight forms in the pit of my stomach. It was a toxic, distasteful fate that the intertwining of our families led to my mother’s death. Would she hate me for sleeping with Luca? Would she understand my reasoning behind it?
Even I wasn’t sure if my actions were justified anymore.
