Falling For The Forbidden

by Hawkins, Jessica

  Stefano shakes his head. “I don’t want you dead.” He drops his thumb to my lips and traces them. I hold still because despite his assurance, I’m still his captive. The zip-tie on my wrists prove it. “I don’t kill innocents.” Something flickers behind his dark eyes. “Despite what you may think about me.”

  I find my cheeks heating, which annoys me. “I don’t think about you.”

  He smiles because we both know it’s a lie.

  I wet my lips with my tongue and he tracks the movement, hunger flaring in his chocolate brown eyes. “So what are you going to do with me?”

  He tilts his head to the side. “I’m figuring that out, bambina.”

  “Th-there’s something I better tell you.” I don’t want to bring this up—I really don’t. But if he finds out another way, he may shoot first and ask questions later.

  He arches a brow.

  I lick my lips again. “I don’t talk to my dad. Like, we’re totally estranged, and that’s a good thing.”

  Stefano’s eyes narrow. I’m sure he’s wondering where in the hell I’m going with this.

  “But he’s a fed. An FBI agent,” I blurt.

  Stefano curses in Italian, a long string of words I don’t understand but get the meaning. He tugs my ass off the table and starts searching me in quick, pissed off movements, running his fingers along the neckline of my dress, around the insides of my bra.

  If I weren’t more than a little afraid of Stefano Tacone in warrior mode, I might remark at the similarity of my situation with Sondra’s. This was how she met Nico, after all. He strip-searched her for a wire when he found her cleaning his bathroom.

  Stefano drags his large palms up my thighs, around to the back, sliding a finger over the G-string through my crack. He checks the gusset of my panties, sparing me any comments about how wet I am this time.

  And yeah—my panties are damp again. I shouldn’t be turned on by Stefano’s rough and thorough search, but I am. He lifts my dress up to my waist, hikes it up to my armpits before he realizes it’s not coming off. Not unless he removes the zip-tie.

  He pulls me across the kitchen, where he grabs a pair of scissors from the drawer.

  I think he’s going to cut off the zip-tie, but instead the fucker slices through the fabric of my dress.

  I shove at him, even though it’s too late. “Jesus! You don’t have to cut it, asshole. This is my favorite dress.” The dress falls in shreds at my feet. I’m standing there in a black lace bra and matching G-string, a pair of black thigh-highs and my stilettos. It’s quite an outfit, but he’s apparently unaffected.

  He yanks my bra cups down, searching visually as he runs his thumbs inside them for a second time. “Watch your mouth, I’m still your boss. I’ll buy you another fucking dress if you’re clean.”

  “I’m clean, dammit. Where else would I hide a wire? Why didn’t you just cut off the zip-tie?”

  He catches my jaw with grim determination. At first I think he’s going to punish me for getting too mouthy, but he presses it open. “Maybe I like having you at my mercy.” He flicks his brows and I register the return of his jaunty arrogance, a fraction of humor and enjoyment. Maybe that’s what pisses me off. When he sweeps a finger inside to check my teeth, I bite down, hard.

  “Merda!” He yanks his finger back and my teeth scrape over flesh. I pop them open at the taste of blood, instantly realizing I went way too far.

  I tense, frozen like a rabbit, but Stefano doesn’t move, other than to shake out his hand. His eyes lock on mine, blazing, but not with anger. No, with dark promise. Excitement. Like he’s glad I bit him.

  A shiver races up my spine.

  “I think you must want another spanking.” His voice holds deadly calm.

  I can’t seem to move. Can’t breathe.

  I fear he’s right.

  In a flash, he whirls me around and pushes my torso over the table. He doesn’t start spanking hard like he did in the elevator, though. He just runs his hand over my bare ass cheeks and whistles.

  “Bambina, if I knew you were hiding this under your dress, I would’ve lifted your skirt for your last punishment.” He circles my ass again.

  Anticipation races over my skin, flutters in my belly.

  “You’re still wearing my handprints.” There’s a rumble of appreciation in his voice, almost a purr. “Are you sore?”

  “Yes,” I say, infusing petulance into my words. I am still sore. In fact, now that he mentions it, my butt is hot and tingling. Of course, redheads register pain more than most people.

  He rubs my ass. “Spread your legs, baby.” His voice is no more than a murmur.

  I attempt to ignore the direction, like I didn’t hear it, but he kicks my feet apart. To my utter humiliation, he starts spanking my pussy. Short, deliberate taps right over my clit. My inner thigh muscles jump and shiver as he puts a little more wrist into it.

  “Stefano,” I gasp.

  “That’s right, amore. Say my name.”

  My pussy clenches, more shivers run down my legs. He smacks one ass cheek, hard.

  “Ouch!”

  “Mmm hmm.” He slaps the other cheek, then picks up his pace, alternating one cheek then the other. The man doesn’t know the definition of a light slap. Every time his palm connects with my flesh it sends shockwaves of sensation jolting through me. Pain mingled with pleasure. It’s too much, and yet I don’t want him to stop. I’m tragically enamored with my situation. He increases the intensity and speed another notch and I cry out. “Ouch! Hey!”

  Yeah, now I want him to stop.

  Definitely.

  “You might remember the words I need to hear, bella.”

  “I’m sorry! I’m sorry I bit your finger, Stefano.”

  He stops and spins me around. “Good girl. Quick learner.” Like before, he ends the punishment with a kiss. His lips crash down on mine and he bends me backward on the table, following me down. I have no choice but to wrap my legs around his waist and cradle his hips against mine. His cock presses hard and insistent against my panties, but he doesn’t rush. He kisses down my neck, yanks my bra down to scrape his teeth across my nipple.

  I arch into him, grind my mons against the hard bulge in his pants. He draws my nipple into his mouth, sucks it until I feel the answering tug between my legs.

  His movements are sure and confident, like he knows his way around a woman’s body, yet there’s also a crazy urgency, a passion behind every movement that carries me away. I can’t help but respond to his touch, like he’s the musician and my body’s the instrument. The music he makes with me intoxicates us both.

  He moves to the neglected nipple, sucking, biting, blowing air across it. Hot hands slide up my thighs. I think he’s going to fuck me now. This time I’m not going to refuse.

  But after he yanks my G-string down, he brings his face down to my pussy and licks into me. I cry out, my hips jacking up off the table. He holds them down and licks again, a long lick, from anus to clit.

  Jesus. I didn’t know that would feel so good. I’ve never had attention paid to my anus—never wanted attention paid there, but Stefano’s unafraid.

  He delves his tongue into my pussy, penetrating me, then shifts to suck my clit. He dips two fingers into me and curls them inside, rubbing my inner wall.

  I tear at his hair, my juices flowing so freely I’m afraid they’ll leak out of me. This is all too much and yet my body sings, glories in his touch. His thumb slides in my entrance and another finger, wet from my pussy, pushes at my anus.

  Once again, my hips fly off the table. He holds me down, re-affixing his lips to my clit, sucking the nubbin hard. He penetrates my asshole with a finger.

  I’m mortified.

  Exhilarated.

  The sensations flow through me too quickly to process. My body belongs to him. I have no choice but to surrender, to let go and let him play me, his instrument. And he does.

  Within moments, I’m orgasming—hard. When I scream, he covers my mouth with
his hand, still pumping his fingers in and out of me. It’s miraculous and horrible. I’m undone.

  And when it’s over, vulnerability and a pinch of shame rush in like an ocean tide. I choke back a sob against his palm.

  #

  Stefano

  Oh fuck.

  I release my hand from Corey’s mouth to see her face. She turns away from me, shoving her knuckles between her teeth. She’s crying. Or trying not to.

  Fuck, fuck, fuck. I was so sure she wanted it. Her body responded like I was its master. She never said no, never pushed me away.

  My cockstand drops to nothing. I don’t get off on rape. At all.

  I quickly pull her up to sit, tugging her panties back into place. “Cazzo, Corey.” I search her face, trying to decipher the tears. Was it just too much? Sometimes chicks cry after orgasm, especially a big one. Or did she feel forced?

  I fucking hope not.

  “Are you—” I don’t even know what I’m going to say, but she thumps me on my chest with her bound hands.

  “Stop looking at me, Stefano.”

  Relief washes over me. She’s okay. I can tell by the familiarity she uses—calling me by name, smacking my lapel. She wouldn’t do that if she were truly scared, truly felt forced. She’s raw from the orgasm and the fucked up situation, that’s all.

  I cup the back of her neck with my clean hand and pull her against me. She hits my chest with her forehead and stays there, gulping and sniffing. I stroke my thumb along the tendrils of hair at her nape until her breath slows. Then I release her. “Sit tight,” I warn, pointing a bossy finger at her. “Don’t move or I’ll spank your ass again.”

  She scowls at me, which I take as a good sign. She still has spirit. I have no interest in breaking her.

  When I come back, she’s pulled herself together. “Stefano,” she says, holding her bound wrists out to me. “Let me go. I’m not going to talk, I promise. My cousin, who’s like a sister to me, is marrying your brother. I’m practically part of the family now.”

  My eyebrows shoot up, because Nico—the stronzo—hasn’t told me he’s marrying the girl yet. I hope that means the shit with the Family is done. “That true? They getting married?”

  She bobs her head. “She texted me a picture of the ring.”

  I don’t know why, but that makes me insanely happy for the guy. Nico is one seriously intense motherfucker. He’s never attempted to make himself happy, maybe because the marriage contract with Guisseppe Pachino’s daughter’s been hanging over his head all these years.

  I crowd into her space again. It’s hard to take her seriously when she looks like she stepped off the pages of a classy men’s magazine. The thigh-highs and heels are pretty much blowing my mind. “What does that make us, then?” I unhook her bra in the back and slide the straps down, even though I know they’ll catch on her zip-tied wrists.

  “There is no us,” she snaps, but doesn’t resist my touch. “Stefano, let me go. Please.”

  I put a finger under her chin. “I can’t,” I tell her. Won’t. “Not yet.”

  Her breath quickens, which makes her pink-tipped breasts bob with each inhale. “Why not? What are you going to do with me?”

  “I haven’t decided yet.”

  “Please.” Her voice rises. “You can call Nico—Mr. Tacone…” she trails off, though, uncertainty flickering over her face. Which doesn’t surprise me. I can count the number of people who are certain of what Nico will do or say on one hand.

  “I will certainly talk to Nico,” I say smoothly. “In the meantime, you’re staying here.” I tug the bra tangled around her wrists.

  “Are you going to cut that off, too?” she snaps.

  “Yes, I think I will.” I pick up the scissors. It’s not to be a dick, but because the idea of buying her new bras gets me harder than a rock. I’m going to enjoy having Corey Simonson at my mercy.

  Very much.

  She huffs as I snip the bra straps and free the fabric from her wrists.

  “Come, bella.” I take her tangled fingers and lead her toward the bedroom.

  She balks, digging her heels in and pulling against me.

  “Relax. I’m putting you to bed to sleep. It’s late and I need to get my ass back out on the floor.”

  She shakes her head. “Stefano, please. This is fucked up. Just let me go. I don’t understand why I’m your prisoner.”

  “I need to be sure of you, bella. So for now, you stay.” I nudge her toward the bathroom. “There’s the restroom. Use it if you need to, because you won’t have a chance while I’m gone.”

  Panic flares in her eyes, but she tosses her long red hair on her way to the toilet. While she’s gone, I yank the casino phone out from the wall and stow it in the closet. Using more zip-ties from my pocket, I make a chain with them, affixing the top one to the solid metal of the bed frame. When she returns, I pat the bed, hiding the zip-ties. She eyes me warily but approaches and tucks herself under the covers, presumably to hide her state of undress.

  I catch her wrists and attach the zip-tie chain to hers.

  “Hey! What the fuck?” she tugs at them.

  “Stop.” I make my voice sharp. “Take it easy, bella or this zip-tie will cut into your wrists.”

  She glares up at me. “Oh, and you care because why?”

  Because I don’t want to feel bad about the way I’m treating her. And I definitely should. She doesn’t deserve to be tied up to my bed. She’s done nothing wrong. But I’m thinking with my dick now, and there’s no way I’m letting her go. Not when I have her in such a delicious position.

  I lift her bound fingers to my lips and kiss them softly. “I don’t want to see red marks here.” I trace my finger beneath the zip-tie, testing for tightness. “If I come back and you’ve worked your skin raw, I’m going to punish you again. Capiche?”

  Her eyes fly wide, genuine fear flooding them.

  “No,” I say, guessing at her panicked thoughts. “I’m not a psychopath. Although I’d love to play sex games with you chained to my bed all fucking week. Be good”—I tap her nose—“or it can be arranged.” I head for the door.

  “Stefano!” she screams my name through clenched teeth. It’s a good sign. I like her mad. I don’t want her terrified.

  I turn and arch a brow. “Need anything? No?” I don’t give her a chance to answer. “I’ll get you a toothbrush while I’m downstairs. I’ll be back by dawn. Try to get some sleep.”

  #

  Corey

  I’m ready to murder Stefano Tacone myself. I can’t figure out his game. Is he really worried about me talking? Or is he a crazy sex predator who saw an opportunity to take me captive and did so?

  But no. If he was into sex crimes, he would’ve raped me on his kitchen table. And he didn’t. He didn’t even try to have sex with me. All he did was offer me pleasure.

  He’s definitely attracted to me; he’s made that plain. But I really don’t think he’s going to force himself on me tonight.

  With that thought, my confidence in making it through this situation takes an upturn. I witnessed a mafia murder, but I’m still alive. The man who captured me has not been cruel. In fact, other than keeping me captive, he was fairly attentive—offering me water, suggesting I use the bathroom. Blowing my mind with the orgasm of the century.

  Oh fuck, what am I saying? Do I seriously already have Stockholm Syndrome? Am I bonding with my captor?

  Then it hits me with a flash of cold. Is that his intent? How he’s going to be sure of me? Get me to bond to him so I won’t talk?

  No, that’s ridiculous. A man like Stefano Tacone does not rely on wooing women into silence. That’s scoffable. He uses his fists. His gun.

  And since he’s used neither on me, I can probably assume I’m fairly safe.

  I lean over the side of the bed to investigate where he attached the zip-tie. If it’s to the leg of the bed, maybe I can lift it off.

  No dice.

  It’s right to the metal frame beneath the
mattress. Stefano’s good. I shudder to think he’s done this before.

  My maneuvering twists the zip-tie around my wrists and I check my skin for marks. Yep, totally left some.

  And that thought should not excite me.

  But I could really get off on Stefano Tacone’s punishments. What am I saying? I already have.

  So yeah, tempting him into another one feels like a delicious danger I’d love to play with.

  But despite my certainty I’d never sleep, I drift off.

  I dream of mafia meetings: dangerous men with guns and tempers. My dad is there. He’s the leader and he catches me spying on them. He holds me up by the hair and slaps my face like he used to when he was drinking.

  I startle awake, sweating.

  “Shh, bambina. You’re safe here.” Stefano Tacone appears in my dream, brushing my hair back from my face.

  No.

  Stefano Tacone is in the bed.

  I blink my eyes open. The early light of dawn spills through the curtains.

  “Go back to sleep, bella. It’s too early to be awake.”

  I try to turn toward his voice, but plastic bites into my wrists and I whimper.

  “Okay, okay. I’ll free you.” The mattress pitches and he climbs off. When he appears in my line of vision, he’s holding a deadly hunter’s knife. He crouches in front of me and slices the zip-tie holding my wrists. His stubble has grown overnight and weariness tugs down the corners of his eyes. “You stay in this bed, though,” he warns.

  I rub the chafed skin, rolling over to face the middle of the bed where he lies down. He takes one of my wrists and strokes the marks with his thumb.

  “Naughty, babe,” he murmurs, closing his large hand around my wrist as his eyelids close.

  I stare at his handsome face in the dark, listen as his breath slows. He smells like the casino—like scotch and money and old leather. I consider trying to slip out of his grasp, but I can’t seem to find the motivation. I might have to admit to myself that I enjoy being his captive. Leaving now would be a disappointment. Eventually, my inhales match his and I slide back into a dream. Only this time, I’m tied to Stefano’s bed.