Sweet Surrender: A Dark Mafia Enemies-to-Lovers Romance (King's Trace Antiheroes Book 1)

by Sav R. Miller

  She trails her hands over the scars on my forearms, pressing a gentle kiss to my chin. “Will you ever tell me how you got these?”

  My palm falls to her chest, the valley between her breasts, pushing her down into the mattress. “After tonight, I’ll tell you absolutely anything you want.”

  Licking her lips, she silently raises her hips, the friction between us increasing. I grunt, moving to shove her dress down over her hips and then onto the floor. Taking a moment to discard my pants and boxers, I climb back on top of her, my eyes soaking up every single inch of her skin.

  She’s an untouched canvas, pure and white despite what disaster others tried to paint on her flesh, and here she’s offering herself to me. On a fucking platter, bare, swollen, and ripe for the goddamn picking.

  Every single part of me aches to devour her, to indulge fully in sin and fuck her until she can’t remember her own name. I run my hands up her thighs, and as my fingers dip, twisting between them, I realize how badly I don’t want to ruin the masterpiece.

  I want to own her; for our souls to be so entwined, there’s no way they can ever be separated, but not at the expense of her goodness. Her innocence.

  Fuck me; I want to love her.

  I think I might already.

  My breath stutters, chest tightening, as I stare down at her, settling my knees on either side of her hips. She peers up at me, eyes hooded and awestruck, and I fist my cock, running it through her seam, gathering her juices. “Christ, baby, you’re soaked for me.”

  “Always,” she breathes, eyeing my movements with an expression of curiosity and lust. She licks her bottom lip, sexy as hell without even trying, and I’m getting too close to coming without much stimulation. No fucking way am I about to shoot my load before I’ve sunk balls-deep inside her.

  Her palm wraps around my length, pumping in short, shallow strokes that send jolts of electricity straight down my spine. It collects in my balls, making them feel dense as I continue to suppress my climax.

  “I’ve, um, never done this before.”

  I quirk an eyebrow, one of my hands falling to the headboard as she continues massaging me. My skin stretches as tight as it can possibly get, and sweat beads along my forehead at the sensation of her small, smooth palm on my shaft. “Done what, baby?”

  “Given a full-on handjob.”

  “Not even with Luca?”

  “No. That wasn’t... that was just so I could forget... the other time. It wasn’t like this.” She blinks up at me, a shyness I’ve never seen shading her features.

  I reach down and grasp her wrist, stilling her motions. “And what is this, Caroline? What does this feel like?”

  “It feels right,” she whispers, and all my resistance seems to snap in one single move, the last rock holding together the levy of emotion threatening to flood my heart breaking off.

  My body flattens on top of hers, once again connecting our mouths like an unnavigable impulse. Frisson coils low in my abdomen as my hands sweep over her luscious body, and she bites my bottom lip, drawing the flesh into her mouth and sucking like a vacuum.

  Bucking against her as she releases me, my cock slips between her slick folds, probing against her entrance as if it has a mind of its own. She seems to undulate under the pressure, rocking forward in an attempt to capture me and bring me inside, where I fucking belong.

  Pumping once, I grip her chin in my free hand and force eye contact, making sure that she knows everything happening is her choice. That I won’t ever take anything she isn’t a hundred percent willing to hand over.

  “Mio amore. I need to know what you want. I don’t know how much longer I can handle this.”

  Her fingernail meets my chest, scraping down the center until she reaches my pubic bone, ghosting over my skin in quick flicks of her finger. My thighs twitch in restraint, and I squeeze her chin harder, loving the way her jaw drops and her eyes blaze.

  “You know what I want.”

  I shake my head. “I need to hear you say it. Need to know I’m not alone in this.”

  For a moment, a flicker of defiance seems to flash across her face; her mouth clamps shut, nostrils flaring, and she closes her eyes, cutting me off from those baby blues that have become my fucking drug.

  But then they reopen, heady and intoxicating, and without another word, she grabs my cock, pulling me down and guiding me into her entrance. She pushes off the bed, lips grazing against my ear as I allow myself to sink deeper. “Fuck me, Elia. Fuck everyone else into oblivion, so that it’s only ever you for me, for the rest of our lives.”

  “Do I need a condom?” I ask quickly, my neck straining from not pushing all the way inside her glorious pussy. But I don’t want a repeat of how she got upset last time, and if that’s what she needs to feel safe, I want to give it to her.

  Her legs lock around my waist again, slowly pulling me in inch by delightful fucking inch, heels pressing into my ass. “I’m good if you are.”

  And with that, I give myself over entirely; the last shred of my resistance collapses, defenses and rationale deflating as I sink as deep into her pussy as I can get.

  She’s soaked, a wet spot darkening the comforter beneath her ass, so I manage to slip inside with ease. Still, she pinches her eyes closed as I root myself into the hilt, balls flush against her ass cheeks, and I can’t help but wonder if my size causes her a bite of pain.

  “Are you okay?” I swallow, working to control the hysteria rising in my stomach. She feels so fucking good. Too fucking good. I want to set up camp inside her and never fucking leave.

  Her eyes flutter open, a deep pink flush working its way over her tits. Unable to resist, I take one in my free palm, gripping her hip with the other, and roll her puckered bud beneath the pads of my fingers. She arches her back into me, her pussy swallowing more of my cock. “I’m perfect. We’re perfect. Fuck me, please, Elia.”

  So, I do.

  Jesus Christ, I do. My hips piston against hers in fast, punishing thrusts, not giving her time to adjust to the bodily intrusion. But I don’t have the luxury of waiting for her to catch up; my cock and my heart know where they want to be, and they’ll stop at nothing to get us there.

  “You like that? You like it when I fuck you? When I shove my cock so deep inside you, it’s impossible to feel anything else?

  “God, yes.”

  “I’m gonna fucking ruin you, baby. Gonna come in you, brand you with my semen. Maybe lick that pretty little pussy clean when we’re done, just so I can flip you over and mount you all over again.”

  Her pussy clamps down around my cock as I pump in and out. My vision blurs at the edges as I ram into her, pleasure licking up and down my spine at the little moans falling from her lips.

  “Fuck, baby. You’re so goddamn tight, I don’t know if I’m gonna last.”

  I grit out the words, doing my best to stave off the impending orgasm swelling my balls; she reaches up to cup her own tits, pressing them upward in a way that makes them seem completely obscene. As I continue fucking her, my eyes stay glued to her breasts, hips swiveling, and I can’t help but wonder if they look bigger than before.

  Must be the withheld climax talking.

  She meets me thrust for thrust, raising her hips and riding me right back.

  My cock pulses, edging toward heaven. “Mio amore…”

  “Oh, Jesus. Right there, Elia. Oh—oh my God, yes…” Her pussy walls quiver around my dick, the first official signs of her own release, and I can’t stop mine from shooting straight up through my balls.

  I come as soon as she does, blacking out as I unload my seed deep inside her, coating her pussy with warm, sticky fluid. She milks me, whimpering and grinding herself against me, fingers gripping the bedsheets so hard her knuckles turn purple.

  A low groan rips from my chest as I collapse on top of her, my cock still somehow dripping semen as the aftershocks of her orgasm drink it up.

  “Holy shit.” He
r shoulder muffles my words, and my entire body feels like jelly, as if she’s reduced me to an unmovable mass of muscle and flesh.

  Her legs wrap tighter around me like she can’t get me close enough. “That was… wow.”

  I smirk, pushing myself up and planting a kiss to her nose. Disentangling myself from her limbs, I pull out slowly, careful of any soreness she might have at the motion. Dropping to my side, I wrap an arm around her and yank her tiny body into mine.

  “That was worth the goddamn wait.”

  We lay in silence for a long time, and I’m very aware that we’re still sweaty and covered in each other’s come, but I don’t want to move. Don’t want to disconnect from the warmth of her body or face the repercussions that might come from not having admitted how I felt before potentially knocking her up.

  Fuck. Even though the idea of her stomach swelling with my child makes the blood rush to my dick all over again, I can’t help wondering how she’d feel about that, how it might feel like I’m trapping her, trying to stifle her dreams the way her father did. I don’t want her to associate me with him.

  Still, my hand slides down over her abdomen, tracing tiny hearts around her belly button. She tenses beneath my touch, shifting so she’s facing me, eyes wide and fearful.

  “What is it, love?”

  Chewing on her lip, she taps my chest, sucking in a deep breath. “I have to tell you something.”

  I’M HAVING AN out of body experience, my brain floating around in space, looking down at my body wrapped up in my wife, struggling to process the words that just came out of her mouth. Tied with “we need to talk,” “I need to tell you something” is one of the most anxiety-inducing sentences in the English language.

  She worries her bottom lip, dragging her forearm across her breasts, shielding herself from me. Fear laces her features, and I feel her body go rigid as she starts to pull away and sit up.

  Using the hand that isn’t plastered to the mattress underneath me, I brush some hair off her shoulder, leaning to press an open-mouthed kiss along the curved skin. “You can tell me anything, baby.”

  Twirling a lock of hair around the tip of her index finger, she tilts her head, turning to study me. Her eyes scan the length of me, resting momentarily on my half-hard cock, bouncing back to my face as soon as she reaches my feet. Instead of offering an answer to a question she’s proposed, she dives in with a different one. “Can you tell me something?”

  “Anything. I told you I would.”

  “Your mom. What happened to her?”

  “She died.”

  “I—I know that. I mean, how?”

  Twisting away from her, I settle on my back, curling my arms behind my head. “Are you sure this is something we need to talk about right now? I can’t think of a better way to kill an afterglow.”

  She shifts to her knees, starting to slide from the bed. “No, you’re right. It’s none of my business. I’m sorry, I—I’m going to get in the shower, now.”

  I sit up, hand reaching out for her wrist, and tug her back down into me. “I didn’t say you could leave. And I didn’t say it’s not your business—as my wife, a title I’m hoping you’ll want to keep one day, you should know about the woman who shaped me into the man I am now.”

  Sinking into me, laying her cheek on my chest, she nods. “I... think I want to keep it.” She turns her face up, blinking those beautiful baby blues at me, looking so goddamn angelic I can’t help but steal a kiss. “The title, that is.”

  Her body tenses again, spine stiffening, and I knead her bare hip, focusing on my dresser across the room. Its glass knobs reflect our position on the bed, surreal in appearance, a kaleidoscope showcasing the colors of our love.

  Love. Jesus, I’m in this deep. No choice now but to keep digging.

  “My mother was an immigrant from Denmark. She grew up pretty poor on Staten Island, managed to snag a scholarship to Vassar in Poughkeepsie. She met my father there; he was being groomed to become an underboss for an outfit in Brooklyn. She stayed away from him at first because rumors were lining every sidewalk in New York about him being dangerous and powerful. A force to be reckoned with, although really, she was his reckoning. He never even saw her coming.”

  I chuckle, considering the similarities, ignoring the slight pang in my chest at how their story ended. This won’t be a repeat. My hand winds around her waist, settling on her stomach, and her fingers tentatively fit themselves between mine.

  Kind of like how she’s managed to weave herself into the fabric of my life, an integral sew that, upon removal, would destroy the entire foundation.

  “Anyway,” I continue, pulling myself out of my inner monologue, “eventually, she gave in to his many pleas for a date. ‘Just coffee,’ he told her, and if she didn’t fall head over heels in love with him at the end, he’d disappear and leave her alone forever.”

  Caroline snorts, her breath skating across my chest hair. “That worked?”

  “Us Montalto men can be persuasive.” One blonde brow quirks, as if in agreement. “Still, she wasn’t exactly convinced at the end. She didn’t hate him, but she also wasn’t in love with him. That didn’t come for months. They developed a quiet friendship—as much as a non-mafiosa can with someone dedicated to the organization.”

  “You have friends.”

  Hooking my thumb under her chin, I tilt her face up, licking the seam of her lips. “I’m not my father, mio amore. Not in the slightest.”

  Her cheeks darken, hand falling to my pelvis, stroking the skin there with her soft fingertips. “So, what happened?”

  “They attended a Hans Christen Anderson festival in Boston, and when a sort sol occurred up above them just as the sun began to set, my mother took it as an act of Fate. Thought it meant she and my father were meant to be.”

  “A sort sol?”

  Nodding, I adjust her a bit, so she’s not glued to me, sweeping a hand over the tattoo on my ribcage. “A flock of starlings. One of nature’s most beautiful and terrifying phenomena.” I tangle a hand in her hair, working my fingers against her scalp. “Kind of like you.”

  She doesn’t respond, just traces the path of the birds on my skin, causing goosebumps to pop up in her wake.

  “It’s temporary, almost inconsequential in the grand scheme of things, but the murmuration can sometimes completely block out the sun, cloaking the world in darkness. They do it just before they decide on where to rest for the evening, and often resemble a dance-like formation. My mother had never seen any in the United States, so when that happened, she took it as a sign.”

  “Is that why you believe in fate? Because your mom did?”

  I avert my gaze. “I don’t believe in it because she did. It’s almost the opposite. Her belief got her killed; I’ve spent my life since ensuring I don’t leave things up to fate or chance. Making decisions for myself, sometimes because of loyalties and sometimes because I feel like it.”

  “What was I?”

  “Completely unexpected. An absolute fucking miracle.”

  Her toes flex, and she draws abstract shapes on my hip bone.

  “New York mafia families have stringent rules about culture and ethnicity. They like Italian-made stock, Catholics with closet drinking problems and violent streaks. Flawed creatures they can mold, use to continue the business. My mother, a Lutheran Dane that liked herbalism and openly supported contraception—even for married couples—became an instant target.”

  “So, your dad’s outfit killed her?”

  “No. They planned on it. Hired a few different soldiers to drive her out to the middle of downtown Queens and leave her in an alleyway, frame her as a prostitute and let the police chalk it up to just another day in the city.”

  My pulse kicks up, pumping blood through me at an erratic rate, and she slides her hand up from my side, covering my heart with her palm. “If this is too hard, you don’t have to tell me. I know all about repression. Sometimes, it’s a handy t
ool.”

  I cover her hand with my own. “Repression just flattens the memories, stuffs away our feelings. But they remain, and the pain associated with them won’t ever go away if we don’t unpack it all.” My chest rises as I draw in a deep breath, dropping down as I blow it out above our heads. “My mother failed to recognize that a sort sol can be a bad thing—an omen. I mean, it translates to black sun, literally. What good connotations does that actually hold?”

  “Maybe she saw black as a clean slate. A chance to pour color into something, make it brand new.”

  “Maybe, but it still doesn’t change the fact that she married my father, had me, despite knowing the world she would involve us in—one she didn’t belong in and didn’t want me to be a part of. I think the black sun, in this case, completely blocked her ability to reason, to run. Like a stamp on her brain that bled her of all logic.

  “They came for her one night, men with ski masks and machetes. Broke into our crummy apartment when my dad was out of town on business. I heard the commotion, ran out of my bedroom to find her writhing on the ground beneath a man, who had his massive hands wrapped around her neck.”

  I swallow over the knot in my throat, placated only by the warmth seeping from Caroline’s body into mine. Otherwise, it’d be too easy to sink into the memories, recall the cold Brooklyn air drifting in through one of the broken windows, or the way the cool tile on my back felt like being dropped into an ice bath.

  “I fought back when they spotted me. That’s how I got these.” I point at the moon-shaped scars scattered along my arms, the sting of their knives carving into my skin almost palpable.

  “How old were you?” Her voice is low, broken, and I grip her tighter, wishing I could shield her from my reality—from her own. From everything.

  “Seven.”

  She rolls her head, burying her face into my chest. “Jesus, Elia.”

  I lift a shoulder. “Some people are younger than me the first time they experience violence.”

  “That doesn’t make it okay.”