by Rose, Renee
And just like that he upsets my cart—the stroke of my ego making me almost miss the fact that he’s refusing my choice again.
His cell phone rings and something akin to relief flickers over his face. “Nico,” he answers, “What the fuck?”
I hear Nico say something about his phone being dead.
“How’d it go?” Stefano asks in a low, serious tone.
We’re in the suite now, but I don’t move, wanting to hear. Stefano slaps my ass and lifts a chin at the rack of clothing. I scowl at him, but move away. For all I know, they’re discussing something illegal. Lord knows I don’t need to be implicated in any more crimes.
The clothes Stefano had sent up must cost a fortune. They’re from one of the casino’s luxury shops—a place for high-rollers to spend their winnings. It’s all high-fashion couture, brand names and they make me look like a million bucks. Too bad I don’t get to keep them.
As I change into one of the red dresses—a close-fitting dress with a strip of fabric around the neck, but a cutout across my chest to show off my cleavage—I hear Stefano curse in Italian. “And Sondra? She okay?”
I stand in the doorway to listen and Stefano doesn’t shoo me away.
“Thank fuck,” he says, which I take to mean that Sondra’s okay. Does Stefano’s relief indicate she almost wasn’t? He listens for another minute, then says, “All right, I’ll see you tomorrow. Looking forward to meeting my future sister-in-law.” He winks at me, but the line between his brows make his expression appear serious. He ends the call and walks over to me, touching my waist. “It fits. Christ, you’re beautiful.” He brushes my hair back from my shoulder and bites my neck.
“Yeah, this one will do as my replacement dress.”
“Keep all of them.” He waves his hand dismissively. I’m not sure if he realizes that rack probably encompasses over 10K in clothing. “Nobody should wear a red dress but you. You’re a fucking knock-out in red.”
I snort. “Don’t you know redheads aren’t supposed to wear red?” I’m already calculating how much I can make selling them on Ebay.
“Oh, I know. But you’re no ordinary redhead.” He emphasizes the word ordinary like he really heard me earlier, really gets what I meant. And I realize I’ll never sell a single one.
“What happened with Nico and Sondra?” I demand.
Stefano shakes his head. “Just some shit Nico had to work out.”
“About getting out of his marriage contract?”
Stefano arches a brow. “You know about that?”
I put my hands on my hips. “I told you I’m practically family.”
He grins. “So you are.” He rubs his shadowed jaw. “Nico fixed it. Our brother made him sweat it, though. They scared the hell out of your cousin, but she’s fine. I would apologize, but if I took responsibility for the nasty things my family does, I’d never stop.”
My heart squeezes a little for Stefano. Like me, he can’t help who his father is. He hasn’t escaped the legacy of violence.
His comms unit buzzes again. “Let’s move, bella. We’ve got shit to do.”
Chapter 6
Stefano
I walk around the casino with Corey at my side. People who don’t recognize her assume she’s my girlfriend. I’m sure we make a striking pair. Those who do know her, shoot her a range of stares, varying from jealous to concerned to bald curiosity.
On the way down, she complained about not having any cosmetics, so we stopped at the salon to have her makeup done, and then I had to take her to the in-house jeweler to buy a pair of diamond drop earrings.
I like spoiling her. The fact that Corey doesn’t gush or purr when I do makes it all the more pleasurable. She plays hard to get, making me work for her smiles and make up for keeping her as my captive. But it’s not just about the chase with her.
I’m fucking fascinated.
But I’d have to be out of my mind to get seriously involved with the daughter of a fed. A crooked fed, according to Nico’s research. Which means an unpredictable, dangerous asshole. And Junior, my asshole brother who just put a gun to Nico’s head for wanting to marry the woman of his choosing, would probably order me to off the guy if I wanted to keep seeing Corey.
And I’m not going to kill her fucking father. Even if they are estranged.
I lean into Corey. We’re observing one of the blackjack tables, making the croupier nervous. “Tell me about who you see,” I murmur.
“Cerebral spender. Probably trying to count cards. When he loses count, he runs his hand through his hair and shakes the ice in his drink. Which he hasn’t drunk a drop from.”
“Working alone?”
“Yes. He’s up two thousand, but he’s getting tired. The stress of it wears him out.”
I stroke my hand up and down Corey’s side. Being near her body electrifies me, but hearing how her brain works—witnessing her brilliance firsthand—that sets my soul on fire.
“What else?” I prompt.
“Jack is the croupier. He accidentally put a $20 chip meant for him in the house pot, probably because we’re freaking him out watching. Otherwise, he’s a decent dealer.”
“Anyone else interesting?”
“Nah. Young people who don’t know what they’re doing. People with money to lose. That’s it.”
“Next table.” I guide her to another perch and order her a drink. The floor manager comes over to check in and when he’s gone, she gives me an equally germane report on the three tables in her view.
If she were a beefy man, I would put her on my security team in a heartbeat. As it is, I can’t decide the best use of her incredible talents. “I’m thinking I want you on every employment interview at the Bellissimo. You sure you don’t want a job in HR?”
She wrinkles her nose at me.
Another idea strikes me. “Do you ever play poker, yourself?”
She changes the crossing of her long legs and memories of those legs spread on my bed gets me hard. It’s a perpetual state around this woman. “Croupiers aren’t allowed to gamble in their own casino.”
I grin. “You telling me the rules now, smarty-pants? I mean elsewhere.”
She shakes her head, but I watch something come to life in her. “I’ve always wanted to. I actually love to watch those championships; the ones that are televised on the sports channel? I swear to God, I could beat those guys. I’m serious; if I had money to burn, I’d totally enter.”
I sit back, satisfied. Corey Simonson just confessed something she wants in life.
I’ll be damned if I don’t make it happen.
Tony calls my cell at the same time Leo buzzes through the comms unit and the floor manager walks over with a whale he wants to introduce me to.
“Excuse me.” Corey slides off the barstool. “I’m going to the restroom.”
I nod distractedly and take care of all the issues at hand before I get that niggling feeling about Corey choosing that moment to excuse herself. I glance at the nearest restroom. She should’ve been back by now.
Fuck.
Well, if she was making a run for it, there’s a good chance she’d go to her locker to get her purse with her keys and phone. I walk briskly in that direction. As I round the corner, I see her leaving the employee locker room, heading for the nearest exit.
Sonofabitch.
* * *
Corey
I’m almost at the door when two beefy Guido security guards charge toward me from opposite directions. I break into a run. One of them lunges for me, and catches my arm, his iron grip bruising.
“Boss says don’t touch her,” the other relays with a note of panic in his voice.
The guy releases me like I’m a hot potato but they both jockey to block my exit. It’s almost comical, like some birthday party game where you can’t use your hands to pass an egg to your partner.
I use their abject fear of Stefano’s wrath to my advantage and knee the guy in front of me in the balls. He goes over with a groan, clutching the f
amily jewels. Yes. I’m at Knee-2, Balls-0.
“Corey.” Stefano’s censuring bark comes from a few feet behind me.
I try to dart around the other guard, but Stefano catches my arm and yanks me back. The room spins as I’m upended over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.
“Stefano,” I protest as he carries me swiftly toward the bank of elevators. “You’re making a scene.”
“No, you made the scene, bella.” He hits the elevator button. “And you’ll suffer the consequences.” I’m glad he sounds so cool, calm and collected, because I’m trying to fight back panic over what he’s going to do to me. What will the consequences be?
He gets in the elevator and flashes his ID to get to his suite level. The doors swish closed. Another couple is in the elevator, snickering over my predicament.
“Stefano.”
I really want him to put me down.
“Corey.”
The young woman giggles, whispering to her partner. It feels like ages before the elevator stops and they get off. Someone else tries to get on, but Stefano clips, “Wait for the next one,” and hits the door close button.
Thank God.
When we get to his floor, he carries me off and still he doesn’t put me down. His movements are smooth and assured, like he always manages to open and close doors one-handed with a woman over his shoulder.
He carries me toward the kitchen where he opens a drawer and produces a roll of duct tape.
Oh shit.
Now I go down on my feet, but he maintains control of my body, pinning my hands to the wall and taping them down with a long strip of duct tape. He reinforces it with three more strips, then pulls my hips back and kicks my legs open. His intention is clear; my ass is out and presented. I’m going to get spanked again.
I should not be excited.
I’m freaking thrilled.
He leaves and returns with a pair of scissors.
“Again?” I complain. “You could just strip me before you tape my hands down next time. Ever think of that?”
“You are in no position to get smart with me, amore.”
I believe him. He’s definitely all business right now. I see none of the hot passion that sometimes motivates him. Nor any trace of bemusement.
At least he doesn’t seem angry, although maybe he’s just not the angry type.
The dress falls away in pieces and he uses the scissors to remove my bra and panties as well.
“You could’ve just taken those off,” I grumble.
“I could have,” he says, almost cheerfully. “But I wanted to cut them. I might not be so quick to replace your things this time, either.”
My pussy clenches at the thought of him keeping me taped to his wall, naked, for days.
I shake my head to erase the thought. I’m fuck-nuts crazy.
Stefano walks to the balcony door and fiddles with the curtain. At first I think he’s going to draw them closed, but when he turns, he’s detached the plastic rod used to pull them. He whacks it in his palm and I freak out.
I yank on my hands, trying to pull them off the wall, but they won’t budge.
“Tsk tsk. You’re not going anywhere, bella. Your ass is mine right now, and I’m not going easy on it.”
“Stefano.” I curse the waver in my voice. I also curse the wetness between my legs. Why on earth would the idea of being whipped with a curtain rod excite me?
“Legs apart. Ass out. Hold the position like a good girl and I’ll consider lightening your sentence.”
Oh shit. I am so in over my head.
I do as I’m told, because what’s the alternative? I’m in no position to argue, and it could only get worse from here. I widen my stance and hollow my back to present my ass to him.
He taps it with the makeshift cane. “Good girl. I won’t make you count. You can focus on breathing and holding your position.” He swings the implement through the air.
I hear the displacement of air a moment before it strikes and I scream like I’m in a horror film.
Stefano’s at my back, a hand wrapped around my mouth to stifle the sound. “Shh, bambina. No screaming. It’s bad for business.” He steps away.
I’m not so brave this time. I twist my ass away from him, hanging from the bonds with all my weight.
“That’s cute, bambina, but I asked you to stay in position.”
Fuck.
He sure did.
I reluctantly put myself back in the humiliating pose. Stefano swings the cane again and a second line of pure fire blooms directly beneath the first.
I choke on my cry.
“Hold still.” Stefano’s tone is sharp, like he’s run out of patience with me. Regrettably, it has the effect of freezing me in position.
He whips me again, and again, neat even lines down my ass that leave me moaning and trembling. Six in all.
And then he’s on his knees behind me, prying my twitching cheeks apart and licking a line from my pussy to anus.
I can barely stand, my legs are so shaky and weak, but it doesn’t matter, the duct tape holds me up against the wall. Stefano moves in front of me and he goes to town on my pussy. His strong hands hold my thighs as he sucks and nips my labia, flicks his tongue over my clit. A moment ago, he was my stern master, punishing me for my disobedience. Now he’s a servant, worshipping between my legs. He devours me like my taste is his ambrosia, like he’s dying of hunger and only my pussy will satisfy.
The burning, throbbing pain becomes only intensity as my flesh swells and blossoms under his ministrations.
“Stefano,” I moan, my hips dancing above him. I won’t last much longer, and he’s not even using his fingers to penetrate me.
He increases his fervor, the stubble on his chin scraping my inner thighs as he works me over.
Stars dance before my eyes and my head swims like I’m going to pass out.
“Stefano!” I scream again, and then I crest the peak, tumbling over the other side into pleasure, release, pleasure.
My pussy clenches on air, spasming around nothing. It’s both satisfying and not enough. I want his cock in me.
And then I’m too weak to stand, falling against the wall, against his body as he kisses my pussy reverentially.
* * *
Stefano
I love the sound of Corey calling out my name just before she comes.
This time I’m the one who feels like crying afterward.
Not that I know what it is to cry. I had that urge beat out of me before I hit the ripe age of six. But my throat and face are tight with what can only be described as sorrow.
I’m wrung out. Maybe it’s guilt from the whipping I gave her. Maybe I can’t stand that she tried to leave me.
I rise slowly, barely fitting between the wall and Corey’s body. I cup her face. “What am I going to do with you?” I ask sadly.
She nuzzles her face against my hand. Her head’s lolling like her neck can’t work to hold it up.
I peer up at her hands and reach behind myself to pry the tape off. Then I tug her to a chair and pull her onto my lap. She comes willingly, leaning her head back on my shoulder as I caress her bare breasts, her inner thighs.
“Why did you leave, Corey?” I have to ask it. It’s fucking killing me. Is she still afraid of me? Does she really still think I’m going to kill her?
“I don’t know,” she sighs. “It’s just… too intense. I can’t stay here locked up with you like this. I’m losing myself.”
My heart stops beating. Then restarts at a jauntier pace. She isn’t afraid of me. She’s afraid of us.
Fuck, so am I, baby. So am I.
“I’m losing myself, too,” I admit, kissing her jaw, her slender neck. “But only cowards run.”
Corey chokes on a laugh and I smile, too.
“Come on, bambina. We’d better get something on your ass before you bruise. I know how delicate redheads are.”
I scoop her into my arms and carry her to the bedroom, where I arrange her on
her belly. She’s docile as a child now, but a good whipping and orgasm will do that to a woman.
I search in my bathroom for a salve my cousin in Sicily made me and return.
Corey hasn’t moved. She lies prone with her face hidden in the bedspread. My heart shoots into my throat. Is she crying?
I stroke her hair back from her face, and my shoulders ease. Her expression is soft, relaxed. Almost blissful.
Thank fuck.
I take an ample amount of salve and rub it over the cane marks, working it into her skin.
“What is that?”
“It’s a salve I brought back from Sicily. Helps with bruising.”
“There’s a salve for bruising?”
“I got it from my cousin. She makes a salve for just about everything. She’s one of those natural healing types—you know, into essential oils and herbs.”
“And she gave it to you because you have a propensity for getting bruises or giving bruises?” Her dry question gets under my skin.
I screw the lid back on the salve and drop it onto the bed. “Why do you have to keep poking that wound, baby? You need to remind me I’m no good for you? That you’re better than me?”
“What? No.” She rolls over and props herself up on an elbow, a line folding between her brows.
“I know, I know. I’m the bad guy. I’m on the wrong side of the law and your father’s on the right side.”
Corey goes pale. “My dad definitely isn’t the good guy. Not by any means.” Her words come out rough.
I’m instantly sorry. She told me they weren’t on speaking terms. Now I’m the one poking wounds. I sink down beside her. “Yeah, neither is mine,” I admit.
To my surprise, her fingers seek out my hand and she curls them over it and squeezes. I stare down at our interlocked fingers. When’s the last time any woman offered me comfort? When’s the last time I let her?
Oh yeah, never.
But this woman’s different. Everything’s so raw between us. It’s the intensity she mentioned—why she had to bail.
But I’m not letting her.
