Skipped lunch because he just wanted to be home and warm, and to hold Daniella again, to feel his lips press hers. Late afternoon, when his feet were feeling cold despite the miles he'd put on the boots today, he used a separate burner. Called Killian. Killian had different connections than he did. But they all traveled in the same vicious circles. They talked about finding the man, talked about what went down on the fortieth floor of the Empire Crest. They talked about unloading sixty million in Taliban diamonds.
He’d stopped on a quiet street in River North with quaint boutiques and Bohemian shops. Standing and talking about fences and money and the CIA he looked up, saw past his reflection and through the plate window of a store. His mouth fell wide.
daniella
No phone, no internet, no TV. What the fuck was she supposed to do here? She worried. That’s what she did. That kept her busy.
In the morning she drank coffee and watched out the window. Disobeyed him, but she was bored. Cooped up and bored. She opened the curtains a small gap, as wide as a purse, then walked far back and watched the snow drift sideways across the narrow sliver. Did that a while. Watched snow and thought about how she came to be here in this house with Rocco the dead man. Then she worried. Thought about how now she had him back how it would be like to lose him again, this time for real.
When she made herself lunch, brunch really, she knew what she would do this afternoon. She would cook for him. The fridge had some supplies, some things in the cupboard. Rocco had brought groceries for himself. A lot of red meat. Some good things too. She could work with it.
She got herself cleaned up. Had a long hot bath in the upstairs master suite, silver gun at her side on the white porcelain lip of the tub. Liberated some toiletries from Rocco's things. Harsh deodorant soap for her skin, cheap drugstore men’s shampoo for her hair. Washed out the smell of sweat and that metallic smoke from the stun grenade or whatever it was, and all the shooting. That had clung to her. She cleaned away all the sweat and sex smells. She soaked. Her knees were sore, her back. Between her legs too. It had been a while. A long while since she’d been with a man. How long. Two years? Two years plus, she settled on.
She had a gunshot mark. Couldn’t find anything to dress it with. Figured it would heal on its own, though it would look a bit like she’d been branded. It still smarted. The skin around it felt stretched tight. Fretting it too long in the mirror, poking and pulling, let her mind wander to bad places. Like, what could have happened? She could have died in a stairwell, screaming while she was slaughtered. Being grazed by just a single bullet had burned. What would it feel like to be riddled? One of those guns raised and emptied pointblank when she was trapped in a hall...
She shivered, made a ghoulish sound; cleaned her teeth using Rocco’s toothbrush, watched her breasts sway while she did. Checked herself out in the mirror before she dressed. Looked at what he would see. She was holding up. Lots of curves, lots for him to hold and to love. She smiled for herself, collected her gun and walked downstairs with nothing on.
Went through his things, opened his duffel bag and found a flannel shirt she liked. Put it on. It was huge on her, but it was warm and went down to her knees. Wished she had panties and bra. Her things were dirty and she’d rather be bare than wear something that brought yesterday's smell with it. Once Rocco got home she didn't think she'd want to be wearing anything at all anyway.
His gear was sparse. Nothing personal, save the tiger he traveled with, and a gold coin. Though she didn’t think it was made of gold. On one side was the raised relief of a laughing skull with arrowheads for eyes. Behind the skull were two crossed hatchets. The other side of the coin showed a pirate’s Jolly Roger flag, and then below that, written on a twisting and doubling over fork-tongued banner it read, Silk Road. Everything else was utilitarian. Clothes, underwear. No computer, no phone. Guns and bullets. A knife. A hatchet. Tools of his trade. At least the items he’d stored in the fridge had character. Steaks and vegetables, good olive oil, good coffee, different cheeses, different breads. Rocco’s interest in cooking was new. She wondered when he'd picked that up. Wondered if he did it because he missed good food when he was in the army. Tummy squirmed a bit thinking maybe he got this new endeavor from a girl. Had he been living with some cute chef in L.A.? Couldn't be true. He'd been away, he said. Four years in the army. Back in L.A. just a month now.
She shook those thoughts away. Literally shook her head until she heard her hair scratching Rocco's flannel around her. Went to the side of the bed to gather her dirty things, see if she could track down a laundry in this empty mansion. She wondered what part of the city they were in. Probably still the Gold Coast given the fine appointments of the place she was hiding in. Not far from the Empire Crest. It was just about ten minutes in the pickup truck to get here from wherever they came from in the subway. What stop was that? It must have been—
“Ah shit,” she cursed, and hopped on one foot. She’d kicked something hard under a crumpled shirt. It scattered and bounced around near the top of the bed. She sat on the mattress and soothed her toes, reached down, knew what it was in the moment before she picked it up. Looked at it, swiped it with her thumb, saw it come alive with the bright image of a woman pressing her breasts together. Not bad breasts, but they looked like fakes. A phone. Hacked so it wouldn't have a passcode. She could use it to call someone. Who? She knew not to call anyone, knew better. But what if she called her mom? Maybe Tracy Tarulli—shit, would that be dumb. Tracy was her friend...but her dad? He might have been the one who ordered her dead. She could call her mom. She probably worried her daughter might be hurt, or worse, after what happened yesterday. Then pictured having to explain how Rocco was still alive to her, and maybe Rocco didn't want to have people know he was still alive. Though people must—someone hired him. Must have hired him because he knew the meetings, knew where to find them.
She let the phone go dark, then reached through her bare legs and tucked it between the mattress and the boxspring. It might prove useful some time. She gathered Rocco’s dirty clothes and her panties and bra, and she went downstairs and hunted down a laundry room, finding one in a maze of corridors in the basement. It was luxurious as far as laundry rooms go. Fancy appliances here too, much like the ones at the Nero mansion, but they’d had help do the laundry. She was no stranger to work though, she’d figure it out. Got the items loaded, perplexed by knobs and buttons and digital prompts. Left it running, fingers crossed, and headed back to the kitchen. Rolled up the big sleeves of her lover's shirt and got working at dinner for them.
Braciole was the plan. She had red meat, she would cut that in strips… Cheese? —check. Rocco had mozzarella and pecorino. She'd use the pecorino. Then, once she'd pulled all the ingredients out onto the counter, she decided to make involtini. Toasted a baguette in the oven, made her own breadcrumbs with it. Cut strips of red flesh and made roulade around chunks of pecorino. Breaded the rolled meat and cheese. She’d fry them when Rocco got home. Working in the kitchen made her smile—educed memories of the Old Country, not that she came from there. She was born and raised in Chicago, but they’d spend time there as a family when she was just a little girl. Summers in Sicily, the white beach at Siracusa. Those hot teenage boys with their tanned skin and those accents. She’d make them speak English even though her Italian wasn’t too shabby.
Trotted in bare feet then to the bedroom, liberated the phone, and scrolled through, got her music app downloaded, logged in (surely no hitman would monitor her music account), found a playlist of Italian music that she’d made two years ago. Fired it up and lay the phone next to her pistol. Laughed at the aural accompaniment of Tu vuò fa' l'americano, and Piccolissima Serenata, and Louis Prima performing Buona sera.
She made a salad with Rocco’s vegetables, tossed them in his very fine fruity olive oil. Some salt, some pepper, some torn wads of mozzarella. She looked at the remaining ingredients, wondered what to do. Fought the urge, strong as it was, to give Mom a call and ask her w
hat she could do with an artichoke. She drank more wine. The afternoon was quite nice. Dancing in the kitchen naked but for a soft flannel shirt, drinking wine, nobody on earth but one man who knew where she was. Despite contract killers coming for her she felt pretty damn safe. There was her pistol on the counter should anyone try something and she knew she could pull that trigger.
Dessert was a problem. They had no sugar. She would have loved a tiramisu. Loved it. She’d get him to pick up some lady fingers next time he was out. She cut up fruit and poured the heavy cream he used in his coffee into a bowl and whipped it. Had to use a whisk, no beater here, and she made herself sweat and her forearm ached. Got it whipped though. More wine. She got herself in the mood. Thought dirty thoughts. Couldn't wait for her man to get home. See him walk through those doors like they were married.
It had just turned dark when she heard the garage door and a vague rumble traveled the walls. Rocco was home in his truck.
She was fidgeting and dancing in place, and then on a whim, she unbuttoned his shirt. Let it hang open. Waited. Then grew bolder, let it fall off her shoulders and down to the floor. Greet him naked, that's how she would do it. She heard a truck door slam. Shifted from foot to foot, a smile pulling back her mouth. Grabbed a kitchen chair and slid it on its felt feet across the bumps of the gleaming terra cotta floor and set it facing the door he'd walk through. Hopped naked back to the whipped cream, took a spatula and plopped some decoration over her nipples. Laughing while watching them poke through, growing hard from her own excitement. One more dollop right between her legs, one swipe up her middle, spreading cream on her sex—and the feel of it, cold and smooth, made her eyes roll up. There was another thunk in the garage. She sat herself on the chair, crossed her legs like a femme fatale and waited. Hummed the Tarantella Napolitano.
Shit, the fucking phone. He'd probably flip if he knew she'd used it. Jumped up, grabbed it, flicked through screens to turn the app off, ran naked, breasts swinging, into the bedroom and shoved it again between mattress and box spring, ran back, saw plops of white cream on the floor that her nipples had slung off, ran back to the island and reapplied, sat back down, crossed her legs and waited.
Couldn't wait to see his face as he took this in. Shit. Pictured then the door opening and three men in designer jeans and frosted hair coming in with those scary machine guns and blasting her naked body to pieces. Bad enough dying, but having your body discovered naked with whipped cream on your naughty parts? ...She jumped up, grabbed her pistol and threw herself back down in time for the door from the garage to open.
Rocco.
Coming in, fucking hot as ever, a heavy cardboard box under one arm, a long roll of material poking over his other shoulder, a wooden briefcase... Whatever. What did he see? She was naked, whipped cream decoration on her most sensitive parts. One leg crossed over the other, eyes leveled at him, sexy and cool, one arm draped over the back of the chair’s top rail. A dangerous pistol in her hand.
The look on his face was priceless. He took two steps towards her, came into the light of the kitchen. The features of his face lost all their meanness. Jaw fell, eyes spread wide. Brows rising up to his hairline. She'd made him speechless.
He set his items down on the floor. Stood. Said, “This is the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.”
“I know.”
“You do, don’t you? You’re so fucking hot.”
She said, “Thought I’d whip up something for dessert.” Coolly, like she’d see in a movie.
11
Cream
rocco
Daniella had prepared herself for him. Presented what she had. He ached for it. Wanted it.
She sat framed in the space between the island and the living room where they slept. Sitting naked on a dining room chair with her legs crossed and a gun in her hand. He’d have loved this picture to keep himself company on some of those cold desert nights. She cocked her head and smiled, her reflection warbled, stretched to the tips of his boots on the warm polished floor.
Boots beat hollow sounds through the kitchen as he slowly closed the space between them, taking every inch of her in. Every smooth flesh curve, her cute knees, her painted toes. Kitchen smelled of cooking. His girl making them dinner while he tracked down the men that wanted them dead.
“What are you smiling at?” she said as he stood tall over her.
“You cook for me?” he said, his eyes going over the pots and pans and knives and cutting boards.
“I’ve been busy,” she said, eyeing him through narrowed lashes.
“I want to work up an appetite for dinner,” he said, and touched the end of his finger to the point of her nipple peeking out from behind all that cream and he scooped a puff, put his finger in his mouth.
She gasped, “How?”
“I’m going to start with dessert.”
“You want to skip dinner?” she said, her teeth dragging her plump lip back into her mouth, eyes peeking up at him through her brows. “All the effort I made...”
“All I want right now is to have this buried inside you,” he growled, absently hefting his growing denim bulge.
She brushed his hand away from his crotch, her eyes going over where his cock was pressing out the front of his jeans, dipping now down his pant leg as the sight of her brought him to hardness.
Her little hand went up and down his length, eyes glued to it, watching it swell and press against the cotton. “What? ...This thing?” she said, eyes still on it. “What are you going to do to me?” she said, eyes up to his now.
“I’m going to make you beg for it.”
She huffed through her nose, smiling, eyes growing lusty. “Do it,” she said. “Make me beg for it.”
His hands worked his zipper down, let her hear the brass teeth unclenching. Peeled his pants open and pulled it out for her, let her see it. Her lashes batted, her head cocked and he saw her chest rising with her breaths. He held it, stroked the tip along her chest. Guided it, the cleft in the head of his cock running up her nipple, his glans collecting whipped cream. Put it to her lips and she sucked it into her mouth, a white line of cream slipping around the wet seal where her lips met his cock. She sucked him clean. Her wet mouth felt so incredible on him. He did the other nipple. This time she hefted her breast for him, her hand a claw pressed into her soft flesh, lifting it and guiding her nipple to meet his swollen tip. He swiped again. Presented that to her smiling mouth and she sucked.
He bent to her, down on one knee before her, unhooked her knee from where it folded over her other thigh. Separated her legs and she resisted him.
“Let me see your pussy, Daniella,” he said. She sucked her lips into her mouth. “Open these legs for me.”
Her knees came apart and he saw the whipped cream mashed in her creases, frosted over her sweet pussy. His heart fluttered. Moved in then, worked his way closer to her, worked her legs farther apart. Moved til he had his lips to hers. They came together softly. He tasted her. Tasted the wine she drank. Tasted her tongue, pulled it from her, sucked on that tiny pink squirming thing. Kissed down her neck and she raised her chin, let her chest heave forward and her hands worked through his hair. Kissed her chest, his teeth dragging now, dragged til they came across her hardened nipple. So hard it must have hurt her. Skewed far from her body, a rough and excited bud, and his teeth closed gently on it, scored across her flesh, made her breaths come faster and faster. He pulled it into his mouth, His hands gripped the inside of her thighs and he’d made her so wet he could smell sex from her now. Sweet honey perfume rising from between her legs, making his heart hammer, making his own breaths come quick.
He kissed to her other nipple, her eager hands wrapped around his head, guiding his mouth, her eyes lowered watching this dirty spectacle, mouth agape. He peeled his jacket off. Sucked her nipple. Pulled it, plucked it, ran his tongue in spirals over its shape til it glistened in the halogen kitchen light and her breaths heaved her chest like ocean waves.
“Make me beg for it,
” she gasped, her hips squirming in her chair.
Peeled his shirt off then, did it slow so she could watch. She loved his body and he loved the way her eyes went over it. She’d get this hazy, sexy look, her long black lashes narrowed. She cupped her own breasts, plucked at her own nipples, rolling them between thumb and forefinger. Her legs opened wider. Invited him.
He fell to her, pressed his chest to her belly, her hands sweeping over his traps and his neck, down his shoulders. He sucked on her between her breasts, turning to kisses as he went lower, bit at the soft flesh of her middle, his tongue ran circles around her belly button and it brought a tremor to her tummy that made them both laugh. Worked lower, chased her laugh away, turning it to a gasp as his mouth came very close to her hot pink sex. His hands stroked the inside of her thighs and when his mouth finally consumed her she cried out. He sucked her into his mouth, gathered up all those hot slippery folds in one mouthful, his tongue parting the membranes, finding her hood and seeking out that hard swollen button in there. She called out his name, high and excited, more breath than voice and it spurred him. His fingers stroked low, below her mound, his mouth sucking and releasing, his finger slipping up and stroking her labia, parting them, his fingers forming a V of peace and his tongue then darting and exploring, making Daniella's hips and ass quiver and flex. He got her shaking then, two fingers slipped inside her. She took him easily, so wet so excited and hungry. Tongue working and fingers plunging he got her so she couldn't sit still, jumping all over the chair, and the noises she made were high squeaks, calling out his name again, saying Yes-ss and ah and oh. Just the sex in her voice alone had his cock as hard as steel. Thrust up now from his open jeans, the wet tip sliding over the hard ridges along his sternum. He was going to make her come. He was going to make her scream and hear her voice echo all around the high ceiling of this kitchen. He’d make her come. Then he was going to fuck her. Then they were going to sit naked at the counter and he would see what she had made for dinner.
Broken (Dying For Diamonds Book 1) Page 9
