by Mj Fields
“But I love you,” he insists.
“Well, I love me, too.” I hang up then stomp toward the kitchen as I look down at my phone, hitting decline when he immediately calls back.
“I hate men,” I grumble, looking up from the phone.
I gasp and cover my mouth when I see Vincent leaning against the counter, drinking a cup of coffee.
When he looks at my feet, I know damn well he heard everything I said. This is so embarrassing.
To diffuse, I become the warrior princess. Okay, in this case, I become the bitch I know how to be.
“You like shoes, too? Sorry. I don’t share.”
He doesn’t say one damn word. He just looks up the length of my body, even slower than earlier.
I attempt to grip the towel tighter to my chest … and find there is no towel.
“What is wrong with you?” I snap at him as he looks into my eyes. I grab the towel that has apparently fallen off my body and onto the floor and quickly wrap it around myself. “Do you sneak around here all the time?”
He narrows his eyes slightly, yet he still doesn’t say a word.
“Where’s my bag?” I snap.
He points to the left of me.
“Couldn’t have brought it to the guest room?” I huff as I drag it behind me, clenching the towel as if it’s the last floatation device on the fucking Titanic.
I look back at him. “Do you have nothing to say?”
“Your tits are huge.” He quirks an eyebrow then turns his back to me.
“You’re an asshole,” I smart back then turn and try to calmly walk away.
But how can I? That man, Vincent, the object of my darkest desires and dirtiest dreams, the same man who I have clearly come on to when I was drunk before, and who has turned me down … twice, just saw all five-feet and ten-inches of my big girl bod, completely and totally bare.
I may die.
Chapter 3
Sit Still. Look Pretty
Vincent
Every man has a preferred type. Thirty-two-year-old Paige Arnesen, originally from Tybee Island, Georgia, is not mine.
She’s brash, demanding, power hungry, comes on so strong it’s nearly emasculating, and apparently, she takes up with men who wear her shoes and undergarments. Then she moves on, leaving them in the damn dark. She’s one of those women who likes dick, but hates men.
When I attempted to deliver her royal pain in the asses purse to her room, like I’m just a bellhop, not security, I knocked on the door. When she didn’t answer, I open it to set the purse inside it so I wouldn’t have to deal with her in the morning.
It wasn’t my fault the suite’s bathroom door was open. It’s not like I wanted to hear her whistling and singing a song about not wanting to sit still and look pretty, or that I saw her ass swaying as she sung it. I will also not be held fucking accountable for wanting to grab those curvy hips and plow into her. I am a man after all.
No, Paige Arnesen is not my type. She’s too high-strung all the damn time. She carries herself in a way that exudes confidence, which is a very attractive trait, but it’s overconfident, which is a major turn off.
All those characteristics are what I focused on while she stood naked, unaware that she dropped the towel while demanding her bag, which she hadn’t even wanted me to bring in the house to begin with because, unbeknownst to me, I’m a penis-toting moron.
My normal body preference is petite. Her tall, soft, naked, bare, curvy as a mountain road body standing before me, damn near demanding I fucking drive it hard and fast, the memory of her ass shaking just minutes ago, and those fucking tits, caused every ounce of blood to not only flow, but rush to my balls. And I sure as fuck didn’t need to get hard in front of her.
Paige Arnesen has been around for nine years.
Nine. Fucking. Years.
Every one of those years, she has only looked in my direction twice with anything but contempt in her ocean blue eyes. And those two times were both occasions I had to drive her from Valentina’s home and into the city because she didn’t want to be late for work in the morning.
Both times, I had to wake her from a wine-induced slumber and help her into her apartment.
Both times have been after she chewed one of her many men up and spit them out.
Both fucking times, she licked those naturally pouty pink lips and told me that I would be a great candidate for a rebound fuck. Yes, she used the word fuck.
And lastly, both times, I was hard as stone, as the contradictory, sweet, soft smell of her drifted in the air, as she told me I couldn’t handle a real woman like her, before immediately passing out.
Paige Arnesen clothed is undoubtedly attractive. Her curves evident, but never on full display, like tonight. Paige naked, with a blush of pink to her cheeks, made me grip my mug and the counter so I didn’t rush her, grab her by the throat, slide my hand up her neck, up her chin, to shove three, maybe four fingers into her mouth, which would be my gift to prep her for the width of my cock that she would be choking on, showing her that a man like me would fucking ruin a woman like her for sport.
With my other hand, I would grab one of those fucking tits and suck her dark pink nipple, the same fucking color as her lips, to a painful peak. Then I would bite it to hear her whimper before telling her to drop to her knees, making her unbuckle my belt, unbutton my pants, pull my cock out, and start sucking as I fisted all that silky blonde hair and fucked her face. Then she would know a woman like her just needed to be properly handled to know that men like me, ones who are stronger and unintimidated by her, is really what she needed all along.
Away from her, in the comfort of my own bathroom, the door locked, I work hard, to rid myself of the thought of her, hopefully.
I toss my head back under the heat of the shower and fist my cock harder while stroking it to the thought of what a penis-toting moron could do to a woman who needs to be reminded that it doesn’t matter how tall, how curvy, how thick, how successful, how rich, or how confident a woman like her is, they will always go down to their fucking knees for a man who can handle whatever the fuck she dishes out.
Raising a leg, I set my foot on the edge of the shower’s stone bench and tug my balls, turning my hand knuckles up and squeezing my cock harder. I fuck my hand as hard and fast as I should have fucked her tonight, and those other nights. Because, right now, my job doesn’t mean shit to me, but coming to the thought of her, like so many other times, does. And God help her, if I can’t finish to the thought of her, I will be going to her room to show her what a penis-toting, rebound fuck, moron like me will do to a woman who thought she could control every fucking thing.
I have always secretly loved watching the rich be brought to their knees. Hell, I have enjoyed them being on their knees, looking up at me like I’m some sort of trophy to be won.
I was raised with nothing, but I lucked out by getting my mother’s looks—the only thing a whore like her had to offer. I made sure I became strong, stronger than any opponent she ever put me up against or I would face in the future. In doing so, I became something I could be proud of, everyone else be damned, including Paige.
I have no respect for rich bitches, only disdain and malicious satisfaction gained from seeing my cum fill their well-fed mouths and dripping down their overly made-up faces.
“Fuck, fuck, fuuuuuck, you, Paige,” I hiss as I come violently all over the damn stone wall, like I should have all over her mouth, her face, her tits tonight. Then I lean back, trying to catch my breath as my cock spasms from the force of my release, like a fucking aftershock of an earthquake. A ten on the Richter scale.
Stepping out of the shower, I am renewed and focused for the first time since she pulled into the driveway.
Standing at the bureau, I begin pulling clothes out to pack for the trip. It is always pleasant to go back to the vineyard, but after what Franco, my mentor, said to me when I last saw him, I am sure things will change.
When Franco was released from prison, ni
ne years after killing Valentina’s abuser, it was me that he called to pick him up. It was also me that he accused of loving the woman he once loved, the one who had his two children that he just recently learned about, and then left them all.
Love?
No.
She is my charge. The children are my charges. Very rarely do I even enjoy my job. It has become boring compared to watching over all of them when others want to destroy Dominic Segretti for taking back his family’s business.
At times, I feel like a glorified babysitter. But watching over the children, who are about the same age I was when I remember things getting bad in my home—or possibly that’s my earliest recollection of it—has its perks. Admittedly, it allows me to have hope for what can be considered the hopeless. Oh, to be a child of privilege.
Valentina is no longer the terror she once was. I see her through her children’s eyes. She is someone the girls treasure.
I try not to allow myself to be swept up in the excitement that children raised by a woman who loves them exudes, but it’s sometimes impossible, because admiration grew. It still grows when I watch her with the twins, who only now do I consider I may have grown attached to. The two girls who get to be children, and laugh, and depend on a woman who will never choose any person, any substance, or anything, over them.
But, do I love her?
Love is a luxury afforded to those of privilege and wealth. I am neither in comparison to those who surround me. I’m also not a stupid man.
Tomorrow morning, we set off to Italy. My senses tell me things are about to change.
We have been in Livorno for two days. Two days of watching them all eat, drink, catch up on missed time together, and relax in the sun as the kids play. Normally, I would sit with them, converse with them, but this time isn’t the normal.
Instead, I stand back and watch, distancing myself.
I know that the girls, Francesca and Antoinette, are aware of the situation with Franco, their father, coming and going. I also know they handled it well. I credit Valentina for her strength in not appearing to let it affect her, which had her girls falling in step. But when they are not playing pretend or being dragged around the estate by Dominic and Laney’s, children, their cousins, when there are quiet moments, I see them, each at different times, looking for something or someone. I believe it is Franco they seek. After all, they have never heard her, or anyone else, speak poorly of Franco. He is a mystery to them. And I know them, like I know myself, it makes them ever curious.
I also know Franco and what he did for me. I hope he realizes soon that he needs to be here, before they stop looking for him, before resentment builds, before it is too late.
I look away from the girls to see Dominic looking at me. He nods once, and I nod back. A nonverbal check-in.
I have known Dominic Segretti since the day after a stranger, Franco Protettore, pulled me out of a bar when I was just sixteen years old. I was holding my own against four men twice my age, who were trying to get my mother, the town drunk and whore, Anna, to leave with them on one of her many drunken nights out. My father had given up on her years before and was too busy with his collections job, working for the Italian Mafioso, to give a fuck about her, or his only son. Then he died.
I didn’t go easily, and not until he dragged her out, as well.
He stayed at our shitty apartment until morning when my mother awoke from her drunken stupor. Then he told her I would be going with him. She was unfazed.
I didn’t know him, but I wasn’t any more afraid of him than I was any man, or the twenty others I had fought off of her and sometimes me, since the time I was ten years old. I didn’t question where we were going. I didn’t care. I also didn’t care about her. I gave up caring the evening when she had tossed me to the three of them like I was nothing.
He brought me to this very vineyard and introduced me to Dominic. I worked in the vineyard and ate real food, not from discarded cans or leftovers from one of the neighbors who knew my mother drank away every cent my father left her and I when he passed. I slept in a converted carriage house apartment, which was nicer than any place I had ever lived, and I went to school. I had clothes, warm water, and money to buy things like a pizza on a Friday night. But mostly, I saved it for when Dominic decided he had enough, and tossed me out, too.
He never did.
When he found my money stash, he took me to a bank to open an account, the same account I have today. The same account ninety percent of my earnings go into. The same account I withdrew enough to buy my boat that’s in New Jersey, that hadn’t put a dent in my savings.
I will never have the money the Segrettis, or the Steels have, but I have my boat, some fishing equipment, and an education. I need little else.
I assume my love for boats came when Dominic invited me on his yacht on one of my nights off. It was years ago, before he married. That night, it appeared he had not a care in the world. I knew otherwise.
Watching him relax on the open seas, with women, sober women, draped all over him, wanting to please him, women whom he gave pleasure and took it from, taught me a lot. It also got me laid for the first time in my seventeen years.
She was in her twenties, and she thought I was his cousin. Why? Because that’s what he told her. He didn’t tell her to fuck me, but she was unbuckling my pants and had her mouth on my cock as soon as we were left alone on the yacht’s upper level. It was then I realized why Dominic winked at me when he left with two other ladies.
It wasn’t until the next day when he told me happy birthday and gave me my first Armani suit that I even knew it was my birthday.
He may have lied about being family to get me laid, but from that day forward, I would have died for him, and for Franco. I assume that is why I was offered a security position.
I love my job. I took, and still take it, very seriously. In the beginning, the only time I didn’t like it was when I covered for Franco’s holidays and was stuck with Valentina. I much preferred the task of being a secretive eye on Dominic’s enemies.
It wasn’t until Franco went to jail and Dominic asked me to watch after her and her children that I realized they are what’s most important to him. Not his business. His family. I also took, and still take, that very seriously.
Valentina is sitting next to Paige, who has been drunk since we landed, and they are laughing. I suppose that’s better than crying, but it still grates on my brain.
I feel a tug on the back of my shirt. I don’t have to look to see who it is. I already know exactly where all three of my charges are.
“Whatcha doing?”
“What I always do,” I answer, not looking back at her.
“Who am I?” Her and her sister are always trying to trick me.
“Antoinette.”
“Maybe not.” She walks in front of me and looks up, challenging me.
I roll my eyes at her like she and her sister always do, and she laughs, giving me that crooked smile, the one that is all her. I can’t help smiling back at her, and her grin widens.
“How do you know?” she finally asks.
“I’ll always know the difference between you and your sister, Antoinette,” I tell her. When she looks at me curiously, I add, “It’s my job.”
“Do you think that man—my father—will know the difference?”
I nod.
“How?”
“He’s a protector, like me. It’s in us to be observant.”
She nods like she understands, and I think she actually does.
Then comes the question I have feared.
“When will he meet us?”
Many adults would change the subject. Many would give her an answer that would make her happy but could ultimately disappoint her. I tell her the truth.
“When he’s finished his mission and can come back, he will.”
“Will you leave when he comes back, since he’s a protector, too?”
Again, I tell her the truth.
“Ye
s.”
Her eyes widen, then she takes a breath of realization, brown eyes still staring directly into mine. “Will it be hard for me? Will I miss you?”
“Maybe at first, but then, no.”
“Will you come for holidays?”
“Probably not,” I answer honestly once again.
It is not expected, nor anticipated, when she jumps into my arms, but I catch her. Then she wraps her little arms around my neck and hugs me.
“I’ll miss you.”
I have no idea what to say. I don’t know the truth, and I have no experience in what type of little white lie to tell her.
She leans back, hands on my shoulders, and tells me, “You’ll miss me, too.”
Instinctually, I nod once. I believe I will in fact miss her.
She laughs. “But not Francesca.”
I smile at her, and she leans in, kissing my cheek.
“I love you.”
My body stiffens as if to try to protect itself from words I have no recollection of ever hearing before.
She hops down and looks up at me. “You love me, too.” Then she turns, starts toward her sister and cousins, stops, and looks back at me to say, “And you think Paige is pretty.”
I’m ready to tell her she’s wrong when she runs off.
I look up to see Dominic smirking as he walks toward me. When he gets to me, he stands at my side. Although he has sunglasses on and I can’t read his eyes, I can tell he heard most of what Antoinette said.
He chuckles. “She’s the presumptuous one, huh?”
I shake my head. “Francesca is the more boisterous one. Antoinette internalizes information, and when she thinks she has it all figured out, she lets you know.”
He sighs, running his hand through his hair. “You know my nieces better than I do. Tell me more.”
I shrug. “It’s not difficult. Francesca is very much like Valentina when she gets angry. She is normally in lavender or will at least have it somewhere on her person. When her hair is braided, there is a small birthmark behind her left ear. Antoinette carries Franco’s mannerisms, likes pink, and has no birthmark.”
