But his lips didn’t touch mine.
Instead, his nose caressed down my cheek, his stubble grazing my feverish skin.
“I never saw you coming, you know,” he whispered.
I blew out a quick breath that was supposed to be more of a laugh. “It’s sort of been the opposite for me.”
I’d seen him coming from a million miles away.
I just never thought he’d actually be coming for me.
Taking pity on me, he didn’t address my schoolgirl crush again. He simply opened his mouth and laid kisses down my neck, lightly sucking. When a soft moan escaped my lips, he grunted and drove his hips into mine, as if in reflex.
“Yeah?” he growled. “Did it always feel like this for you? Like the most agonizing form of torture? Because if it did, Rox, I’m so fucking sorry.”
My hand found its way to the back of his head, my eyes falling shut. “No,” I panted. “It’s so much worse now.”
Another growl was ripped from his throat. He lifted his head and—
That’s when he gave me my kiss.
Our groans filled the room, though we tried to muffle them as best we could. His hand cupped my cheek, guiding the kiss. Our mouths moved against each other in a perfect rhythm, as if we’d done this a thousand times already. His lips were softer than I’d imagined, his pace slower than I’d expected.
Then he took it deeper.
And things turned…frantic.
I couldn’t explain what came over me in that moment, but suddenly I couldn’t get close enough, couldn’t touch enough of him to satisfy my cravings. I needed more of his taste on my tongue, more of his sounds in my ears, more of his thrusts against my center. As my body became more demanding and he sensed the shift in me, he matched my level of frenzy. Like the floodgates had been opened. His hands took on a mind of their own while his mouth ate at mine. They kneaded my breasts, almost lovingly. Reverently. When I arched into them, he ripped his mouth away.
“Christ, Roxy.”
But I was far from done.
I wanted to see his bare chest, so off came his shirt. He yanked it over his head and tossed it like he was mad at it for being in the way. I dragged my nails down his six-pack without even thinking and flinched when I saw the red lines they left. When I pulled away, Ace immediately snatched them up and placed them right back on his abs. With his fingers covering mine, he mimicked what I had just done, leaving more red marks.
“Don’t be afraid,” he said, his head rolled back on his neck. “You won’t hurt me.” He chuckled. “You might break me, you might ruin me. But you won’t fucking hurt me.”
With his permission, I followed the trail my fingers left with my mouth. Leaning up, I kissed every inch of his torso, snaking my tongue between the valleys of his abs. I’d never done anything like that before, and I prayed I wasn’t doing it wrong. But I knew I was on the right track when I nipped his skin with my teeth and drew a sharp breath from him, followed by a guttural groan.
Fisting my hair in his hand, he pulled my head back and took my mouth in another searing kiss that released a torrent of arousal through my body. I was so hot I didn’t know how anyone could stand foreplay for very long. If it was like this every time, I’d never be able to have sex with full brain function.
Holy God.
Were we about to have sex?
I had to admit, I wasn’t crazy about my first time being on a worn leather chair in a tattoo parlor. But I’d wanted this for too damn long. I wasn’t about to get picky over the location if Ace wanted to take my V-card. It wasn’t his fault that he didn’t know I was a virgin. That wasn’t information I was jumping at the opportunity to share.
He thrust his hand inside my shorts but didn’t get far since they were so tight. Grunting in frustration, he eventually tore open the buttons until they were loose enough to shove down my legs. When all I was left in was the white bodysuit, he dropped his head forward.
“White.” He shook his head. “You’ve got to be fucking joking.”
Though confused by that comment, I couldn’t devote much effort to asking him about it. Not when his mouth covered mine again just as his hand cupped my mound. He was like a magnet for it. Every time he moved, my sex followed. He would rub his fingers one way and I would automatically move in the opposite direction, for maximum friction.
If only he knew how often I had touched myself with his face in my mind over the years. Not that I wanted him to know that. That would have been unbearably humiliating. For him to know that imagining him going down on me was better than any porno I could ever watch.
He pushed aside the white material and plunged his finger inside me.
“Jesus,” he groaned. “You’re soaked, baby.”
I couldn’t tell whether I should have been embarrassed or not.
“That’s fucking hot.”
I guess not.
My inner muscles hugged him, desperate as they were for any kind of physical contact. Not only was I inexperienced, it had been a while since I’d had any sort of intimacy with another person. Self-love only did so much.
He gently added a second finger and thrust them in and out until I thought I was going to hyperventilate from pleasure.
“That’s a tight squeeze,” he observed. “No one’s ever been inside that before, have they?”
Barely registering his words, I shook my head.
“Didn’t think so. Your responses are too raw for you to be very practiced.”
Then something occurred to me.
I glanced up at him warily. “Is that a problem?”
“Are you insane?” he blustered, eyes flaring. “Of course not. Knowing that no other man has ever claimed any part of you? That this pussy has never gripped a cock before? That I will be the first and only one to fill you up? Fuck, Rox. That’s like a goddamn miracle.”
That spurred both of us on.
He quickened his thrusts, building the pressure inside me. When he hooked his finger at just the right angle, fireworks went off behind my eyelids. He slammed his lips against mine just before I screamed in ecstasy. I moaned uncontrollably into his mouth, needing to purge my emotions any way I could. They had been in there for so long, needing an escape. A release.
“Shit, yeah, baby. Come for me.”
By the time my climax had abated, I was riding a blissful high like no other. I slumped back in the chair, smiling lazily up at him. He was gazing back at me, looking pretty satisfied himself even though he hadn’t…
I glanced down at the bulge still evident in his jeans. When I went to reach for it, he gently pulled my hand away.
“But you need to—”
“I’ll be fine,” he assured me. “But we should probably give D his room back. Fuck knows what he’s imagining we’re doing in here.”
I giggled. “I’m sure whatever it is, he’s probably not that far off.”
Ace grinned. “It took your mind off the pain in your wrist, didn’t it?”
I shot him a playful frown. “Was that your sole purpose all along? Pain management through seduction?”
“You can’t deny it’s effective.”
“Remind me to tell you the next time I have a headache.”
He slipped his shirt back on. “Baby, I have one right now.”
“You do?” I reached for my purse. “I think I have some Tylenol in here. Do you want some?”
His upper lip curled as he handed me my shorts that he’d thrown on the floor. “I wasn’t talking about the head on my shoulders.”
It took me a second.
Then I blushed, hard.
“Oh.”
He was across the room in less than a second, tipping my chin up for a hungry kiss. So hungry it felt almost angry. I responded with complete abandon, throwing all of myself into the kiss. His mouth was red and shiny by the time he pulled away.
“I’ve literally got a blushing virgin in my hands,” he breathed. “Unbelievable. You better get those fucking shorts on right now, Rox,
or you won’t be leaving this room a virgin.”
I bolted to my feet and was fully-dressed in the blink of an eye.
As much as I wanted Ace to punch my V-card and punch it hard, I wanted it to play out a little differently.
He took my hand and led us out to the front counter where he insisted on paying for my tattoo. No matter how hard I tried to karate chop his hand when he passed Duncan his credit card, it didn’t deter him. And even though I left that tattoo parlor mostly the same way I’d gone in—I was still a virgin, just a tattooed one—I felt different somehow. More…in control, I guess? Because I had a better sense of where things stood with Ace?
“Hanging out in Brooklyn bars, getting a tattoo,” Ace mused. “You really have become a bad girl, haven’t you? Guess you’re due for another confession.”
Yeah, or not.
Some sins were meant to remain secrets forever.
But what I had yet to figure out was if having Ace in my life was a blessing…or a curse.
I resisted the urge to glare at the valet who opened the car door for me. It wasn’t his fault I was being forced to endure this hellish nightmare of a dinner.
“You have your mother’s scowl,” Papà said as he took my arm and led us into Panache, allegedly the trendiest new restaurant in Manhattan. “It is most becoming.”
I couldn’t tell if he was actually being snide while scolding me for my attitude, or if he was trying to extend an olive branch by teasing me.
I decided that either should be met with silence.
He sighed, sounding world-weary, but I refused to feel guilty. He wasn’t the one being strong-armed into doing things against his will.
“How long are you going to give me the cold shoulder, Roxanna?”
We entered the dining room where the maître d’ showed us to our table.
“Until the reason for said cold shoulder sinks in with you,” I said in a voice low enough that it reached only his ears.
Papà held out my chair for me, which I stiffly lowered myself into.
Before taking his own seat, he leaned down to whisper in my ear, “Despite what you think, my motives have always been and always will be centered on your safety and happiness. You might see some of my actions as unorthodox, but you need to trust me, lina. I promise you it will be worth it.”
I disguised my response by softening my voice, though my words were no less cutting. “Whatever helps you sleep at night, Papà.”
His disappointed expression made my heart feel like it was being strangled. But again, he had no right to look at me that way. I was the one who was disappointed in him.
Although the look on his face when he’d first seen my tattoo had been classic.
That, at least, had given me some enjoyment.
The two chairs across the table from us were empty as our waiter took our drink orders, offering his wine and appetizer recommendations. With a bottle of Chianti Classico from one of our favorite Italian wineries ordered for the table, he shuffled off to wait on his other patrons.
Panache was located in a monstrous building that had once been a bank decades ago. With its marble walls and towering pillars, it reminded me of Grand Central Station. It was actually kind of cool the way the owners had transformed the old teller stations into the kitchen. The kitchen staff slid the finished plates underneath the gold bars where cash had once been exchanged between bank employee and customer.
The renovations in the rest of the dining room were immaculate and luxurious. The chairs were plush red velvet with deep cushions that made one feel more at home than at a restaurant. Each table was adorned with expensive china settings and thick ivory tablecloths. The napkin holders were no doubt pure silver rather than pewter. The centerpieces were simple, a single lit candle sat inside a glass vase. Between the small flickering lights and the extravagant chandeliers hanging from the ceiling, the ambiance was not only intimate but also…romantic.
I was getting a bad feeling about Papà’s “motives” for this restaurant choice.
My stomach turned when I saw them—our dining companions for the evening.
It was a good thing I hadn’t eaten yet because I probably would have vomited up everything I’d consumed.
Papà stood and held out his arm to welcome the two men approaching the table. I remained seated, fuming in the cushiony velvet chair.
“Bunoa serata,” Papà greeted as he shook the older man’s hand. “It is good to see you again, old friend.”
Old friend, my ass.
How could he have even thought those cursed words? I was surprised when God didn’t smite him down in that very instant for speaking such blasphemy.
“It is good to be here,” the other man said, flashing his blindingly white teeth. “You are looking well.”
Papà returned his affable smile. “Grazie. You are as well.”
Then they turned to me.
Rather than shirk from the seemingly infinite power I knew this man to wield, I sat up straighter and held my head up higher.
His power didn’t extend to intimidating me.
More like just pissing me off.
I finally stood when he came around the table. I wanted to meet him on equal ground and let him know he would never be above me, literally or figuratively.
“Ah, bellissima.” He caught my hand in his without invitation and brought it to his lips. “You may not remember this, mia cara, but we met many years ago when you were quite young. My name is Santi Gabbiano.”
He omitted parts of his infamous name. Santi “The Slayer” Gabbiano was renowned as a veritable boogeyman in our world. Parents used his name to send fear into the hears of children. His ruthlessness had practically become legend.
He was the head boss of the entire mafia.
New York and Sicily, this don ran it all.
Whoever he appointed as boss of New York—because that was his job—it was with the understanding that Santi always had final say over all mafia matters. When shit went down, he was judge, juror, and executioner. The Sicilian syndicate had always kept the New York families in line, so to speak, and only stepped in to interfere when absolutely necessary.
In other words, he was Papà’s boss.
So, what was my father’s boss doing here in New York now?
One thing was certain, it couldn’t have been for anything good.
Another thing was certain, this man was responsible for my mother’s and brother’s deaths. Whether he’d actually had a physical hand in it or he’d just ordered the hit, they were most assuredly gone because of him.
And Papà wanted me to play nice?
I yanked my hand out of Santi’s grip and plastered on the fakest smile I could muster. Common sense indicated that I should have feared this man. Even as I said the words, I knew I needed to bite my tongue. After all, words could have the same kind of severe repercussions as actions.
I said them, anyway.
“I remember, Mr. Gabbiano. And you must remember my mother, Cordelia D’Angelo, no? Some say I look like her.”
The spooky gold color of his eyes resembled an evil cat’s.
I hated cats.
And that piercing gold chilled considerably at my words. “Sì, you do. She was a very lovely woman. Such a terrible tragedy what befell her and your brother.”
I narrowed my gaze. “Terrible, indeed.”
He gave my father a pointed look. “We learn so much from tragedy, do we not, Vincenzo?”
Papà’s face reddened to what I could only interpret as near-volcanic rage. But it was wiped away so fast, I determined I must have read him wrong.
“Truly, we do.”
Santi stepped to the side and held his arm out to the younger man next to him, who had been watching the scene in rapt silence.
“Allow me to introduce my nephew, Dominic Gabbiano. Dominic, this is Roxanna D’Angelo and her father Vincenzo.”
Dominic’s gaze was so intent on me that it felt more like a leer, though it didn’t resemble
one on the surface. He was good-looking, I supposed, with his slightly wavy, shoulder-length brown hair that was slicked back off his forehead. Already, I decided I didn’t like that too-put-together look. I liked the kind of effortlessly floppy hair that a guy constantly had to push off his face. And Dominic’s impeccable bespoke Italian suit wasn’t doing it for me either. Black T-shirts and faded jeans were much more appealing. Throw in some tattoos and muscles and you had the perfect package.
Ace.
Basically, the exact opposite of this douche-a-rama.
I couldn’t explain it, but Dominic unnerved me even more than Santi did. But he wasn’t giving off the same kind of creep vibes that his uncle was, so it didn’t make sense. Perhaps it was because Santi was an evil I knew and Dominic was the unknown?
Fighting down the bile rising up my throat, I extended my hand. Just as I’d predicted, Dominic’s was cold and too smooth when it grasped mine. It lacked all the strength and calluses that had become so comfortable to me.
“Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Roxanna,” he said in a voice that was a grating mix between nasally and raspy. “I hope you and I can become friends.”
Unlikely.
I did restrain myself from muttering that one and instead replied with, “Nice to meet you.”
My puzzlement grew as the evening progressed. I distracted myself by calculating how much money Santi and Dominic were probably wearing between their two expensive suits, loafers, leather belts, gold rings, silver money clips, and whatever crap they put in their hair to keep it slicked back and stiff. So frivolous.
They sickened me.
The three men spoke of the weather in Italy, politics, Papà’s import/export business, and even the quality of seafood in New York compared to their superior Mediterranean cuisine. All the while, Dominic’s eyes kept snaring on me.
But nothing regarding mafia business was mentioned.
Not a single word.
Not that I’d actually expected them to talk about it in front of me. It just begged the question, what was this dinner all about?
Scars and Sins (Brooklyn Brothers Book 2) Page 10
