Broken King: An Arranged Marriage Mafia Romance

by Penelope Fifield

  “Um, I know that this is really, really weird, all of it. But I’m starving, so I hope you don’t hate seeing other people eat,” I stammer.

  Adrian laughs, the first genuine expression I’d seen out of him. “If you hate eating in front of other people, we’re in for a rough future. I eat almost every day,” he says, smiling.

  With that affirmation, I devour the muffin I’ve chosen, finally feeling as though I’m able to breathe. All of my tension and misgivings have dissipated, at least for now.

  Adrian glances up and down at my body, hidden under the clingy, suffocating fabric of my strapless dress. “You look really beautiful,” he says as his eyes hover just below my collar bones.

  “Oh, well, I’d hope so. This is probably the best I’ve ever looked,” I stammer, blushing. I continue eating the muffin, letting out small moans of satisfaction.

  Adrian approaches me cautiously. “Should we, um. . . do you want to. . .” he says, avoiding eye contact.

  “Um, we’re almost out of time, and I hate to be a prude under these circumstances, but I really think we should at least get through the rest of the wedding, don’t you think? We’ll have enough people making side comments at us. I’d hate to give us away so early in the day.”

  He relents, shrugging. “I guess that’s a good point. I’m anticipating that my father will be nagging us about grandkids as he gets more and more drunk. I apologize if he says anything too crass,” he explains, laughing to himself and rolling his eyes.

  Despite the objectively disappointing ceremony, the reception is absolutely stunning. An industrial indoor location was chosen for me, and string lights and lanterns hang from the vaulted ceiling, casting an ethereal glow down onto the dance floor. Black Dahlias line the tables, dotted between candles that float in crystal bowls of water. A black and silver motif has been applied to the smallest details, lending an elegant and classy feeling to the atmosphere.

  Unlike a standard wedding, there are no childhood photos or engagement photos spread out, no representations of our undying love and eternal commitment to each other. I wonder if anyone will give speeches, if Amber will prattle on about meeting me at horse riding lessons, about how happy she was that I had met such a great guy. Maybe one of Adrian’s brothers or friends will explain that he had so many shitty, crazy girlfriends before he met me, the one.

  All weddings I’ve been to have been that way. There’s always a madly jealous bridesmaid, a doting older brother, and a weepy mother-in-law. Though, at this wedding, I doubt my mother-in-law will be very weepy at all, at least not with joy. From the little I’ve heard of Adrian’s mother, she is obsessed with her son. My mother had told me that she pleaded with her husband not to allow Adrian to marry me because she didn’t want to lose her “baby boy”.

  Ugh. How weird.

  Adrian and I enter the ballroom together, hands clasped. The energy in the room vibrates with an electricity that I have never known before. I feel like a new empress, the leader of a new era of mafia women. For the first time in my life, I feel seen, I almost feel taller.

  Adrian squeezes my hand in what I assume is matched excitement and anticipation. I feel as though my belly is full of stars, radiating up my arms and down my legs as we walk to our head table. I trip on my dress a bit, almost falling flat on my face, but Adrian catches me before I make a fool of myself in front of all these people.

  The night wears on, and as we both grow more comfortable together, I feel that warmth rise up between my legs again as we dance. I can feel blood rush to my labia and nipples. Those parts of me want to drag Adrian to a coat closet and tear his clothes off with my teeth, but another part remembers that I’ve never even had sex before and that closet sex would be a terrible way to experience it for the first time.

  Nevertheless, as the dancing warms me and displaces my judgment, I take Adrian’s hand and look him deep in the eyes. His demeanor has changed from a stoic protector to one of a leering deviant, hungry for my body. I hadn’t realized before, but he’s much taller than me and very muscular.

  Suddenly, I feel a bolt of longing electrify me, growing in my belly and spreading between my legs. My panties become slick, and I can feel the desire spread as my body moves against his. He smells intoxicating, his cologne a mix of earthy warmth and salt. I want nothing more than for him to pick me up, throw me over his shoulder, and slam me on a bed. He can sense my need because I see his eyes shifting down at my breasts as he begins to pull me closer by my hips.

  Finally, everyone has started to leave, and Adrian and I make our way to our honeymoon suite. The elevator ride up is shared with wedding guests, who exchange knowing glances as we ride together in silence.

  They get off before we do, and as soon as the doors close, Adrian takes me into his arms and kisses me deeply, not like the performative, reserved kisses at the ceremony or reception. He uses just a bit of tongue, weakening my knees. I’m too encumbered by this damn dress to let him strip it off me, and the elevator moves so slowly that I feel like the universe is reveling in my raw desperation.

  We make it to the top floor to the penthouse where we’re staying for the night. My legs shake, and a pit has formed in my chest. My nerves take over as Adrian begins to remove his shirt without a word. I feel a twinge of intimidation as his shirt falls from his well-muscled back, revealing a large tattoo of a Celtic cross. I suddenly find myself eager to rip his clothes off, just to discover every inch of his body, every tattoo, every freckle and scar.

  “Are you going to join me?” he asks, smiling wickedly.

  “Oh, um, of course. I’ve just. . . ” I stammer.

  Do I tell him?

  Will he know that I’ve never been with anyone else?

  What if I’m bad?

  All of my worries dissipate as he places his hands around my waist and kisses me deeply on the neck. I nearly slip to the floor as my body is overcome by desire, that vestigial need that can turn a demure and careful lady into a greedy, panting animal.

  Adrian reaches under my dress and works diligently through the layers of fabric to find my panties. At first, he feels how wet and warm they are, and for a moment, I fear that he will simply rip them off to fuck me.

  However, he bites his lip, grins at me again, and begins to stroke me through my wet underwear, slowly at first, and then more quickly as I spread my legs, allowing him to feel the throbbing peak of my clit. He begins to tickle it, and I am no longer able to contain the arousal that has overcome me. I whimper loudly, immediately self-conscious of anybody that could potentially hear.

  Once I feel as though I cannot handle it any longer, he pulls his hand from between my legs and leads me to the bed of our suite. It’s covered in rose petals, which feels cheesy and ridiculous now that I’m really here and not seeing it in a rom-com. He picks me up and tosses me down in a maddeningly arousing show of his physical power and strength.

  As I land on the bed, I immediately begin to untie the laces of my dress with no success. “God damn it!” I shout, startling Adrian.

  “Hey, just turn over and let me do all the work, okay baby?” he purrs as he flips me over and begins to aggressively untie me.

  I slip out of my dress, and suddenly I feel so vulnerable and exposed. My nipples form small peaks as the cold air of the room hits me. I look down at my soaked panties and feel a sense of delicious shame wash over me.

  Nobody has ever seen me in this state before now, and for a total stranger to do so makes me feel like an irreverent harlot in the best of ways.

  Adrian kneels at the foot of the bed and slips my panties down to my ankles, dropping them to the floor. He leers at my dripping pussy with anticipation as he pulls me toward his face. I’ve only ever seen this done in porn, but when he touches his lips to my labia, a fire is lit beneath my skin as he kisses it.

  He starts by teasing me, avoiding my clit altogether.

  He moves down a bit to my thighs, kissing and sucking just below my vagina. I want to beg and cry for him to fin
ish me now. I haven’t even seen his cock, and here I am on my back, letting him whip me up into a puddle of moans and whimpers.

  I inch myself closer to his face, forcing his lips back between my legs.

  “You’re quite the impatient little brat, aren’t you? We’ve hardly gotten started,” he says in a low growl.

  Despite his false displeasure, he places his mouth back on my vagina and begins to suck lightly on my clit, just enough to make my legs tremble. I cry out in pleasure as I can feel the pressure building deep inside me. Just as I think I’m about to explode, he slides his finger inside of me.

  My growing orgasm has doubled, and he presses the front wall of my vagina, still sucking my clit just enough to put me over the edge. My body seizes up, and suddenly ethereal warmth fills my bloodstream. Wave after wave, the violently intense pleasure shakes me.

  I pant, practically gasping for breath, when Adrian stands up. I can see a large bulge in his pants, and the warmth in my body screams for him once more. He unzips his pants and removes them, leaving only the thin veil of his underwear between our bodies. His cock throbs, stretching the fabric when he begins to stroke the head, as if to put on a show for me.

  I sit up and reach for him, wanting to touch. He slaps my hand away and begins to remove his underwear, revealing the size and girth of his dick. It’s long and thick, with large veins and a head that glistens with precum. He moves toward me, positioning himself above me, ready to slide inside.

  “No, wait!” I cry out breathlessly. “I need you to go slowly, I’ve never done this before,” I continue, embarrassed at having ruined the moment.

  Adrian leans down to kiss my neck again. “I’ll go as fast or as slow as you need me to,” he whispers.

  I nod slightly, and he presses his weight onto me. I can feel his cock rubbing against my dripping pussy now, and all I can do is wait for him to slip inside of me as I cling to him.

  He begins to press his dick into me, and a white-hot pain shoots down my legs. I twitch at the feeling.

  “Are you okay?” he asks with genuine concern. “Do you want me to finger you a bit more?”

  No! I want him to fuck me, but I know that my body will betray me if I throw myself into this. “Yes, please finger me more!” I moan quietly into his ear.

  His hands are large, and he starts with one finger, massaging the inside of my vagina once again. I squirm under him as the waves of heat rise up inside me like I’ve never known before. He slowly inserts another finger, stretching me out more and adding to my growing need to be fucked hard. He fingers me a bit more until he feels as though I’m ready for his cock.

  At first, he slides the length of his shaft up and down between my pussy lips, moaning as he does. I feel every bit of him brushing against my swollen clit, and for a moment, it’s almost too much to bear. When he finally slides in again, I feel no pain, only his girth stretching my pussy as he pumps slowly into me. Every stroke spreads warmth throughout my belly.

  He continues, starting slowly, careful not to hurt me. His genuine concern for my pleasure and safety is almost as arousing as the act itself. I can feel him picking up speed, trembling a bit as he does, as though he’s ready to come inside me. I feel him slowing as his face washes over with desperation and lust, denying himself release to give me more pleasure.

  I can feel the tip of his cock stroking my vagina, and suddenly I’m overcome by the pressure building inside me, and my breathing quickens. “Please, faster,” I moan, almost incoherent with need.

  Adrian smiles and bites his lip as he picks up my legs, angling my hips down for a deeper connection.

  Immediately, I feel as though I’ve gone deaf, like I’ve been overwhelmed with sensory euphoria. I cry out, unbothered by anybody who could hear. My breaths sound shaken as my chest falls up and down. My head feels fuzzy and filled with light.

  Adrian separates from me and lies next to me, anticipating a more intelligent reaction than I’m able to muster. I feel like a new person, like I’ve emerged from some kind of coma; a liberated woman, made almost catatonic by the gravity of human sexuality.

  Adrian pulls me closer to him. “Was that okay? Or. . .”, he asks sarcastically as I continue gasping for breath, attempting to find footing in the real world again.

  All I can do is look at his face and begin giggling, which I regret immediately.

  He laughs and climbs out of bed, making me feel better about my own laughter. I watch him pace over to the mini bar, where he grabs an unopened bottle of champagne.

  “Oh, god, if I drink that, you really won’t like who I am tomorrow morning,” I say, cringing internally at my inability to hold my alcohol.

  Adrian glances at me inquisitively. “You’re too young to be getting hangovers like that,” he states with more assurance than he should.

  “Hmmm, did your mom even tell you how old I am? Do you not know how old your own wife is?” I ask facetiously. “I’m 25, by the way. I’ve been getting hangovers since I was seventeen. I think it’s genetic,” I continue, hoping to diffuse any tension that my mirth may have caused. I mean, I don’t know anything about his sense of humor.

  What if I offend him?

  My whole family shows love by being mean. I don’t know any other way.

  “I guess I wouldn’t have figured 25, what with the bright red nail polish,” he counters, a slight smirk forming.

  Self-consciously, I bury my hands in the blankets, blushing in embarrassment. “Leave me alone! I couldn’t let my maid of honor have brighter nails than me,” I retort.

  Adrian finishes pouring two flights of champagne and walks back over to bed, kicking our haphazardly strewn clothes out of his way. “Are you talking about, um. . . Amy? Is her name Amy?” he asks as he hands me a glass.

  “Her name is Amber, and yes, she’s spent her whole life trying to do everything bigger and better than me. The fact that I got married before she did had her fuming! But, let’s not worry about her. Can we get some takeout instead?”

  Chapter 4

  A storm rages outside the windows of our penthouse as we sleep. Once 6 AM comes around, I slowly open my eyes to the aftermath of our wedding night. My ten-thousand dollar wedding dress lies thrown across an ottoman, a complete afterthought.

  The November rainstorm has sent a slight chill through the bedroom. I wrap myself in a large down blanket and step lightly toward the bay window in the living room. The view of the city is absolutely incredible, even with no sunlight to compliment it.

  Even though the course of my entire life has changed, the city below me lives as it always has. Cars seem to float through the rainy streets, and ambitious joggers are running along the sidewalks. Coffee shop windows are lit up with glowing golden lights as the city awakens with me.

  I feel a bit sore from the night before, but I explore the pain instead of shying away from it. I feel slight bruises between my thighs, varying in depth and color. When I remember all of the new sensations, I begin to feel a deep need to experience them once again.

  However, I understand that I should spend more time getting to know the stranger whose last name I now share. Now that the fanfare and glamour of the wedding are over, how long will it take for me to feel completely secure in this relationship?

  Adrian stumbles out of bed and into the living area, half-asleep and hungover from the night before. “How, uh, how, did you sleep?” he slurs.

  “I slept pretty well, sorry if I woke you up,” I say.

  He paces over to me slowly and kisses me on the head, staring out the window as I was just a moment ago. “It’s crazy,” he says sleepily. “I’ve been in this city my entire life, and I’ve never seen it like this.”

  “What do you mean? Haven’t you been to tons of places like this? I know my dad likes to show off when he puts people up in hotels,” I ask, attempting to dig deeper.

  Adrian stretches a bit and sighs. “I’ve had the opportunity to see this. I just never took the chance. I’ve always been too busy or on-edge
. I was staying here when I met your dad for the first time, and he’s pretty intimidating. Didn’t want to be caught off guard or seem. . .”

  “Seem. . . vulnerable?” I inquire.

  “Yes, vulnerable. I mean, you know as well as I do that the lives we lead are unconventional and dangerous. Arms dealing is a perilous lifestyle in the first place, I’d hate to show weakness at the wrong time, even when meeting a potential ally,” he continues.

  I’ve always been left out of the more technical aspects of our family business, but I hadn’t even considered how difficult it must be to appear fearless and collected in the face of something so precarious and fickle. My mother, sisters, and I have always been treated more as handmaidens and figureheads rather than truly involved members of the family.

  “What’s the most scared you’ve ever been?” I asked cautiously, testing the waters of his temperament.

  Adrian laughs, and for a moment, my worries are abated. “The most scared I’ve ever been was standing at the altar to marry a mystery woman in order to keep her dad from slicing off my dick and keeping it in a mason jar.”

  He pauses for effect, then continues, “but I know what you mean. I’d have to say that the most scared I’ve ever been was when my father made a bad deal with our rivals at the time, the Malkoviches. He sold them some bad ammo, and it went sour in a warehouse somewhere in Barbados after a hurricane. The Malkoviches got caught up in a gunfight and lost, bad. Like, 14 of their men got killed because our product didn’t perform. They’d paid us a lot for it, too. So, old man Malkovich and his goons storm our house, basically to kill my father. I was ten, and my mom and I were the only ones home. She and I hid in a closet while they ravaged our house with machine guns.”

  Adrian’s face becomes distant, and his eyes lose their focus as he remembers.

  My stomach feels sick as I imagine the fear and the helplessness he and his mother must have felt.