He grabs the back of my neck, pulling me close and pressing his forehead against mine. “No.”
It’s the calm way he says it that makes me almost lose control of my bladder. I think I just found out how far I can push my panther before he bites back.
“No, angel, that’s not how this is going to go down. There will be no drugs. No mouth. And definitely no fucking. You’re a hostage, baby bird; you think I’m gonna fuck a hostage? No; you and I are going to live the long, lonely, celibate lives Fuscone intended for us when he made this deal. And don’t tell me you think Don Augustino Morelli, esteemed Boss of the Morelli Family, had the best interests of two queers at heart when he allowed us to play out this charade? You’re dreaming. You’re alive until Tino says different, and then you’re dead.”
“Tino said he wanted this to be a real marriage,” I protest. “He practically encouraged us to get it on.”
“Tino said we had to stay faithful, or we’re dead. He doesn’t care apart from that.”
I think he’s wrong. I think he’s so wrong, this clever and calculating man; he sees more than most, but he didn’t see what I saw in Tino’s face the day of our wedding. Tino Morelli was goddamn joyful, I’d swear it on my mother’s grave if I could talk right now, only I can’t. I can only moan.
And then he looks down between us, where I’m shoving up against him, rutting against his thigh like a fucking animal. The effect this guy has on me…and all that macho alpha-male bullshit he’s playing just makes me hotter.
He pushes me away and lets me go, drops me back into his own seat before swiveling on his heel and stalking towards the back of the plane. I don’t watch him go. I’m too busy soothing my bruised ego with champagne.
He’ll come round, I reassure myself. There’s no way my man, with his mash-up of testosterone and smarts, is going to be able to keep that gorgeous cock in his pants.
No more drugs? Easy enough, once I get rid of Celia’s supply.
No more talking back? Harder, but I’ll get the hang of it.
But one thing I won’t give up is sex.
Especially not when I have the world’s hottest husband.
Chapter Twelve
LUCA
“You’re starting to burn, baby,” Finch says, looking at me over the top of his sunglasses. We’re lying on the deck of the yacht in the middle of nowhere, one day into our two-week joke of a honeymoon, and Finch is right. Where my shirt flaps open, the treacherous pale skin of my chest and belly is turning lobster red in the sun. His is only getting more golden. How is that fair? He’s Irish, for Christ’s sake.
“I don’t care,” I say, and shift only enough to stretch out even more.
Last night I made him stay in his own room, in his own bed. I needed peace and quiet to figure some things out, and nowhere on the list of words I would use to describe this new husband of mine are peace or quiet.
I locked the door between our rooms just in case he was tempted, and I also locked his main cabin door, just in case he was tempted to go out in the night and throw himself overboard. I’m never quite sure what triggers that death wish of his, but from now on, my job is to keep him safe.
From others, but also from himself.
The first thing I did, once I had Finch safely stowed and most of the crew were asleep, was go over every inch of the master suite and bathroom with a bug-finder. I found nothing.
After that, I went over the whole damn boat, anywhere Finch or I might go, and found…nothing.
I would much rather have found something, just to put my mind at ease. But unless Tino has access to some futuristic bugs or wires that are advanced enough to evade my precautions, the place is clean. And if Tino does have access to that kind of hardware… Well, then I’m fucked no matter what.
All my investigations got me were a restless sleep and an uneasy feeling in my gut. But even that seems to be fading now in the bright morning sunshine.
Finch sits up now, and straightens the captain’s hat he’s stolen from, presumably, the captain. He’s paired it with tiny white booty stretch-shorts.
“Come on,” he says, brooking no defiance. “Sunscreen. Or you’ll blister.”
I’m too relaxed to argue. “Whatever,” I sigh, and the next thing I know, he’s rubbing me all over with something sticky. It feels too good to fight it, until he tries to push my shirt off my shoulders.
“No,” I say, grabbing his wrists. Once he knows I’m serious, though, I let him get back to work slathering up my exposed skin.
This is the first vacation I’ve ever taken. The thought occurred to me when we stepped onto the dock and I saw Tino’s yacht with my own eyes. I’d heard about the Maddalena, of course. Even seen photos of it that Tino showed me one time when I was there for dinner with Frank after we were made, and Tino’d had a lot of cognac. But it’s only when I see it for myself that I realize this is a symbol of what I’ve been fighting for my whole life: the privilege to do nothing.
It’s not that I want to do nothing. It’s just that I’d like the choice to do nothing if I felt like it. I’m a hustler, a workaholic by nature, I know that much, but I like the idea of being able to take a day
