He introduces an edge again, pinching the softest parts of my thighs even as he keeps up the tongue work. It has me cursing him, pleading with him, begging him to stop, begging him to give me more…
Finally, when even the slightest twitch of his tongue has me squeaking and quivering, he pulls his mouth off my ass and turns his attention back to my cock. It’s run a river over my abs, and he licks that up while he wraps a hand around my shaft and gives it a few slow, torturous strokes.
He catches my eye as he lowers his mouth on my cock, and presses the head of it into the ring of his lips, his tongue flicking into my slit. At another time, when I haven’t been kept on edge for what feels like hours, I’d like to find out exactly how talented that mouth of his can be on my dick as well as my ass, but right now I’ve reached my limit.
“Please let me—” I gasp, and God, I hope he says yes, because there’s no stopping the geyser right now.
“Let me taste you,” he says, and sucks my cock back down. I’ll have to take that as permission because I’m already spilling, shooting, thrusting into his mouth, and he’s taking it all, swallowing and humming his approval.
He keeps sucking and teasing until I’m finally spasming dry, and crying out from sensitivity rather than pleasure.
“Was it everything you dreamed of for a wedding night?” he asks later, the irony dripping from his tongue as much as pre-cum does from my cock.
We’re wrapped up in the blankets, and apparently I’m allowed to sleep here tonight, although he told me it was just so he could keep an eye on me.
Whatever. I know a snuggle-slut when I see one.
“Everything and more,” I yawn. “I’ll be glad to report our marital consummation to anyone who asks, in detail, with no need for embellishment.”
He stiffens, and I don’t mean his cock. And then he’s leaning over me, frowning, his face dangerous. “You don’t tell anyone anything about us,” he snaps. “Ever. You hear me? No gossiping with the girlfriends.”
I raise an eyebrow and fake insouciance, even though my heart’s leapt into my throat. Fucker is scary when he wants to be. “I’m not stupid, husband. I won’t give ’em any ammunition.”
He glares some more, and then says, “We’re married now and that means your loyalty lies with me. Not your father, not your family, not even your new Famiglia. Me alone.”
“You,” I assure him. “And Brother Frank.”
He sniffs at that, but I can tell it pleases him. He lies down and settles back into the comfy cuddle we had going before I triggered the mobster inside.
I trail my fingers over his scar, over his tattoo. “I do love you, you know,” I say softly. “I know it’s crazy, and I know you’ll say I don’t really know you, but I do. And I love you.”
He goes rigid in the bed. “You need to stop saying that.”
“But—”
“You’re a good fuck,” he says, rolling away from me. “We can come to some arrangement for our physical needs.”
And not long after that, he subsides into gentle snores. But that last comment of his has opened up something dark inside me, like everything was healing back together nicely, but that one casual line ripped open the stitches.
You’re a good fuck.
Chapter Seventeen
LUCA
I don’t like to think of myself as a cruel man. I suppose others might. Must. When you’re in my business, it’s inevitable.
Still, I don’t like to be unnecessarily cruel to innocents, and Finch might be a jaded party-boy, but there’s still something wide-eyed about his approach to life. So I feel like a complete shit when I say it, but I have to say it: “You’re a good fuck. We can come to some arrangement for our physical needs.”
I only hope it’s believable enough this time.
Because I’ve slipped up. I never should have taken him to bed; never should have let my guard down. He touches something deep inside me that I thought was dead, or maybe never existed in the first place, something that is dangerous for both of us.
If Fuscone thought for one second I had feelings for him…
It’s bad enough, what Tino has done: making us marry, parading us around, making us an even bigger target. But it would be far worse if Fuscone realized the kind of leverage he could get over me by making a move on Finch. He’d give Finch a slow, ugly, humiliating death instead of making it a clean kill if he thought it would cause me more pain.
I asked Frank before we left on our honeymoon to find a place to stash my new spouse by the time I got back, because I fully intended to keep Finch locked up in a gilded cage for the rest of his life with all his needs catered for. I’d never see him again, but he’d be protected in a safe house in Australia or Iceland or on the moon.
But I find I can’t do it. There’s a selfish little part of me that refuses to give him up.
Anyway, Tino wouldn’t allow me to send Finch out of the city while he still has a point to prove. That’s how I justify it to myself: Tino wouldn’t allow it.
For now, at least, no one can know I’m not indifferent to Finch, least of all Finch. He wears his feelings about
