Mafia Darling (The Kings of Italy Book 2)

The castello was quiet when I came in from the vineyards, and my skin prickled in the air conditioning. It was time for a shower and a nap. Stretching out my arms to ease my aches, I climbed the stairs and turned toward my room. Rather, Fausto’s room. How could I forget? At least his bed was comfortable. That was the only upside.

Closing the bedroom door behind me, I walked in and tossed Fausto’s hat onto an armchair. I started to take off my clothes then paused. Was the shower running?

My hands froze, my mind stuck on that noise. Fausto was in there. And he was showering.

Oh God, I should leave. I shouldn’t think about him naked and soapy, hands gliding over that body, his thick cock swinging between his legs. I used to love showering with him, getting on my knees in the hot spray and worshiping him with my mouth. He’d brace his hands on the tile and watch as he pumped his hips, dragging the heavy length of him in and out of my throat.

Desire, raw and undeniable, clawed in my gut and itched at my skin. I couldn’t stop picturing him, couldn’t stop needing him.

Then I heard a soft grunt. I knew that sound. I still heard it in my dreams.

Before I even realized it, I drifted toward the bathroom door.

What am I doing?

It was wrong, but I couldn’t stop. I had to see. There was no harm in seeing, was there? I wouldn’t touch him or let him touch me. But I could watch, couldn’t I? He’d never know and I would only allow myself a quick peek.

I stepped inside, the tile cool on my feet. His back was to me, so he didn’t notice my arrival. He had an arm propped on the tile, and water ran down his back in rivulets, smoothing over his ass and legs. A hand worked his legs as his hips flexed ever so slightly, muscles popping as he jerked himself off. I licked my lips at his magnificence, the sight of him like a cool drink after weeks of extreme thirst.

From now on, any time I needed to come, I would let myself imagine this right here. Before I could stop it, a soft sigh escaped my throat.

His head whipped around, blue eyes wide and surprised. I didn’t move. Part of me had hoped he would catch me, drag me into the shower clothes and all, then have his wicked way with me. I was so tired of fighting this. I wanted him so badly.

Without breaking eye contact, he slowly turned and dropped his hand. Jesus Christ, his body was unfair. His flat stomach had more definition than before, his hips more pronounced. That cock, though. Fully hard, it stood out from his body, every bit as perfect as I remember—more than big enough to be a challenge. My pussy clenched, the stretch of his dick having imprinted there, and I had to grip the counter to keep from lunging at him.

He let me look for another few seconds, then wrapped his fist around the shaft once more and began stroking slowly from root to tip. “Do you want to know what I was thinking about?” he asked.

Yes.

“No,” I breathed.

He cocked an eyebrow as if he knew I was lying. “I’m remembering the first time you let me fuck your ass. When we were in Roma.” He sucked in a quick breath, his fist squeezing the head of his dick. “Madonna, that was fucking hot. Dirty and rough, my favorite thing in the whole world.”

Mesmerized, I watched his hand glide over his dick.

“You took my cock so good, piccolina. You were so tight and warm. So sweet.”

The words sent lust careening through me, like he’d injected a drug into my veins. My mouth was completely dry, while my pussy was the opposite. I was soaked and slippery there, a needy, throbbing mess.

“I loved to hear you beg,” he continued, shifting to squeeze his balls. “Almost as much as I loved to see you come.”

Fuck it. Why should I be the one to suffer? He’s the one that did something wrong. My fingers found the button on my shorts. Flicked it open. His body went still, his entire attention focused on my hand. He seemed to be holding his breath, waiting to see what I would do.

“Maybe it’s your turn to beg,” I whispered.

“Please,” he said instantly, his free hand falling against the glass barrier as if trying to reach for me. “Ti prego, dolcezza. I am so hungry for you.”

I flicked the zipper down. “Again, paparino.”

The nickname fell out of my mouth but I didn’t think he heard me, thank God. Instead he leaned in and repeated, “Ti prego, baby.”

I slowly pulled my shorts and panties to my knees.

Fausto’s expression twisted, like he was in exquisite pain, and his hand picked up speed along his erection. His eyes were locked on my pussy, so I shifted to spread my legs as far as I could manage. The air felt cool on my overheated skin, and the shower filled the bathroom with a fine mist. I watched him pump, the muscles in his forearm bunching, working, and I slipped my fingers between my legs.

“Madre di Dio,” he groaned, hips punching forward.

My clit was ripe, engorged, and the brush of my fingertips felt better than anything in recent memory. I swiped again, biting my lip to keep from moaning, my knees actually trembling.

“Show me,” he said. “Pull apart your lips and show me how wet and swollen you are.”

“Beg for it.”

“Amore, please!”

More than happy to torture him, I parted my folds and let him see. Then I dipped a finger in my wetness and brought it to my lips, sucking the tip inside and cleaning the arousal off.

“Cazzo!” Faust barked, his body tense as he rocked against the glass. “I want you in my mouth, little girl. I want to suck on your clit and tongue that pretty pussy.”

Fuck, I wanted that, too.

I began working my clit, circling and rubbing, and pleasure streaked through me like lightning. I watched his hand pick up speed and thought about how good it would feel if he pinned me down and fucked me. His large body straining and thrusting, his cock delivering pleasure, driving me into the mattress. He knew exactly what I liked, what got me off, and he used that knowledge shamelessly. I loved it. I wanted to be his dirty slut, beg for him to let me come. I wanted to let him use me anyway he saw fit.

The words burned the tip of my tongue. I knew if I asked, he would rush from the shower like a man possessed. I would get fucked to within an inch of my life, the delicious soreness between my legs lasting for days . . .

Moaning, I picked up speed, wiping my fingers on my thigh when I became too slippery. Jesus, I was wet. I couldn’t remember ever being this turned on before. But my clit craved the friction, and I moved faster, in time with Fausto’s hand. I imagined he was fucking me, his body rubbing me on the downstroke.

This did not go unnoticed.

“There you go,” he said, holding onto the top of the glass as he angled toward me, his hips rocking. “It would feel so good if I were fucking you right now, no? Your tight little cunt wrapped around my dick. I would fill you so good, piccolina. I dream about fucking you, about taking you hard and fast, until you are raw from it.” He threw his head back. “Madonna, I have never jerked off this much in my entire life.”

Panting, I grasped the counter. Tingles gathered and pulsed, little trails of light that multiplied until they became a wave of pleasure rushing toward me. I tried to hold it off, wanting to prolong this as long as I could. “You should get used to jerking off. It’s the only satisfaction you’ll ever have.”

“We will see,” he growled, his fist flying over his shaft. “Cazzo, Francesca.”

The use of my name in his sexy rumble did it. The orgasm was right there at the edge of my mind, the strength of it stealing every bit of sense I possessed. I couldn’t hold back the words of our game, the sexy secret only he knew. “Sono la tua puttanella,” I gasped and came all over my fingers.

“Minchia!” he shouted. Thick spurts of come shot from his cock as his shoulders hunched, his muscles straining. We both trembled and shook, our eyes glazed as we watched one another, pleasure sparking between us like a live wire. I wanted to touch him, to taste him so badly that tears nearly sprang to my eyes. It was so unfair.

Reality crept back in as the orgasm subsided. The shower glass fogged with his exhales and my knees were weak. Holy shit, that had been unexpected. And hot. But wrong.

So wrong.

But it was so hot.

Damn it.

I jerked my panties and shorts up to my waist and ran from the bathroom.

I was halfway up the stairs later that night when the front door burst open. Glancing over my shoulder, I watched Marco march Giulio into the castello. My friend’s face was slack, his limbs loose, as he tried to pull away from his uncle. “Let me go, Zio Marco.”

“What’s going on?” I called down.

No one paid me a bit of attention. Instead, Marco kept shoving Giulio in the direction of Fausto’s office. I didn’t like this. Was something wrong?

“I didn’t do anything!” Giulio said with a laugh. “You’re pissed for no reason.”

“We’ll see what your father says about it, eh?”

I was already trailing them. If Giulio was in trouble, I wanted to help. He was my friend—my only friend these days—and he hadn’t abandoned me when I was exiled. I owed him for looking after me during those dark weeks.

So I didn’t hesitate in following them directly to Fausto’s office. Marco turned and frowned at me. “What are you doing?”

“Helping my friend.”

“Frankie,” Giulio said, smiling over his shoulder. “Thank God. Tell Zio Marco he’s being dramatic and to let me go.”

Ah, so this was the problem. Giulio’s eyes were glazed and rimmed with red. He looked like my ex-boyfriend after he’d spent a few hours with his bong.

“Quiet,” Marco snapped, then knocked on the door to Fausto’s office. “Permesso!”

“Prego,” my baby daddy shouted from within.

Marco opened the door and I slipped in before he could close it on me. Fausto sat at his desk, his suit coat off, the sleeves of his white shirt rolled up on his thick forearms. He removed the glasses he wore when he was working and stood. “What’s this?”

A grinning Giulio pulled free of his uncle. “I didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I’ll be the judge of that,” Fausto snapped. Then his gaze traveled to me. “Francesca, you are not needed for this.”

I lifted one eyebrow. “I’ll be the judge of that.”

Oh, il Diavolo did not like having his words used against him. He drew in a deep breath and his chest swelled, those bright eyes glittering as they narrowed on me. “This is a family matter. Go upstairs.”

The words slashed like knives inside my chest, but I lifted my chin and stared him down. “Are you saying that I’m not family?” He told me he loved me earlier. Did he mean it? Because until I saw evidence of it, I wouldn’t believe him. “Besides, I’m here for Giulio, who is like family to me.”

He studied me, that keen mind turning over my words. “Sit,” he finally said, pointing to the sofa. When I obeyed like a good mantenuta, he addressed Marco. “Explain.”

“Papà—”

Fausto lifted a hand. “I will hear from your uncle first.”

Marco said, “He missed an appointment tonight at the club. Gratteri called me, asked me to track Giulio down. I found him sitting outside Paulo’s apartment. Turns out he’s been doing that a lot lately.” He walked over to Fausto’s desk and set a small square cartridge on it. A vape. “I also found this in his pocket. It’s a vaporizer for weed. There’s also tons of weed in the car.”

Fausto pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and two fingers. “Ma che cazzo?”

“I lost track of time!” Giulio folded his arms. “And this is not a big deal. Marco is overreacting.”

Fausto didn’t like that one bit. A muscle in his jaw twitched and he snarled, “This is a big fucking deal, Giulio.”

“It’s just weed, Papà—”

“Just weed? You’re sitting outside Paulo’s apartment, getting high, and neglecting your duties. Are you saying I should not be angry with you?”

Giulio chuckled, then worsened the situation by saying, “It’s no different than alcohol—and I remember how much you drank every day when Frankie was at the beach house. So, come on, Papà. Spare me any lectures.”

Oh, shit. All the air was sucked out of the room and Fausto’s face flushed, the angles sharpening with his mounting fury. It was like watching a dragon readying itself to breathe fire.

But this was the weed talking. Giulio wasn’t normally so disrespectful. I jumped to my feet and darted in front of him. I put my palms up toward Fausto, who was coming around his desk. “Wait a minute and calm down. He’s not in his right head.”

“Get out of my way, Francesca.”

Giulio wrapped his arms around my shoulders and leaned onto my back, almost like he was snuggling against me. Fausto’s mouth tightened. “Let her go before you hurt her.”

“I would never hurt Frankie,” Giulio said into my hair. “She’s the best stepmother I could have asked for.”

I closed my eyes briefly. Jesus. Baked Giulio was a blabbermouth.

“Listen,” I said to Fausto, more than ready to put the stepmother comment behind us. “Let me grab some chips and I’ll take him upstairs to watch a movie. Then you can yell at him all you want tomorrow.”

Fausto’s nostrils flared, his chest rising and falling with the force of his breaths. I didn’t know if my suggestion would work, but I had to try something. The last time I saw him this mad was when he learned I knew Giulio was gay. I didn’t want Giulio to suffer from one of Fausto’s rash decisions.

“She’s right, Rav,” Marco said, shocking the hell out of me. I wasn’t his favorite person, so I couldn’t believe he was siding with me. “Let him sleep it off. We’ll discuss it tomorrow.”

“Fine,” Fausto gritted out from between clenched teeth. “But he doesn’t leave without my approval.”

“Fuck, he’s really mad, isn’t he?” Giulio whispered with a chuckle.

“Get him out of my sight.” Fausto spun and strode toward his chair. “Marco, see that his car is cleaned out and stored. He won’t be driving it anytime soon.”

I supposed that meant we were dismissed.

I took Giulio’s hand and towed him from Fausto’s office. “Let’s go get some snacks and we’ll watch that new Adam Driver movie again.”

“He is so fucking hot.” Giulio trailed after me like a sweet puppy. “He has huge hands, did you know?”

Yes, I knew. Giulio had talked a lot about Adam Driver’s hands at the beach.

“Paulo also has huge hands,” he said. “I miss him so much, Frankie.”

“I know, sweetie.”

“He’s back on the dating apps. I don’t understand it. How can he move on without me, like I never even mattered to him?”

I doubted it was easy for Paulo, but people coped with a breakup in different ways. “Come on. There’s gelato in the fridge.”