Chapter 28

CHAPTER

TWENTY-EIGHT

Saverio

" W hat's up with you?" Dante asks when I answer the doorbell on Saturday morning.

I turn for the kitchen, leaving him to let himself in. "Why do you think anything is up?"

"I know that look on your face."

The door shuts with a bang before his footsteps fall on the floor behind me.

I grit my teeth. Didn't anyone teach him how to close a fucking door? Slamming them is one of my pet peeves.

In the kitchen, I head straight for the coffee machine. The strenuous run this morning didn't relieve my frustration. Neither did the cold shower or the hand job. I dressed in a sweater and jeans instead of my usual office attire, thinking I could take Anya somewhere today. A movie, maybe. Or lunch. We need to be seen together more in public.

I raise the carafe. "Coffee?"

"Please," he says, slipping onto a bar stool by the island counter.

"I assume this isn't a social call."

"Fuck, bro. What's eating your ass? I'm sorry to say this, but Giorgio is right, and you know how seldom I agree with him. You need to get laid. Aren't you getting any? From the way you're stomping around like a bear with a sore head, the only thing you seem to be getting is a cold shoulder. Did you and Anya have a fight?"

"Our private life is none of your fucking business," I grumble as I pour a mug and take a sip.

The brew turned bitter. I empty the carafe in the drain, rinse it, and start a fresh pot.

Abstaining from fucking Anya takes every shred of my self-control and then some. Only the fact that my need for her to recover is bigger than the need to bury my cock in her soft, tight heat prevents me from doing exactly that. She must be sore after all that rough fucking. The women at the club often told me I was too big, and they didn't just say that because I paid them double their rates. They uttered it in strained voices with their faces pulled into masks of discomfort as I pounded into them. No hooker acts that well, not even the ones who know how to fake an orgasm that'll make a bloke with a pencil dick believe he's the hottest thing under the sun.

Now that I finally rediscovered spontaneous hard-ons and my lust returned with a vengeance, it's twice as difficult to ignore the need firing through my veins. I've never been this turned on for anyone, certainly not constantly and with an urgency that drives me wild. Even doubling up on pumping iron at the gym isn't enough to alleviate the frustration. The hand jobs I have in ice cold showers only aggravate matters. But I persist, determined to wait until next week, and since the prenatal class, Anya walks circles around me.

Fuck. Richard was right. That video still haunts my thoughts day and night. The bastard laughed his ass off when he saw my face. My skin must've turned gray. Thinking about a woman having a baby is one thing. Up to now, it's been an abstract concept in my head. Seeing how a natural birth takes place on screen is quite a different matter. I hated myself for ever wanting those four to six kids because it made me a fucking sadistic son of a bitch. How could I want to submit any woman to that? The idea still turns me inside out.

I'm surprised how calmly Anya took everything after knowing what's in store for her. My treasure is a lot braver than what she gives herself credit for. I knew it the night I chased after her to kill her. No, not to kill her. To shut her up. To make sure she didn't spill anything from those pretty lips. I knew it when, despite her disadvantage in size, she fought me like a hellcat. I knew it without a doubt when Livy told me about her traumatic past. She's a survivor, and that's something I admire.

Nicole will have to do a Caesarian. There's no other way, no way I'm letting Anya go through that hell that may very well kill her. I won't be able to stand by her side and see her suffer that kind of pain. No fucking way. Not to mention the million and one things that can go wrong.

"Where the fuck are you?" Dante asks, snapping his fingers in my face. "Because you're not in this room."

Forcing those tormenting images from my mind, I grab two clean mugs. "Anything new on Raphael?"

Dante rests a shoe on the foot bar of the stool and props a hand on his hip, brushing his jacket aside. "That's why I'm here. He's replacing Luigi's men with his own at Obsidian."

I still at that. "Does Luigi know?"

"Yep."

I pour the coffee when it's ready. "Are you sure? He didn't say anything to me."

"Luigi went to the club last night. He was there to validate the decision when Raphael told the men they're no longer working their shifts. I wasn't present myself, but one of the guys said Luigi went on about how each man should be allowed to work with a team he trusts, and that Raphael will have more chance of succeeding if he works with his own men because they understand each other and how they operate. According to the bouncer I spoke to, Luigi said he would've done the same if he were in Raphael's shoes. If anything, he considered it a sign of a good manager."

Interesting. "Where are the men reallocated?"

"The smaller clubs." He pulls his mug closer and lifts it to his mouth. "By the way, where is Anya?"

I clench my jaw and pick up my mug. "Why do you ask?"

"Don't look as if you want to bite off my head. I'm just wondering."

Narrowing my eyes, I ask, "Wondering what?"

"How things are between you."

"Great," I say with a bite in my tone. "It was a long week for her. She's sleeping in this morning."

He raises a hand. "Okay."

The subject of our discussion walks through the door, dressed in a long-sleeved red dress that reaches mid-thigh. She matched it with black boots that show off her milky skin and toned legs. Red looks good on her. It brings out the color of her eyes and her hair. I like it. A lot.

Catching Dante staring, I cut him a look that says I'm about to stab out his eyes.

He clears his throat. "Morning, Anya. How are you?"

"Good, thanks." She smiles in his direction before heading toward the kettle. "You?"

"Just catching up with Sav."

"Oh." She stops at the island. "Am I interrupting?"

"No," Dante and I say simultaneously.

A wanton look comes over her face as she stares at the cup in my hand. Reaching for it, she asks, "May I?"

I hold tight when she tries to take it from me. "What are you doing?"

When she insists, I don't have a choice but to let go lest I spill the piping hot coffee over her hand.

Lifting the mug to her nose, she inhales deeply. "Mm, this smells so good."

Dante frowns.

Trust me to be an inconsiderate idiot. I shouldn't brew coffee in the house when I know damn well caffeine is on her red list.

My question is sympathetic. "Can I make you a cup of herbal tea?"

Dante chuckles. "Don't tell me you're one of those health fanatics with hang-ups about caffeine and sugar and every fucking thing that tastes good."

Remembering what the coach said last night about the baby already discerning voices and words in the mother's womb from as early as sixteen weeks, I lean over the counter and slap Dante upside the head. "No swearing in front of Anya."

He rubs his head. "Have you lost your f—" Correcting himself, he continues, "Have you lost your mind?"

Anya shoots me a look. "Saverio likes to be over-protective."

"No s—" Dante shakes his head. "No kidding."

"Toast?" I ask Anya. "I got fresh beef tomatoes."

She takes an apple from the bowl on the counter. "Thanks for the offer, but I have somewhere to be. I'll grab something on the way. Enjoy your breakfast."

I put down my mug. "I'll drive you."

She stops. "Oh, no. That's not necessary."

Is it me or she turned a little pale?

"It's no trouble," I say. "I was planning on spending more time with you today, my love ."

She purses her lips.

"Grab a jacket," I say. "The weather is turning."

She spins around and marches to the door with me short on her heels.

"Okay," Dante calls after us. "I'll just see myself out."

I fetch my leather jacket and wait for her at the door.

Once we're in the Corvette, I ask, "Where to?"

She crosses her arms. "I have a private life, you know."

"I beg to differ." The muscles around my eyes tighten as a foul suspicion hits me. "Are you hiding something from me?" Murderous intention fires through my veins. "Who are you going to see?"

"No one," she cries out. "Well, not who you think."

I'll fucking kill him. My tone is sardonic. Cold. I already imagine driving my knife into his belly and gutting him. "Who do I think?"

"When will you believe me? I'm not going to the police. How can I? Thanks to you, I'm knee-deep in this mess too. I'm an accomplice, Saverio. What do think will happen to me if I spill the beans? I'll get arrested, that's what. And seeing that I can't afford a good lawyer, I'll rot in jail."

No. I'll never let her rot in a cell. Besides, they'll cut her a deal. That's how it works. But I don't enlighten her. "Good, then you can tell me."

She blows out a puff of air. "I see my mom every Saturday, okay?"

Of course. That little detail was noted in the report I got on her. My jealousy clouded my reason.

I start the engine. "Why didn't you just say so?"

"Because I don't want you to—" She bites off the rest of her words.

Ah. Comprehension dawns. "To see where she lives," I finish her sentence.

"Yes," she bites out.

That, I get. Shame is a powerful emotion, but she has nothing to be ashamed of. None of it is her fault.

I ask even though I already know the address. I don't want to remind her that I pulled information on her.

On the way, I stop at a deli for breakfast bagels and a chai ginger latte for Anya. As she can't drink coffee, I don't order one for me. I don't want to tempt her with something she craves. Besides, I already had my caffeine boost for the morning.

We eat our breakfast at a small table in the back. She eats only half of the bagel before pushing back her plate and claiming she's had enough. As the uterus grows, it can press on parts of the digestive tract. It's better that she eats smaller meals. I'll just feed her more often.

A few minutes later, we enter through the gates of a stately mansion. I park in the small parking lot in front of the building and help her from the car.

"Thanks." She pulls her bottom lip between her teeth and chews it for a couple of seconds before saying, "I can take a taxi when I'm done."

That's laughable. "I'm coming in with you."

She clutches the strap of her bag that's slung over her shoulder. "Why?"

"Given how serious our relationship is getting, it's normal that I meet your mother. Wouldn't you say so?"

"I don't?—"

Not giving her a chance to finish, I usher her to the door and knock.

Footsteps sound on the other side. I look up, taking in the bars in front of the windows.

A mature man dressed in scrubs opens the door. His face lights up when he sees Anya, but when he notices me, a question passes through his eyes.

Addressing Anya, he says, "You brought company."

Clearly flustered, Anya says, "Um, yes. This is Saverio, my, um?—"

"Fiancé," I say, holding out a hand. "Well, future fiancé. We haven't chosen the ring yet."

Anya looks at me quickly, her pretty eyes flaring.

The man frowns. "I'm Bertrand." He shakes my hand. "That was fast."

Yeah. Anyone who knows Anya will know I'd never be her normal choice of a boyfriend, let alone a husband. I'm practiced at charming people, but Bertrand is too old and wise to let anyone pull the wool over his eyes.

"Actually, we met a while ago," I say. "Anya wanted to keep it quiet until we were certain about being serious."

"I see," he says, but his inquisitive expression tells a different story. "Come in."

We follow him through a security door to the back of the building. He leaves us in front of a private room and tells Anya with a meaningful tone to call if we need him.

"You can wait in the lounge," Anya says.

Her words aren't cold yet before I've opened the door and walked inside. A middle-aged woman sits in a chair next to the window, staring out at the garden.

Her mouth thins before she spares me a glance. "It's about fucking time."

She turns her face my way, and, not finding who she expected, her dull brown eyes grow wide. She looks nothing like Anya. The smile on her lips isn't warm, and the light in her eyes isn't soft. She's quick to hide her reaction and equally fast to measure me with a gaze. She ends her evaluation on my handmade Italian shoes.

Anya scurries around me. "I brought a friend. This is Saverio. Saverio, this is my mom, Mary."

A nasty, sly expression transforms Mary's face. "Are you fucking her?"

"Mom," Anya exclaims.

My smile is cold. "That's none of your business."

Mary looks around me, addressing her daughter. "He's got money, this one. I can see it by his fancy fucking clothes. You should take your due, Anya, milk him while the only thing he's interested in is between your legs, because when he grows tired of your cunt, he'll throw you out on the street, and you won't get another dime from his filthy rich fucking ass."

"Oh my God." Anya covers her face with her hands. "Why are you always doing this, Mom? Saverio, we should go."

"Already?" Mary mocks. "Why, my little girl is ashamed of me. I pushed her through my vagina. Nearly died in the process too. You'd think she'd show a little more gratitude and respect for me."

Anya stiffens. "You know, I'm growing tired of the same old tune. You nearly died giving birth to me only when it suits you. When it doesn't, you're quick to remind me what a ball and chain I am around your ankle."

Mary lifts her chin. "Then why do you still come here?" She scowls. "You sure as hell don't bring my booze or cigarettes, so what's the point? Do you think I want to sit here and make fucking small talk with you?" Her laugh is nasty. "If you think I want to hear anything about your miserable life, you're delusional."

Anya balls her hands. "I come here because I'm the only one in the world you have. There's nobody else who'll take care of you. Sadly, Mom, I'm not doing it out of love. I'm doing it out of duty because I'll never be like you." Turning on her heel, she says, "Come, Saverio. I'm done here." She stops at the door. "You won't see me again, Mom, not until you behave like a civil person and at least pretend to respect me. I have other priorities to worry about now."

Not waiting to see if I follow, Anya walks through the door.

"That's right," Mary calls after her. Raising her voice, she continues, "She's going to have another man's baby. Did she tell you that? Let's see how much he wants to fuck you now."

In two long strides, I'm in her space, gripping the armrests and putting our faces a hairbreadth apart.

Fear bleeds into her eyes.

Yeah.

A monster recognizes a monster.

"I have two things to say to you. One, another word from your mouth…" My grin is sinister. "And I'm going to kill you."

She flattens herself against the back of the chair, not so keen on kicking the bucket now. Not like all those times she tried to kill not only herself but also her daughter. Like all bullies, she's a coward when confronted by someone bigger and stronger.

"Two, if you swear one more time in Anya's presence," I say, "I will cut out your tongue."

Her face transforms with horror.

"If you do ever see your daughter again and you're not the perfect example of the Virgin Mary herself with impeccable manners and filled with so much love that it shines like angelic light from your asshole, I will cut off your fingers one by one, mince them, and make you eat every morsel of that steak tartare. If you do see your daughter again, you better have a halo hanging over your head."

She makes a choking sound.

"I may come for you in the night." I straighten. "So don't sleep too deeply."

She gags, struggling for breath when I walk from the room.

Anya waits outside next to the Corvette. "I'm sorry you had to see that." She sounds apologetic. "She has better days. Bertrand normally warns me when it's this bad."

I open her door. "Get in the car."

She bites her nail as she obeys.

If I felt like killing Mary before, the urge is now a thousand times greater. She's a waste of space, but she's still Anya's mother. Blood is sacred. For that reason alone, I won't off her until she gives me a reason, and I hope to God she does.

Instead of driving home, I head to the Bronx.

"Where are we going?" Anya asks.

I don't reply. She doesn't speak again until I pull up at the old house with the cracked walls and peeling paint and park across the road. The number still hangs askew on the rusted gate, the nine drawing a six. An old man with a crooked back is hunched over on the lawn, hacking at the weeds with a pair of garden shears. It's a lost battle. They'll be twice as high tomorrow.

"Why are we here?" Anya asks in a soft voice, but I think she already knows.

I clench the steering wheel, not turning my gaze away from the man who's too stooped for his age. "This is where I grew up."

My gut twists, memories assaulting me. Most of those memories are only fragments now, disjointed pieces from my earliest recollections. I keep them like the childhood treasures I hid in the hollow of a tree trunk. Like those chipped marbles and broken costume jewelry with mud-encrusted cracks, random bling that I picked up in the park, they're pretty to look at, to take out of their hiding place from time to time and admire in the light of the sun. Like those fake diamonds and broken glass, their only value is sentimental. As factual data, they're worthless, full of holes and missing information. Full of sad parts I fight hard not to remember.

Yet I cling to those shards of my past that are like blurry black-and-white flashes from an old movie projector—my mother rubbing eucalyptus oil onto my chest when I cough through the night, a five-year-old me mowing the lawn to surprise my father when he gets home from work, and the look of pride on my mother's face when I made my first cup of tea and served it to her with a dandelion from the garden. I'm not even sure if those glimpses of a loving family are real or if I simply fabricated them. If you lie to yourself for long enough, you eventually believe it.

Anya puts a hand on my arm, pulling me back to the present. "Is that him?"

I know who she means. "My father."

"I'm sorry, Sav."

Turning to her abruptly, I cup her cheek. "You don't have to be." Urgency infuses my tone. "This is who I am. This is where I come from. That man over there? That's the man who hates me. So, you see, we both have pasts that we'd rather sweep under the carpet and pretend they don't exist. You never have to be ashamed of who you are, not with anyone, and especially not with me. The only thing you should feel is pride." I tear my hand away from her face and put the car into gear. "I sure as hell do."

"For what you achieved?"

"For what you achieved."

She only stares at me, and I'm glad. I prefer it that way. I don't like to talk about my childhood or my failure to make my parents proud. I made my choices. I'm happy to live with them. Nevertheless, the pain that flays my chest wide open when I drive away is always fresh. What gets to me is seeing my father so broken and knowing he'd rather die in that hellhole than take a penny from me. I guess he's right to hate me. A part of me never stopped blaming him for letting my mother suffer and waste to skin and bones when my money could've paid for the cure.

Fuck.

I don't even know why I brought Anya here. I haven't showed the sad, dilapidated excuse of a house to another soul, certainly not to Rachele who picks her friends and the people she associates with like she chooses her stylish outfits in the morning. She would've been appalled. Horrified. If she ever saw this, she wouldn't have touched me with a ten-foot pole.

"Saverio?"

I take my eyes off the road for a second to look at Anya.

She fiddles with the strap of her bag in her lap. "Why did you tell Bertrand we're getting engaged?"

Honestly? I have no fucking idea. Maybe it was how he judged me with that wise old gaze that said I wasn't good enough for Anya. He was right. I'm bad for her in every way. But she already knows that too.

"I improvised," I say with a shrug designed to look nonchalant. "Any serious relationship progresses."

"You're complicating this unnecessarily."

I shoot her another glance. My voice turns dark. "Am I?"

"You're making it more difficult to have a discreet breakup when this is over."

Because it won't be over. Luigi won't rest until she's dead, and I already decided she's mine. Forever.

My reaction to her isn't normal. It's nothing short of miraculous. I'm afraid if I let it go, I'll never have it again. Anyway, the idea of another man's hands on her turns me rabid. I'll never allow that as long as I live.

But I don't tell her that either. All I say is, "We'll cross that bridge when we get there." Which is never.

She blows out a breath and looks through the window, hiding her expression from me.

I don't like it. I don't like not knowing what's going on in her head. I don't like it when she's not happy because then the baby isn't happy. That's what the coach at the prenatal class said. My plan was spending a nice day together while showing her off in public, not digging up bones and marinating in pain from the past.

"I know a great seafood restaurant on the river," I say. "Hungry? You didn't eat much this morning."

She glances at the clock on the dashboard. "It's only eleven thirty."

"So what? Who said you can't have lunch for breakfast?"

She smiles. "Don't you mean brunch?"

Fuck, yeah. I like that look on her much better. I'm not going to lie. She's gorgeous when she's scared. When death stares her in the eyes, her love of life, everything she hasn't lived yet, burns with vigor in those whisky-colored pools. Her fight makes them glow like the sun. But when she smiles, her whole face lights up. It's as if the sun comes from inside her, as if summer lives in her chest. She's my precious treasure. Unlike the random shit I shoved into a hole in a tree, she's the real fucking deal, the only woman who can set me on fire.

The restaurant isn't far from the firm where Anya works. I park a block away and walk her to the modern glass building that floats on the quay. It takes months to get a reservation, but the owner knows me.

Before we reach the drawbridge that gives access to the restaurant deck, Anya hangs back.

I stop and give her a questioning look. Her face has taken on an ashen color. She cups her stomach like someone who's about to be sick.

"Here," I say, quickly guiding her to the rows of flowerpots on the side.

She hunches over, sucking in air through her mouth.

"Breathe, tesoro ." I rub her back. "Is it the morning sickness?"

It takes her a moment to catch her breath. Straightening, she says, "It's the smell of the fish."

I didn't pay attention, but a strong smell of deep-fried fish wafts to us on the breeze.

"Better?" I ask, taking her elbow.

"I'm sorry."

"Don't ever apologize for being pregnant again. Come on. I have an idea."

I take her back to the car and drive to Little Italy. The restaurant I frequent doesn't have a sign above the door or a menu outside. The daily special is whatever the chef decides to cook.

Rusty does a double-take when I enter with Anya. One, I usually only come here for dinner. Two, I've never brought a woman.

"Sav," he says, greeting me with the customary hug and a slap on the back. "Who's this lovely lady?"

"This is Anya, my girlfriend. We're getting engaged soon."

He grows a pair of owl eyes, but he quickly schools his features. "Welcome. You're in luck." He winks at Anya. "I made fresh gnocchi." Bustling toward the back, he waves for us to follow. "Come in. I'll prepare your table."

We go through the main area to the private room at the back. There's only one table set with a checkered tablecloth and a geranium pot plant in the center. A fridge with wine and beer stands in the corner.

He seats Anya and drapes a napkin over her lap. "Any allergies or food intolerances?"

Anya shakes her head.

"Anya is very fond of tomatoes," I say.

"Ah." Rusty waves a finger in the air. "I have just the thing for you then. How does my creamy pomodoro sauce sound?"

"Perfect," Anya says, smiling at him.

I lean over and take her hand, making it clear she's mine and reminding her that all those pretty smiles belong to me. "Bring us a salad for the table and a side dish of antipasti. Do you have tiramisu today?"

"Always." Rusty snaps his fingers. "Would you like some wine?"

"I'm driving. Water will do." I look at Anya. "Still or sparkling? Maybe something else? Tomato juice?"

Her smile stretches at the mention of the juice. "Still water is fine, thank you."

"I'll bring your order shortly," Rusty says with enthusiasm that reaches a new level before hurrying away.

"You come here often," she says, taking in the humble space.

I rub a thumb over her knuckles. "It's rustic, but the food is good."

"I like it. It's cozy. It feels as if we're having lunch in someone's grandmother's kitchen."

"Exactly."

That's why Rachele refused to come here. She found it too basic. In her opinion, a restaurant only has merit if it adds value to her Instagram status. It's refreshing to be with an uncomplicated woman, someone who doesn't require that I lay the world at her feet before she'll grace me with her attention. Not that Anya has a choice. She's stuck with me. Yet if she did have a choice, she wouldn't ask me to slay dragons before giving me an ounce of her time. That's what I like about her. I like that I can sit across a table from her and enjoy a plate of simple gnocchi.

Anya clears her throat. "We're in a private room."

I raise a brow. "Do you prefer to sit in the front?"

She motions at her hand that's buried under the bulk of mine on the table. "There's no one here to see you holding my hand. You don't have to act as if we're madly in love."

I grin. "It's for Rusty's sake."

Her smile holds a challenge. "Is that so?"

"I may also like holding your hand."

A light blush tints her cheeks, giving her that gorgeous peaches-and-cream complexion I love so much. "What is this? Role play practice?"

"Why not?" I shrug. "A little practice has never hurt anyone." I lower my voice. "On the contrary, practice makes perfect."

The color on her cheeks turns to a deep apricot, making those cute freckles stand out.

Rusty appears with a bottle of water and the salad. We fall quiet. After placing everything on the table, he doesn't linger to chat about horse racing and football. He rushes from the room, mumbling something about giving us privacy.

"You didn't have to go to so much trouble," Anya says. "You could've eaten at the seafood restaurant. I would've been happy with a sandwich at home."

"I like coming here. Besides, finding you tomatoes brings me great joy."

"Stop making fun of me," she chides.

On the contrary, seeing her devouring something I went to great lengths to source for her is even better than sex. It gives me a warm feeling in the center of my chest, a foreign sentiment I've never experienced.

Unable to resist, I lift her hand to my mouth and bite down gently on her index finger. The sharp intake of her breath does things to me, things that shouldn't happen in a restaurant. When she tries to free her hand, I hold tight. Sucking her finger into my mouth, I wrap my tongue around the digit. Her pupils dilate like small black expanding stars. Under her dress, her nipples contract. It's impossible to miss the hard little tips that push against the fabric.

My pulse beats with a steady, heavy tempo between my temples. I tried. Like never before. But I've never needed anything so badly.

My question is honest. No more beating around the bush. "Did I give you enough time to recover?"

She gives a start. "Saverio."

"Yes or no?"

"I—Yes."

Yes.

That sweet little word. A word that gives me permission. And I don't let her invite me twice.

I stand, come around the table, and pull her to her feet.

"What are you doing?" she whispers when I drag her by the hand down the narrow hallway past the kitchen.

A glance over my shoulder assures me the front area is getting busy. Customers are trickling in for lunch.

It doesn't matter.

I open the bathroom door and push her inside. She spins around to face me when I lock the door.

"What are you doing?" she asks again, this time with a hint of panic in her voice.

I'm on her in a blink, wrapping my hands around her middle and lifting her onto the vanity counter. It would've been easier to bend her over and take her from behind, but that's not how I want it. I want to look at her face when I sink balls-deep inside her. I want to see her eyes when I make her come.

"Saverio," she cries out when I scrunch the hem of her dress into my fists and shove it over her thighs up to her waist.

She grabs my shoulders for balance when I spread her knees and step between her legs.

Shooting an anxious look at the door, she asks, "Are you crazy?"

"For you," I admit, already unzipping.

I shove my briefs and jeans down just far enough to free my cock.

She drops her gaze to my hard-on and drags in a shaky breath. "Oh, God. We're really going to do this."

"You bet. And yes, I'm going to be your god. You're going to worship every inch of my cock when I come inside you."

Hooking my finger into the elastic of her thong on the side, I pull the triangle covering her pussy away. "Are you wet for me?"

I don't wait for her answer. I slip a finger inside her and find out for myself.

Yes, goddamn.

Gripping the root of my cock, I position the crest at her slit. I love how her lips part as I push in gently. I don't stop until she's taken everything. I'd love to fuck her at my leisure, but there's only one bathroom. Someone may pound on the door any second.

She stares down at me, those pretty eyes hazy with desire as she clings to my shoulders. I lock one hand on her hip and brush the other between our bodies to rub her clit. There's no time to bring her gradually to the edge. When I thrust, I thrust in earnest, my aim getting us both over the finish line quickly.

She leans back her head and moans. I revel in the thought that only I can do this for her. Only she can do this to me. No one else. That's what I always wanted. Someone who belongs to me. To me alone. A beautiful, innocent treasure to corrupt and worship.

"Sav, please."

I pull out and slide back in, making sure I don't hit too deep or too hard. Over and over. Until her scream nearly lifts the roof. Slamming a hand over her mouth, I beat out a rhythm inside her body, one that drives both of us wild. She digs her nails into my shoulders through my shirt, holding on as I shove one final time. When her inner muscles clench on my cock, I let go.

Fuck.

The release is crippling.

Time comes to a standstill.

Like a fucking cliché, someone bangs on the door.

I let them knock. Take my time to finish. I kiss her through her aftershocks that milk my cock dry, not caring that the insistent hammering on the door gets louder.

I only tear my lips from hers when she goes completely slack in my arms.

"Okay?" I ask.

She bites her lip and nods.

I offer her a smile. "Ready?"

She makes a sound of agreement.

"Stay," I say, already missing her heat when I pull out.

I adjust my clothes and grab a stash of paper towels to clean her. Then I lift her to her feet and straighten her dress before making quick work of washing my hands. Wrapping my fingers around hers, I hold her behind me to block her with my body in case she's shy about what we did. Whoever is waiting for a piss on the other side will definitely know what went down by the state of her creased dress and the scent of sex that hangs in the room.

I unlock the door and open it.

The guy on the other end wears a sour look. "About time."

I don't spare him a second glance, but when I look over my shoulder at Anya, she's averted her gaze. She follows me quietly back to our table.

The food arrived while we were busy.

I guess now Rusty and everyone in the kitchen know we had a go at it in the bathroom. Frankly, I don't give a fuck. That's what I wanted, for people to believe we're the real deal. It doesn't get more real than this.

And in that lies the problem.

Anya was always supposed to be a toy. A possession. Someone I could fuck without messy feelings getting in the way.

But she's fast becoming a lot more than that.