19. Gia

The feeling of Salvatore thrusting into me takes my breath away.

It all takes my breath away. My body feels wound tight, confused, pain and pleasure all mixed together, the ache between my thighs spreading through me until all I want is for him to fuck me harder, until we both come.

I'm furious at him—and for the first time, there's no question in my mind about whether or not I want him. His possessiveness and jealousy made me angrier than I've been since the day he disrupted my wedding and took me for himself—and also turned me on more than I thought was possible.

For once, he stopped thinking. He stopped fighting how he felt, and just acted. And as angry as I am at him for manhandling me, for telling me what to do, for punishing me—I'm also painfully aroused.

I've touched myself more than once, imagining just that. Spankings, being tied up, forced down to my knees, ordered to do all sorts of things that a good mafia daughter shouldn't know about. But I never knew how good it could feel in reality. How that burning pain could turn into something else, a hot ache that left me dripping, hollow, desperate to be filled.

And now Salvatore is doing just that.

He draws himself out to the tip, thrusting shallowly at the entrance, and then drives himself into me again to the hilt. It's almost too much, his cock almost too big, but the pleasure of it filling me, hot and thick and impossibly hard, drives the pleasure so high that the pain only enhances it.

"Is this what you want?" he growls, his hand tight around my wrists as he thrusts again, grinding against me as he fills me completely. "You want to be fucked like this, Gia? Held down while I use you? Is this going to make you come?"

"Yes," I gasp helplessly, beyond argument, beyond shame. He hasn't touched my clit, but I can feel my orgasm building, his thick length rubbing every sensitive inch of me inside, sending waves of unimaginable pleasure through me. He slams into me again, his hand on the back of my neck, pinning me to the bed as he fucks me hard. "Please—please don't stop?—"

"Oh, fuck—" Salvatore groans, his jaw tight as I twist my head to look back at him, his chest heaving. "God, you're so fucking tight. So fucking good. You fit my cock so perfectly, fuck?—"

He's lost control at last. I'd wondered what it would be like, what he would do if he snapped, and it's everything I could have imagined. He looks like a god fucking me, all taut muscles beneath his clothes, his linen shirt clinging to his damp skin, his pants ripped open and hanging off of his sharp hipbones as he thrusts into me again and again. I catch a glimpse of his swollen, glistening cock as he draws out of me again, and my legs spread wider without thinking about it, my back arching to take more of him.

"Greedy girl," Salvatore growls, his hands holding me down. "You want more of my cock, don't you? You want it harder, you little troia?"

The filthy word, growled in his deep voice, his accent thick and rough, pushes me over the edge. I moan helplessly, the sound rising in a desperate whine as I buck against his hands, the orgasm crashing over me in waves. I feel myself clench around him, pulling him deeper, hear his desperate groan as I arch into his thrusting cock, wanting more, wanting him to fuck me, to come in me, to fill me up. I don't even realize that I'm moaning those words aloud until Salvatore lets out a sudden string of curses in Italian, his voice a rasping growl as he thrusts into me to the hilt, his body pinning me to the bed. I feel his cock stiffen and throb inside of me, feel the hot flood of his cum as his mouth presses against my shoulder, his hips jerking rhythmically against me as he comes hard on the heels of my own violent orgasm.

For a brief moment, neither of us move. I lay there trembling, the aftershocks still rippling over my skin, and I find myself hoping that he'll stay hard, that he'll keep fucking me, that he'll make me come again.

But instead, he recoils from me, letting go of me abruptly as he pulls free. I moan as his cock slips out of me, feeling empty, the hot dampness of his cum leaking onto my thighs as Salvatore yanks his pants back up around his hips, breathing hard.

And then, before I can get up or even say anything at all, he storms out of the room, slamming the door behind me as he leaves me there, a disheveled mess on our bed.

—

When he comes back, it's dark out. I've since showered and changed, and I'm sitting out on the deck when he returns, watching the glassy surface of the pool while I sit on one of the lounges. I hear the glass door open and hear his footsteps approaching, but I don't look up at him.

"Gia—"

"Stop lying to yourself." I don't look at him at first. I've had hours to think about what I want to say. I take a deep breath, finally turning to face him, and as I look up at him, his expression is unreadable. I can't imagine what it is that he's thinking.

"You want me," I say quietly. "You're lying to us both if you keep pretending that you don't. And I don't want any part of that. So you need to either admit it, or find a way to dissolve our marriage. Either way, I don't want any more of your lies."

Salvatore doesn't flinch. His expression doesn't change. "You're mine," he says quietly. "I won't give you up."

I take a deep breath. For once, I don't feel angry. I don't feel as if I'm simmering on the edge of either an outburst or a breakdown. I don't feel sure of the way forward, either—but I feel calm. Calmer than I have in a long time.

Slowly, I stand up to face him, my arms crossed under my breasts. "You remember what we said the other night about playing games?"

Salvatore doesn't respond, his face still implacable.

"I'm done with them," I tell him quietly. "I'm done with this back and forth, with you insisting you don't want me, hurting my feelings, making me feel unwanted and alone, all in the name of protecting me—only for you to then swoop in, drag me back here, and fuck me like that? What I wanted, only not because you were so furious you couldn't control yourself, but because you admitted that you wanted me. So here's what I've decided."

I tip my chin up, meeting his eyes, steeling myself not to flinch. "I won't accept less than a husband who treats me as an equal, and gives me what I need." My voice softens, ever so slightly. "You were my first kiss, you know. You've been my first everything. Pyotr might have shown me what it meant to feel desire, but he didn't show me how to act on any of it. You've done all of that. Maybe I was deluded into thinking that Pyotr would have given me what I wanted—maybe not. Maybe you're right, and I was wrong. But either way—that's what I was promised. Passion, desire, an equal place at my husband's side. And I won't settle for less."

Salvatore's eyebrows rise as I speak, and I see a flicker of something in his face that I don't think I've ever seen before. He looks almost—impressed. As if he's surprised to see me calmly standing up for myself—but that he likes it, too.

He lets out a slow breath, moving to one side as he sinks down onto the lounge chair. "I don't know what I'm prepared to give you, Gia. I lost control earlier. I'm not proud of it. I'm ashamed of myself for becoming so angry, for handling you that way, for letting my lust overcome me. You deserved your punishment—and you have yet to apologize for your behavior," he adds, his eyes narrowing. "But I shouldn't have lost control."

"The way you touched me—that was what I wanted the other night. Not that strange, cold way you fucked me." I bite my lip. "I wanted you. I wanted you to want me, and?—"

"The problem isn't wanting you," Salvatore says quietly. "The problem is that I shouldn't."

"And why not?" I demand. "I'm yours now; you've made that clear. You've taken my virginity; there's no going back to Pyotr for me. I'm not your daughter, Salvatore. There's no blood between us, only a promise made by you to protect me if need be. You've done that, in the only way you said you thought that you could. I'm a woman. I'm not a child. I'm your wife. The only thing you've done wrong is not treating me like your wife. I'm not some object you can just put behind glass to keep it safe, and never touch! I'm a person. And if you want to protect me, to take care of me—you have to think of me as the woman you married."

I see the way he tenses when I say that I'm his, the indrawn breath. I see that he wants me, even now. All he has to do is let himself accept it.

"I can appreciate you standing up for yourself like this, Gia," Salvatore says finally, his hands clenched between his knees. "But I don't know what I can give you. What is it that you want?" He looks up at me, his gaze dark and unreadable. "What do you want from me?"

A dozen responses run through my head, from sweet to sharp, soft to biting. But I let out a slow breath, and sink down onto the chair next to him. Not touching, not quite—but next to each other.

"To start," I say quietly, "you can behave like a real husband, on our honeymoon."

Salvatore raises an eyebrow. "What do you mean by that?"

I smile, just the tiniest bit. "I want to spend the day together tomorrow," I clarify. "You and I, on our honeymoon. No work. No talking about New York, or danger, or what you're dealing with there. For one day, we're on vacation together. And we'll see how that goes."

Salvatore doesn't smile, but I think I see the corners of his mouth twitch. He reaches down, the side of his hand brushing against the side of mine. The slightest touch, but one of the rare occasions that he's touched me casually of his own volition.

"Alright," he says slowly. "One day of vacation. Just the two of us."