Chapter 43

43

Olivia

The elevator jerks to a stop. The vibrations travel through the walls of the car and up my spine. I glance up at the indicator to find we've stopped on the tenth floor.

"What the hell are you doing?" I try to push him off of me, but he's so damned solid, he doesn't move. Not an inch. He simply stands there with a slightly crazed look in his eyes.

"M-Massimo?" I gulp. "You're scaring me."

"Good." He plants his palm on the wall of the elevator next to my head and I jump.

"What are you doing?"

"Deciding which hole I want to take first—your mouth, your pussy, or your ass. And you know how much I enjoy your ass, Stellina. "

I gape at him. "You've completely lost it."

"I have."

"Guess all that talk of giving me my space and allowing me to decide when I wanted to sleep with you was just that. You never meant it."

"I did. I do. Only, I overestimated the extent of my patience." He lowers his head and runs his nose up the length of my throat. "You smell like vanilla and coconut. Like an exotic dessert I want to eat up and ask for more."

"It… it's my shampoo. Tropical delight. It has essence of vanilla and a touch of coconut; also, passion fruit and mango and?—"

He buries his nose in my hair and draws in a long whiff. A moan spills from my lips. Oh, my god, that was… so erotic. No one has smelled me like that. Like he wants to eat me alive. He drags his nose down my neck to the curve of my shoulder. He bites the skin there and I shiver. He licks the skin he's marked, and my knees almost give way from under me.

"You do it purposely, don't you? Dress in this way that covers so much of you, it makes me yearn to get another glimpse of you. Makes me want to tear your clothes off and mark every creamy inch of you. Makes me want to squeeze your curves and bite your breasts, then slap your ass until my palm prints are imprinted on your behind."

"Oh my god," I bite down on my lower lip. A pulse flares to life between my thighs, mirroring the frantic beating of my heart. "Massimo, please."

He plants his massive thigh between mine. I yelp. He grabs my hips and pulls me forward, then back, so I'm riding his leg. Through the layers of my clothes, my already sensitive clit rubs against the unyielding bulk of his thigh. Sensations zing out from the point of contact. Sparks of heat flush my skin, and moisture laces my core. He continues to rock me against his thigh, and I hook my fingers into his shirt and hold on. He glares into my eyes. I'm enraptured, captured, unable to look away, unable to remind myself not to fall head-over-heels into the depths of those eyes of his, which are so clear they, once more, resemble sheets of ice.

His hot breath sears my lips. I can't stop the whine that slips out. One side of his mouth twists, and he intensifies his actions, pushing me into his thigh and hauling me back and forth until the sensations zing up my spine. The tightness at the base of my spine crowds in on itself. The trembling starts somewhere deep inside of me, then shivers out to my extremities. My back bows. I tug on the front of his shirt as the climax grips me. He peers deeply into my eyes, watching me closely as the orgasm gathers speed. He increases the intensity of his movements, tugging me toward him, then away, again and again… and again. My climax rips through me and I cry out. I throw my head back, and I'm dimly aware that he releases his hand on my hip, only to shove it behind my head, so I slap into it instead of the hard wall. Then my orgasm splinters behind my eyes and I come. Moisture laces my core, and my pussy flutters, seeking something more. I want more. More. More. More. I slump, and he catches me and pulls me into his chest. My hold on his shirt loosens and I lay there, my heart thumping in my chest, my blood pumping through my veins. I sense his heartbeat echoing mine, feel the heat of his body sinking through mine. He runs his hand down my hair, then, in soothing gestures, over my back.

I burrow into him further. I turn my head into the strip of skin visible between the lapels of his shirt and inhale deeply. Dark pine. Citrus. Woodsmoke. All of it plays havoc with my senses. He lowers his leg, holds me until I find my balance, then he steps back and runs his hands over my hair, righting my sweater. When he's satisfied, he punches the button on the elevator and steps back, twining his fingers with mine.

When the doors open, he leads me out and toward his car. He walks quickly, scanning the area. I almost have to run to keep up with him. He beeps the key fob as we approach the car, then opens the passenger door and guides me inside, before he rounds the car and gets into the driver's seat. He eases it out of the parking space and instructs his phone to dial JJ Kane. When JJ answers, he says we're coming over and we need his help, then disconnects before the other guy can say anything.

"We're going to his house?" I ask.

Massimo looks in either direction, then pulls out of the parking lot.

"Why are we going to his house?" I turn to him. His jaw is set, his gaze narrowed, and it's not because he's driving. He's angry about something.

"Are you pissed off with me?" I burst out.

No answer.

"Are you upset because that guy approached us?"

"He's not just any guy; he's the head of the Mexican cartel. If you think Michael is ruthless, you should meet Alvaro. If you thought your brother was a testa di cazzo , Alvaro is far worse."

"And you shot off his finger and pissed him off even more."

"He touched what was mine. He dare lay a finger on you, Stellina. He had it coming."

My heart crashes into my chest. Pinpricks of heat arrow down to my core and my clit throbs in tandem to the pulse that beats at my temples. I shouldn't find what he did a turn on, but the sheer vehemence, the brutality and the ease with which he hadn't hesitated to punish Alvaro for what he did is so hot. When I remember how Alvaro eyed me, how his weaselly gaze made my skin crawl. A shiver runs up my spine... I'm glad he did it.

I lock my fingers in my lap, "He's lying. Diego couldn't owe him a billion dollars. It's not possible." I drag my fingers through my hair.

"What's right or wrong doesn't matter anymore. That's the sum Alvaro has put on your safety."

I shudder. A million—make that a billion—bugs seem to crawl under my skin at once. I wrap my arms around myself, then stare forward.

He must sense my disquiet, for he shoots me a sideways glance. "You don't have to worry about anything; I'll take care of it."

"You do realize, I'm used to taking care of myself?"

"That was before you were my wife," he retorts.

"See, this is what I hate about you Mafioso. You get so macho, so possessive. You forget that we women are individuals with the ability to choose for ourselves."

"And I don't doubt that. I'm aware that you're a career woman, someone who is strong-willed enough to make it on her own in the cutthroat world of acting. But this is beyond your capabilities."

Anger twists my guts. I whip my head around to face him. "How can you say that? I grew up in this world. I know how it works."

"Then you also know that being a woman makes you more vulnerable. Especially when you consider the fact that your brother bartered you?—"

"Like you took me as collateral for the safety of my family."

"It's not the same thing, and you know it," he says through gritted teeth.

"How isn't it the same thing? That stronzo wants me for just one thing. And you want me for the same thing."

He slams on his brakes in the middle of the road. The sound of brakes screeching reaches us, then a chorus of horns sound.

"How dare you compare what we have to what that faccia di merda threatened you with?" He turns on me. "You're my wife, goddammit," he growls.

"With no say in how I get to live my life, apparently."

"I'm letting you pursue your career, aren't I?" he snaps.

"And I'm supposed to be grateful for that? Men can do what they want, when they want, even after they're married, and no one questions it. Whereas, we women have to justify what we want, explain why we want it, beg some man to allow us to do things. Why, almost every director who puts out a casting call is a man. Do you know women constitute about ten-percent of film directors in the world today? That's it. About ten-percent. And PS, I still have to bow and scrape to a man to get a role. Not to mention, maybe having to sleep with him."

"You are not going to sleep with anyone else, you hear me?" he growls. "You're my wife. It should go without saying, I expect you to be completely faithful to me."

Behind us, someone hits their horn again.

"You're blocking traffic." I glance over my shoulder, then back at him. "Can you keep the car moving, please?"

"You're not going to sleep with anyone to get a role. Not now; not ever."

I throw up my hands. "Of course, I'm not going to do that. I've never done it, and I never will. I have more self-respect than that. I was saying that's how things work in the film world. How did we even get onto this topic?"

The litany of horns grows more insistent.

"Please, can you move the car?"

"And you will obey me when it comes to matters of your safety. You will not do anything foolish to endanger yourself again."

"Oh, so you do believe it's my fault I was shot?" I fume.

"I didn't say that."

"Then what did you mean by that?"

"All I meant was you need to do as I tell you so I can ensure your safety until we deal with this new threat."

"And if I don't?"

"If you don't, I'll—" There's a banging on his window.