Page 63 of Mafia Mistress

“I won’t choke you. Take another breath then let me in. We won’t stop this until my pelvis meets your nose.”

Oh, God. Could I do it? I wasn’t sure. Fausto was bigger and longer than David, and sometimes that had been a struggle—and I’d never deep throated before. I started to shake my head no, but Fausto just smirked down at me as he held me in place.

“You can do it. Fill that filthy mouth with my cock.” He shoved in deeper and I tried to relax and breathe through my nose. “Sí, sí. Swallow if you can.”

It took a few tries but then I swallowed and he slipped in deeper. Then I couldn’t breathe at all and I started to panic, my eyes searching his face. His expression was soft, pride shining in his eyes as he watched my mouth. “Almost there, Francesca. Almost there. You’re such a good girl, aren’t you? You’re going to make me come so hard. Just a little more.”

One more flick of his hips shoved him all the way into my throat, and my nose pressed against his skin. He held my head, his fingers tightening as my throat flexed involuntarily against the intrusion. I could hear him moaning and talking but I couldn’t pay attention. My entire focus was on not panicking and staying relaxed. I can do this.

He drew back to allow me to take a grateful breath. Then he returned to my throat and my ability to breathe departed me again. I stayed there, my nose against his belly, and tried to swallow. It sort of worked, and then I felt him swell even more. He shouted and I could feel him pulse as he came down the back of my throat.

After a few seconds, it was over and he withdrew until just the tip remained in my mouth. I stared up at him, knowing he wanted to see the spit and the tears, the mascara probably running down my face. He would want to know that he’d wrecked me...and I was right. The edge of his mouth hitched as he swiped at the moisture on my cheek, my lips still curled around the softening girth. “You are stunning.”

When he slipped free, I made no move to stand or pull away. My throat was raw and sore, like I had been yelling for hours, and my naked breasts were heavy and aching. I kept my arms behind my back, eager to keep playing this naughty game in the stall. He didn’t immediately tuck himself back into his trousers, either, but looked down almost as if he didn’t know what to think of me.

After a few seconds, he said, “Now, kiss the tip and thank me for fucking your mouth.”

I nearly smiled. Fausto liked to degrade me, but I was beginning to learn how to play his game. My compliance drove him wild.

Leaning in, I held his gaze as I pressed a kiss to the foreskin that covered the head of his penis. “Thank you, Fausto, for fucking my mouth.”

His throat worked as he swallowed. “Good girl. Now lie back so I can reward you.”

* * *

Fausto

I orderedher to come down to dinner that night.

Zia was here, as usual, and Giulio decided to eat at home tonight, too. He often ate out with friends or at the clubs, so it was nice to have my only son at the table. Francesca had changed into a dress, her long blond hair swinging down her back. Her nose and cheeks were pink from the sun today, giving her skin a healthy glow. She looked young and innocent and totally fuckable. My cock perked up, even though I’d had the orgasm of my life this afternoon.

Madonna, she was going to kill me.

After we left the stables, Francesca barely spoke. I still hadn’t fucked her, and her silence upon getting dressed proved she wasn’t ready. I wanted her begging for it, free of guilt. I wanted her willing to be mine for as long as this lasted.

It wasn’t easy, though. Especially after that blow job. Cazzo, that woman could suck a cock. Never had a woman taken me so deep on the first try. She was perfect in every way.

Eyes burning resentfully in my direction, she strode to the seat next to Zia. I couldn’t resist saying, “You look beautiful,piccolina.”

“I am so happy you find this acceptable, il Diavolo.”

That smart mouth. I wanted to hate the disrespectful way she spoke to me, but I couldn’t. She was still pissed that I ordered her to eat with us.

Zia chuckled, then covered her mouth, as if to hide it from me. Giulio wasn’t so circumspect. He laughed as he looked between Francesca and me. “This is nice. I think I’m going to like having Frankie around.”

“Francesca,” I corrected.

“Friends call me Frankie,” she told me, like I wasn’t already aware. “You may call me Francesca, however.”

If she thought that offended me, she had a lot to learn. I’d call her whatever the fuck I wanted. After I rang the tiny bell on the table, the women I paid to oversee dinner every night emerged. All three were trusted friends of Zia’s, older widows I could be sure weren’t trying to poison me.

Platters of seafood pasta, stuffed artichokes, and a leg of lamb were placed on the table. We began serving ourselves while Imelda began carving the lamb.

A strangled gasp from down the table caught my attention. Francesca was as pale as flour, staring at the leg of lamb. Her eyes were glassy, horror etched on her face, like she was watching a friend being slaughtered in front of her.

I looked at Imelda and the platter. It was just lamb. What on earth could be—?

Allora.I understood. In Italian, I said, “Imelda, no lamb tonight or any other night. Remove it, please.”

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