Page 33 of Possession

She sniffles, and my throat constricts. “I-I don’t know. I just want you.” Her hand clings to my waist, and a strange feeling overcomes me. I want to bring her comfort, much like when I used her throat in the car.

I pop open my pants, lower my zipper, and pull out my semihard cock, tapping it against her lips, seeking approval. Of course, my little doll complies and suckles on the head, and I hiss, battling with becoming hard once again.

Holding her head lightly in place with one hand, I rest the other behind my head, letting my little doll suckle my cock like a pacifier, bringing her comfort, as well as me.

Her content sigh brings a momentous feeling of satisfaction, like I’m repenting for the way I used her and letting her now use me.

I battle with the need to thrust inside her, to command her to choke around my length and gag on my control. Instead, I sit back, relax, and revel in her sweet tenderness, allowing her to control me.

Chapter Nineteen

Rafael

Loud voices fill the foyer as I step inside my father’s mansion.

Vincent Marino is the head of our Mafia family and an uncle of the Varro’s family Don, Lorenzo Varros, with whom we have an excellent relationship despite his ruthless reputation.

I disregard the raised eyebrow of my father’s right-hand man, Massio, and swing open the dining room door.

My father’s dark gaze slices toward me, but I ignore him and take my place beside him. He’s as commanding as ever. He was young when he had me and Tommy, and he continues to remind us we should be surrounded by a brood of heirs, much like he was at our age. He styles his silver hair to perfection, leaving his white shirt open at the top to expose his muscular form. His distinctive trademark is the way he rolls up his shirt sleeves, exposing his tanned skin and tattoos.

Women fall to their feet to please him, literally.

Our father has a taste for submissives, and while I’ve never delved into that world myself, I can appreciate the power you wield over someone with an act of praise or degradation. I shift in my chair, knowing I’m probably more like my father than I care to admit.

He glances at his watch.

“I text,” I grunt out.

“Papa doesn’t like technology. He’s getting old.” Rocco chides, with a smug grin across his face, then sits forward in his chair and raises his voice several octaves as if our father is hard of hearing. “Isn’t that right, Papa? You. Don’t. Like. Technology.”

Our father gifts Rocco with a sharp smack to the back of the head. “Shut the fuck up, you cocky little bastard.”

“You’re right. I am a bastard.” Rocco slumps back in his chair, and I wait for him to continue with his childish behavior. “A poor little bastard child.”

I dig into the lasagna, ignoring my little brother’s jest while my father’s eyes bore into me.

“No explanation?”

“No,” I respond.

“He was probably balls deep in some slut, Papa.” My gaze snaps up to Rocco’s, who rests back in his chair lazily, watching me with fixation, goading. He wears his signature leather jacket, much to our father’s detest, and with one arm draped over our brother Tommy’s vacant seat, a knowing grin fills his face that tells me he knows more than I’d have liked him to know. The smug little bastard knows about Ellie, there’s no doubt about that.

Trying to rein in my temper at him referring to my little doll as a slut, I take a deep breath and slowly wipe the corners of my mouth with my napkin, my deadly glare not leaving his, promising him retribution for his remark.

As if sensing the demise of his youngest son, my father chimes in. “I heard you let all of Oliver’s staff go. Even Doctor Philips.”

Slowly, I turn to face my father, and he sits back in his chair. It should piss me off that my father and brother know my personal business, but in the Mafia, there’s a need to know every-fucking-thing about everyone, including your own family.

Like I know my younger brother’s obsession with the enemy’s wife, despite him being promised to a Mafia princess.

“I did,” I reply, unwilling to discuss Oliver further.

My father drags a calculating finger over his bottom lip, watching, waiting for an explanation.

He’ll be waiting a long fucking time. I’ve always followed my father’s instructions with Oliver, and none have worked despite him constantly informing me the experience he has in raising children. “I raised my family alone,” he adds, as if reading my thoughts.

Rocco scoffs, pulling the attention away from me.

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