Page 19 of Mercy in Betrayal

What if I had sat beside him in the back seat of that SUV with its blacked-out windows—just like Cassidy and Evie’s, now that I think about it. He must be somebody important. What if I had sat beside him, though, and…maybe I had been wearing a skirt, instead of a pair of trousers. And I’d had the courage to inch the hem upward just a little bit…to indicate my interest.

“Thank you for saving me,” I could have said.

Beside me in the back seat, I would have felt his body change. Tighten with awareness. Understanding. “It was my pleasure. But you could thank me properly,” he might reply, placing his hand on my thigh beside him. His fingers would torment the edge of my skirt, whispering the fabric against my skin as they eased it upwards in excruciating increments.

I can feel it.

“Oh-okay…” I would whisper, my thighs sliding open, both in the back seat and in the here and now, in my bed.

“What have we here?” he might say when my skirt is high enough to reveal the tops of my thigh-high stockings. I’ve always had a weakness for pretty things, and lingerie no one ever sees is no exception. I imagine his finger tracing the elastic before it resumes its journey and then abruptly stopping. “Are you sure you want to thank me, sweetheart?” he asks. I nod mutely, the only witnesses my imaginary hero and the darkness of my bedroom. A wicked smile breaks over his face and warmth blossoms between my legs. “Lift that skirt and show me that pretty cunt.”

In my fantasy, I slowly lift my skirt, revealing myself to him. I’m conveniently bare, no pesky panties to bother with. It’s my fantasy, after all. My nightgown creeps up around my waist in tandem with the action, and as my hero’s gaze burns into my core, the fingers on my thigh flex, then slide gently inward.

He spreads me further open, then dips a lazy orbit around my folds, spreading the moisture gathered there before bringing it up and circling my clit with the pad of his middle finger. My head falls back, and I gasp.

His finger, thick and hard, slides a little further into my channel. He plunges it in and out several times until my hips are rocking helplessly against him, then settles me against the heel of his hand and thrusts his finger deep. He hooks it in such a way that it curls against the top of my walls and begins a steady, demanding rhythm that refuses to let me retreat or hold back in any way.

Then he adds another.

“Hold on…” he murmurs.

Wishing it was real, I grip his imaginary wrist, pushing his imaginary fingers into me hard, and ride his imaginary hand until I come, shaking and sweating and smothering a shout with my pillow.

Chapter 7

Enzo

A soft knock on my father’s office door—no, it’s mine now; I have to remember that—has me looking up from the recently varnished desk. Instead of having his bloodstains removed, I had them glossed over. Each time I sit behind the desk, they’re a reminder.

The bastard is really and truly dead.

No one announces the visitor who opens the door, but I’m not fearful. The guards will have vetted whoever it is long before they reach my office.

The tip of Baccio’s nose appears first; then my sister steps in. She’s cagey as she takes in the room, her expression carefully blank. Baccio’s low growl makes me raise a brow at the animal. The dog never liked me, and the feeling is mutual. I’d prefer if this one waited outside, but I don’t say anything to Carina. I’m sure she knows. Knowing her, she brought the animal here to annoy me.

She stops assessing the room, but not before I see pain radiate in her eyes. “Mio fratello,” she says, stepping around the desk with her arms open for an embrace. I stand, and she hugs me, ignoring my hands hanging loosely at my side.

I haven’t sought out Carina since coming back to New York City. When I arrived home and found out that she was in a relationship with Luca, I was shocked, to say the least. Meeting them at the New Year’s party had been awkward and brief. Part of me has yearned for this contact, though. She’s all I have left. My arms slowly wrap around her, and she relaxes against me. I close my eyes and allow myself this moment of contact.

She’ll see through you soon enough. My father ruins the moment, along with the growl from Baccio.

“Heel, Baccio,” Carina says, breaking the embrace. She walks back to the front of the desk and sits down. The dog rests at her feet.

He got what he wanted and is no longer growling.

I slide into the new chair that I bought for myself. It’s far more comfortable than my father’s stiff-backed chair had been. It was too much like him for my tastes. Carina glances around again. “You’ve changed some things.”

I nod, following her gaze. “It needed it.” I replaced the old, blood-stained carpet with a pale biscuit-toned one. Some of the books on the shelves had to be replaced, and the room has been painted a deeper color, a soothing gray.

“How are you settling in?” Carina asks.

“Fine, thank you,” I answer.

Carina tilts her head. She touches the edge of the desk. “But you kept the desk,” she says, mostly to herself.

I smile inwardly; she will never know the sick reason I kept it. “I like this desk,” I answer.

“The room looks good.” Carina continues her small talk. Right now, I just want her to get on with it. What is she doing here, because it’s not to admire the decor?

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