Page 49 of Stolen Sin

She arches her back and moves her hips, and I slip inside of her as I bury her mouth with my own, kissing her deep and hard, a nagging worry bothering the back of my head, but nothing else matters to me right now. There’s only Emily in my lap, Emily riding my cock, Emily’s nipples in my mouth and her moans in my ears, the breakfast she was cooking back in the kitchen waiting to be devoured when I’m finished devouring her.

I fuck her until she comes a second time, her body shaking. I pin her down on the couch and take her, grinding into her pussy, kissing her and telling her how good she feels and how badly I want to fill her to the brim, how she’s a dirty girl for me, and how she’s all fucking mine. And when I finish, it’s like my brain’s a lightning storm as I wrap my arms around her and pull her tight against my chest.

“I can get used to this,” she breathes, peppering my mouth with little kisses. “God, sorry. I’m not trying to freak you out.”

“I’m not freaked out at all.” I squeeze her ass and pull her tighter.

We stay like that for a while. I keep thinking about Valentina Santoro, some strange girl, the daughter of the man I hate most in this world, and the woman my father wants me to marry. My father and my Don both. And yet here I am, with a nobody girl, not important to the Famiglias, not politically connected, not rich or famous, just a girl who makes me feel so fucking good. I shouldn’t let myself have this. I’ve never done a damn thing to deserve it.

And yet I already know that I’ve come way too far to turn my back on her.

Chapter 29

Emily

Simon takes a shower while I finish cooking. I feel good, a little spinny, heady and silly, as I go for a second round of French toast. I’ve never made this before and the first few attempts weren’t great, but I think I’m getting the hang of it.

I know this is strange. I’m distinctly aware of how weird things are. The way we tumbled into this—whatever this is—should be a red flag. I was emotionally raw from losing Rachel and Simon was there, and things felt good with him, and we just, we fell into bed and we haven’t gotten out since.

But it happened before that too. There was a slow, steady slide toward sleeping together. I’ve wanted him since the day he found me under that desk, and that has to count for something. Having sex with him wasn’t just about my grief, it was about feeling good while I can, while I’m still breathing, because Rachel showed me that life isn’t a guarantee. And why not enjoy myself? If Simon makes me feel good, that should be enough.

I keep smiling like an idiot. He feels the same way, or at least that’s what he said. Can I trust him? Honestly, can I trust the sort of guy that lurks in the underworld? He got Rachel killed—the men that attacked Cucina only did it because of Simon—but I don’t really blame him. Not totally at least. He couldn’t have known they’d come for him there, and he sure as hell couldn’t have guessed that Rachel would be in the way.

Then there’s the scam center he took down. I believe him when he says he hates those people and wants to burn them all to ashes, and a sick, vindictive part of me wants him to do it. Blow up the city, I don’t care, just get revenge for my father, revenge against the bastards that tried to bleed him dry. I’ve never had this before—something approaching hope.

Not for a really long time.

I worked myself to a hard, sharp edge. Nothing felt good, nothing tasted good, every waking day was just another opportunity to earn more money for my father. I was an automaton, a walking clockwork version of myself. I felt like my joints were made of copper and my heart had encased itself in steel.

But the metal’s gone. Simon helped with that. He tore off the pieces that still clung to my soul and tossed them aside, until now I’m completely bare. It feels good to be vulnerable, and even better to have someone that can worry about me for a change.

I’m making French toast, for fuck’s sake. I mean, I never would’ve done this back home—it’s such a silly extravagance for a girl who can barely afford milk, let alone bread and eggs and cinnamon.

There’s a knock at the door. I’m mid-cooking and tell them to come in. This is the oasis, which means only family could even be here.

Elena appears in the kitchen. She rushes over to me, looking worried. “Oh, shit, Emily, Davide just told me. He talked to Dad and heard about everything with Simon. Are you okay? I’m so, so sorry he’s doing this to you.”

I stare at her, completely caught off guard. I’m holding a spatula in one hand, and I use it to wave at her. “Sorry, hold on a second, what are you talking about?” I pull the toast out of the pan and plate it. Not my best, but looking decent. I wipe my hands on a towel and put my hands on my hips. “Something happened with Simon?”

A bad feeling worms its way into my heart. He looked like he was only half in the room when he first came home earlier. The sex woke him up, but he still had a haunted stare in his eyes, like he’d gotten some terrible news and couldn’t shake it.

Elena hesitates. She looks over her shoulder and clears her throat. “He didn’t tell you?” she asks.

“No, he didn’t, but now you’re going to.” I advance on her. “What do you know?”

“Shit,” she mutters to herself and backs away. “I can’t say. I mean, I shouldn’t say. He probably kept it to himself for a reason.” She glances at the stairs like she knows he’s up there. “But he should’ve told you. Why didn’t he tell you?”

“Elena, stop with the cryptic bullshit and spill. What happened with Simon and his father?”

She closes her eyes and rubs at the spot between her eyes. “I’m going to get in trouble for this, but you have a right to know.”

I feel sick. The way she’s acting has me on edge. “Please just tell me,” I whisper because I’m not sure I can take much more.

It spills out of her. Simon’s meeting with his father this morning and the ultimatum. How his father wants him to marry some girl named Valentina Santoro.

“That’s the guy that killed my friend, isn’t it?” The words come out strangled and twisted. I lean against the refrigerator, steadying myself with a palm.

“I don’t get what my father’s doing,” Elena says, coming closer, but not reaching out like she’s not sure if she’s allowed. “We all know Santoro’s the enemy, but Dad probably thinks this is the only way to make sure the war ends and never starts again. It’s like some sick, manipulative trick. If Simon does it, he promised to step down and let Simon take over as Don.”

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