Page 54 of To Hell

I part my legs, never taking my eyes off him. He lowers me back on his lap and has me sitting on his cock.

“Take me in,” he bites his lower lip, his voice, and eyes straining with each inch he pushes inside of me. I rasp, and my mouth stays open, my chest heaving with clambering breaths.

He pushes fully inside of me and then starts to move. I brace my hands on his shoulders, ruffling and grappling the fabric of his suit jacket as he pummels inside of me. His hand finds a way under my dress, etching fingerprints on my butt as he clutches it in a firm grip.

He pulls my face down to him and interlocks our lips as he keeps ramming inside of me. It doesn’t take many pounds for my orgasm to wrack through me in a rhapsodic sensation. Soon after, he is spilling inside of me.

I melt as the colossal wave of my orgasm mellows. I throw my arms around his neck, and he snakes his hands around my waist.

We stay breathing, understanding what we have become to each other without needing to say a word about it.

A lifeline.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

ZOE

“Just a little to the side, please,” I take a step back, my index finger on my chin, while my free hand gestures for Ettore to tilt a little so I check the fitting of his pants on him.

He is standing in the sewing room with just the dress pants from one of the suits he will choose to wear for the wedding later today.

I’m done. I finally completed the suits, but not without the extra hands he provided and Valerie’s artistic input. I will send her a picture of the outfit later today. I’m still coming around to the fact that someone made a video of Sabine spilling her wine on me and posted it online as one of the most embarrassing moments from the Met Galas.

It’s trending, and I somehow wished Ettore had never got me a phone because not having one would have meant being in the dark. Now, I can’t help doom-scrolling to see the many reactions and comments from people who take pleasure in making others feel worthless. I am still trying to get accustomed to this new world of smartphones and social media. All of this was just starting when I got kidnapped and I still don’t understand how it all works and why people are so obsessed with it.

The only thing I understand is that I’m ranking number one on that list.

“I think it’s perfect,” I close my hand around my neck.

I don’t know what is more perfect: the fact that I don’t need to make any adjustments to the pants or the fact that his upper body is bared and toned by the morning sunlight blazing through the room.

He gives a curt nod, “How are you feeling?”

I nod vehemently, trying to hide my feelings. “You can put on your shirt now. Thank you.” I say, pointing at his T-shirt on a hanger behind him.

His dark eyes dim darker, and his brows narrow, “About last night.”

“Oh,” I clear my throat, “A little sore but good.” My voice dips and my head with it.

He chuckles, “Zoe…”

“Hmm,” I strut over to a stool and plop on it, “I’m good. I promise. It’s nothing I cannot handle.” I have been used worse and I survived it.

I’m sore, but I would do it again.

“I’m talking about the video going viral.”

I hold my breath for a minute. Oh. That.

“Yeah,” I nod, searching for something to do with my hands, anxious about where my mind had been heading. “I mean, the video punctured a sore spot, but it’s really nothing I cannot handle,” I’m stuttering. I pick up my measuring tape on the long table and puff.

“You are such a bad liar,” his voice drops a timbre, “What did I say about lying?” From the corner of my eye, I see him going to the hangar and pulling his black T-shirt off.

“Why do you like black?” I switch the conversation. Then I bite my tongue at my brazenness. My shoulders sag and my head hangs low.

“It’s easier to wear, and no one knows when it’s stained with my enemies’ blood,” he shrugs as he slides his arms into it.

“You have a sick sense of humor…” I frown at him. “Are you saying you chose the color because you hate doing the laundry?”

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