Page 44 of Sinful Sacrifice

I pull back when the door opens, and Damien yanks it back closed with his free hand. After locking it, he cracks the window.

“Give us a minute,” he snaps.

“But, sir—” a man starts.

Damien raises his voice. “Give us a minute, or you’ll lose your job.”

“Apologies, sir,” the man stutters.

I hear voices coming from the other side of the door, but no one is speaking to us any longer.

“We shouldn’t do this,” I whisper.

Instead of answering, Damien returns to thrusting his fingers inside me. I’ve never felt so inside out. His fingers feel so good, and I tell him that around a moan.

As I grow closer, I ride his hand, throwing my head back and pushing myself against his lap. I can feel his cock growing harder underneath me.

“Yes, baby,” Damien groans. “Come for me.”

And that’s exactly what I do.

I’m catching my breath, and as I lean back, he gently pulls his fingers from my pussy. With his other hand, he fixes my hair and wipes away my smudged makeup.

“Do you want to clean your fingers?” I ask him.

He raises a brow. “Fuck no. I want this shit to soak into my skin like a goddamn moisturizer.” He sucks on them, making a slurping sound.

I shyly look away and cast a glance at the door.

“Take all the time you need,” he says.

“People are behind us, waiting.”

“And? They’re of no importance to me. You’re my only concern.”

When I’m finished fixing myself the best I can, he smiles up at me. “The way your cheeks blush after you orgasm is gorgeous. If I could find that shade of pink, I’d ink it onto my skin.”

He smacks a kiss on my lips and helps me off his lap.

When he finally opens the door, we step out. Augusto is waiting, as if he was standing guard.

We’re the center of attention as Damien leads me from the SUV to the entrance. I avoid making eye contact with people. I'm nervous they’re furious we held up the line. No one says anything when he cuts in line to the hostess stand.

“Mr. Bellini,” the hostess greets. “Welcome! We’re so happy you could join us. I’ll show you to your table.”

L’ultima Cena is far from your typical Italian restaurant. To get reservations, you either have to be someone important or have Mafia connections. There’s always been speculation about its close ties to mob families and how they dine in the private rooms in the back. They turn a blind eye to crimes committed here. The translation of the name even means last supper.

We follow the hostess to the table as the scent of fresh garlic and pasta lingers in the air. A white cloth is draped over our table in the corner of the room. Damien blocks the hostess from pulling out my chair, doing it himself. He lightly touches my shoulder and plants a kiss on my hair as I sit.

“I wasn’t sure if we’d go into a back room,” I comment before immediately regretting it. It’s what I do when I’m nervous—say things I shouldn’t.

Those are only rumors, right?

Probably not, but I don’t want to give him any ideas to take me to the private rooms where people are supposedly murdered while others eat lasagna.

Damien, unfazed by my comment, unrolls his silverware. “I thought I’d go gentle on our first date.”

Gentle.

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