Page 42 of Passion and Revenge

Sienna

As soon as the words leave my mouth, I want to take them back.

This isn’t me at all.

But worst of all is that I’m begging a man who plans to watch my father waste away from grief to fuck me.

You’re a bad daughter, my subconscious voice taunts me.The very worst of daughters.But the shame is a drop of water in comparison to the staggering amount of desire I’m feeling at the moment. It’s easy to push it away and lock it in the mental box with the other thing I don’t let myself think about.

Like that summer.

“Your taste is the closest a man like me will ever get to heaven,” the croaked-out words snap me out of my reverie.

If that’s true, then his eyes are my gateway to hell. They burn down at me like hell’s own sulfur, and my skin tingles in response.

He reaches down for the heavy head of his belt buckle, and in seconds, it comes undone. It slides out the loop of his pants, and with a devious smile, he grabs both my wrists in his.

“What are you doing?” I panic as he begins to loop the belt around my wrists before attaching them to the headboard.

I try to tug away from the fastening, but it’s tightly secured. I have a horrifying flash of him producing a camera and taking photos of me in such a vulnerable state.

Papa will shatter. Oh God.

My fear lasts even as his hands trail down my front and fondle my breasts along their path. I shamelessly arch my back, offering the aching mounds of flesh to his rough hands, and amusement causes his blue eyes to sparkle down at me.

In this position, with my legs thrown over his shoulder, I almost bent in half, and I can only imagine the view he has. I’ve never been this exposed to anybody.

Not even to Sal.

Sex with him had been something to just get over with. The room had been almost pitch black the first time, and the second time, I pretended to be very desperate for it so he wouldn’t have to take off my clothes.

And yet here I was, spread out under Alessandro Mancini like a virginal offering.

Heat floods my face, and I open my mouth to tell him to stop.

As though he can feel my intentions, his hands grasp the zipper of his pants, and the sound echoes through the room. I stop breathing as he shucks off his pants, and then, finally, he kicks off his boxer briefs.

“Holy—” My exclamation ends with a wheeze, and my pussy clenches in protest. She’s clearly telling me there’s no way that thing is going to fit inside us.

And I’m tempted to agree with her.

Alessandro is a large man, all broad shoulders, muscled pecs, bulging biceps and a row of abs I had only ever seen on men in underwear commercials.

The lack of tattoos is a bit of a surprise, but then again, everything I know about this man is from stories my father told me, and in combination with what I’ve seen in movies about men in the mafia, I had been expecting him to have endless tattoos of skulls and stuff.

Alessandro is everything his suit-clad self from that first day at the gallery hinted at. Power and danger. It’s in every rippling inch of muscle and the tense lines of his face.

He’s perfection and temptation, and I should resist.

I really should.

“I want to touch you,” I blurt out.

“Not today, Sienna.”

My eyes widen at his response. Is this going to become a regular occurrence, then? Do I plan on becoming this man’s sexual entertainment while my father has sleepless nights of worry for me?

I glare at him.

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