Page 82 of King Of Order

‘I’m sorry,’ I whispered.

I’d endured years of being treated like shit by the males in my world. I’d been cast as both angel and whore, and sustainedabuse and indignity from my father and brothers, eventually leading to my seeking relief in drugs.

Never in men.

My father had limited my interaction with the opposite sex to interactions that he controlled. Adding to my continuing humiliation as he used my innocent body to tease and titillate his mobster associates.

Without him alive now, it was like to love and be loved the way I wanted to.

The fact Rio was my first-ever lover and my choice was liberating beyond words.

Tears misted my eyes at how tender and gentle he’d been. While also riding me with intense passion.

I’d never felt more desirable or well fucked, because even though a virgin, I recognized the man holding me as a consummate paramour.

It was heaven when I’d only experienced rough fumbles and shameful epithets so far.

I took a shaky inhale, the sound tearing from me unbidden. ‘I’ve wanted you since you first kissed me.’

That’s when a ghost of a smile lit up his face as his hand slipped lower to cup my breast and rub my nipple.

I gasped.

‘That good, huh?’ he growled, bending his head to suckle.

‘Si, you had me from the second your mouth -.’

He silenced my further explanations with a finger sliding between my lips.

I sucked it, ignited, even as he flamed me more with his heated brand of passion.

By lunchtime, my pussy was done, unable to take any more ministrations, and I pushed off him, running into the shower, fleeing his lovemaking.

I luxuriated in feeling so free, so liberated, so myself with any other person, let alone a man.

It was a heady sensation, and I couldn’t stop smiling like a lovesick teen while I washed up.

When I emerged from the bathroom, he was downstairs, head in the fridge, pulling out ingredients.

I leaned against the counter, hair wet, barefoot, and clad in shorts and a tee, as Rio moved through the kitchen. With such calm, confident ease as he finished the frittata, his focus on the skillet.

He’d changed into a tee and shorts from his quarters, and his hair was damp and curling at his nape from a quick shower.

I went to him, slid my arms around him from behind, went on my tiptoes, and kissed his nape.

He grunted and shot me a smirk as I pulled away and perched on one of the kitchen’s high stools.

The noon sun filtered through the window, casting a soft, golden glow on his face as he worked.

The air was redolent of fresh basil and sizzling bacon.

Mesmerized by his hands’ steady rhythm, my gaze followed him, stirring, chopping, and blending like it was second nature.

There was something about watching him cook, the way he seemed to put care into every movement, that made my heart swell.

How wise was this?I asked myself.

I was wading into a sea of pain if I didn’t guard my six and my soul and see Rio for who he was.

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