Page 92 of Third Degree

He grabbed my jawline, clamping my mouth shut. I sucked his spit down and looked up at him with a doe-eyed expression.

“You like the taste of us, don’t you, rosa mia?”

He leaned down, lifting me back onto his lap and onto his cock. I arched back immediately from the instant pressure I felt. But he didn’t move, and I looked down at him while he wore a sly grin that tugged on the corners of his lips.

“Who makes you feel this good?” he asked and then slowly lifted his hips to meet mine. I tried to grind into him, but his rhythm was languid.

“You!” I shouted.

“Who?” he asked again.

“You… Elio…please!”

He fucked me, matching my movements and letting me bounce on his cock until I felt my release quickly coming to the surface. I could feel his warmth clench inside me as he groaned through his own orgasm. A few more movements and I jerked on top of him, falling into his arms as I felt waves overcome me.

I honestly didn’t know if I could stand up from the absolute and utter exhaustion.

In a haze of dizzy contentment, I felt Elio lift me and take me upstairs to our new bathroom. We both walked into the shower, where he silently bathed me while peppering me with kisses.

“I love you.” He kept saying it over and over again, and I didn’t think I would ever get tired of hearing those words from his mouth.

When we were done, he dressed me in one of his t-shirts and lifted me back into bed even though I insisted I could walk. I snuggled up to him and without a thought of insomnia, we both immediately succumbed to the darkness around us.

29

Gianna

The following morning, I granted Margarita a well-deserved day off. It was Elio’s birthday, a date etched in my memory since he had disclosed it to me years ago.

In the past, this day had always been tinged with sorrow as thoughts of Elio consumed my mind. I would wonder who he was celebrating with or if he had found someone new to share this special day. But today, everything felt different, for I was finally by his side.

Elio remained in bed, blissfully unaware as I stealthily crept downstairs to prepare breakfast.

Memories flooded my mind of the countless hours I had spent in the kitchen with my mother learning to cook—a skill she believed all good Italian women should possess. Fond recollections of my zia, nonna, and mom gathered around, cooking and sharing endless conversations during Sunday dinners filled my heart.

It was a piece of my family that I missed dearly after leaving. Despite the strained relationship with my mother, exacerbated by her treatment of me on my wedding day, I couldn’t help but feel a pang of sympathy, knowing she would be alone at home with my father.

As I reached for a pan from the cupboard, intending to whip up eggs and bacon, I impulsively grabbed my phone, contemplating whether calling her would bring about any unintended emotional turmoil on this significant day.

After three rings, my mother’s voice finally echoed through the receiver. “Cara,” she spoke, a glimmer of hope surfacing at her use of my nickname.

“I miss you, Mamma,” I confessed softly, my words carrying a weight of longing.

“It’s been very quiet around the house…” Her voice trailed off, and I wanted to interject before she continued. “Cara, I am so sorry for how I treated you when you were home. I miss our conversations, and I have worried.”

She was concerned about Elio, but I couldn’t blame her.

My mother didn’t know him the way I did, and it wasn’t as if she had taken the time to truly understand my feelings about all of this.

I realized it was partly my fault for not allowing her the opportunity to express herself, too consumed by my own desires to consider anyone else’s opinion. Though it had brought me to this point, I shouldn’t hold it against my mother.

It was my father who continually placed obstacles in my path, prioritizing his business over me, even on my wedding day.

“He is treating me incredibly well, Mamma,” I assured her, a wave of relief washing over me. She exhaled deeply as if she had been holding her breath for far too long. “I am genuinely happy.”

“Good. Your father—”

I interrupted her. “I don’t want to hear about him. I really don’t.”

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