Page 11 of Vow of Vengeance

I smooth my hands over her legs as I stare up at her, a cocky grin spreading over my face. “You’ll love it when I do it.”

“I don’t think so…”

“It feels so nice—my wet, hot tongue tasting your pretty pussy. Look how wet you already are for me.” I stare at her parted thighs—her glistening, swollen folds. Shame reddens her face as she tries to push her legs together. Digging my fingertips into her skin, I hold them apart. “Don’t hide from me, pretty girl.”

She’s so desperate to come that she throws an arm over her eyes, falling back on the bed with a dramatic, “Oh, god…”

Diving between the tops of her thighs, I find her clit, circling it with the tip of my tongue until she’s rocking her hips opposite my fingers, moaning with pleasure. So quickly, she finds her way back to the crest of that wave.

She runs her fingers through my hair, the sensation sending tingles over the back of my neck. Her gentle touch runs through me. It feels good to have her fingers on me—too good.

I tongue her entrance, tasting her sweet musk. I find her scent, her taste, her moans intoxicating. I find her inebriating. I feel lightheaded and loose, my shoulder muscles relaxing as heat rushes through my core. A tight tension builds below my waist.

I feel so in tune with her body—knowing exactly what she needs and how to give it to her. I curl my fingers around her hips, dragging her even closer. She rises, curling around my body, fingers tightening around the locks of my hair as I bring her to the brink.

She cries out with little shrieks as she comes. She’s repeating, “Oh, wow! Oh, geez!” My laughter rumbles against her as Icontinue to kiss and lick, teasing another orgasm from her quaking body.

She’s panting, gasping for air. “I... I can’t. I can’t take any more. Oh, god. I can’t.” Her hands leave my hair, pushing at me, attempting to be rid of me.

A time will come when she’s pushing me away, and I won’t stop.

She’s young and new to this life, so I let her go. I stand, remaining at the edge of the bed as I gaze down at her beautiful body. Her gaze is soft and passive as she stares up at me.

The look doesn’t last long.

Grabbing the quilt out from under her, she wraps herself in it, hiding her nudity as she shimmies back onto the bed, pressing herself against the headboard. Her fingers move to the strands of pearls that hang around her neck. Anxiously, she fiddles with them.

I slowly loosen my tie, undoing the satin from around my neck. Taking the wide end of my tie, I wipe my mouth clean, fold it neatly, and slide the material into my pocket. She watches me as she works to catch her breath.

I crawl across the bed to her. Releasing the pearls, she clutches the covers closer to her body. I reach out, brushing her hair back from her face. I lean closer and kiss her. Clutching the quilt to her body, she doesn’t pull away, and she doesn’t kiss me back.

I run my tongue over hers, making her taste her own arousal for what I assume will be the first time. I pull away, but only enough to whisper, “Still don’t like thatstuff?”

“Maybe I was wrong.” She goes to pull away.

I grab her face, pull her in gently, and kiss her again. It takes my tongue to convince her, but she kisses me back this time. She responds further, reaching up to run her hands over the back of my hair.

It feels too good. I pull back, turning away from her. I stand, straighten my clothing, and run a hand through my hair.

“Get dressed,” I say. “We need to leave.”

She shoots up into a sitting position. “When?”

“Be ready in ten minutes.” Without looking back, I leave her to dress.

The bathroom is small, but spotless. I splash some cool water on my face, patting it dry with a clean towel, then wash and dry my hands. I glance up at the oval mirror that hangs above the sink.

I arrived from New York as twenty-five-year-old Harrison Bachman, a lethal young man with a babyface and a dimple to go with my curls. Already fighting my curls, I couldn’t have a childish name like Harry. Needing to establish myself as a man and not a child, I quickly introduced myself in Italy with the nickname my father gave me: Haze.

When I played hockey, I moved so fast over the ice that my father said I was like a haze, causing confusion among the players on the other team. In the end, the name didn’t matter. Within a week, I’d proved myself to the Brotherhood here, and the Italian branch of the family accepted me as one of them.

I stare back at my reflection. Now, ten years later, my face is all planes and angles. My dimple only shows when I belly laugh—which is rare. My dark hair is still thick, but there’s a threat of silver at my temples.

My lips are red, swollen from tasting her, and my hair stands on end from her fingers. The look in my eyes is… feral. Desperate. I’m a man addicted to a young girl who’s half my age.

Am I a monster?

When I return to the bedroom, she’s dressed in jeans and a black sweater with no pearls. Curious. I wonder what she’s done with them.

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