Page 43 of The Thief

“I should punish you,” I growl as I slide a finger inside her, her muscles clamping tight around me. I slowly circle her clit with my tongue, and her breathing quickens.

She’s slick and ready. Her thighs tremble as I increase the intensity, licking her clit with focused attention, adding another finger and thrusting deep. “Please,” she groans. “Antonio. . .”

Hearing her moan my name is an aphrodisiac like none other. A possessive thrill shoots up my spine. “Please,” she begs again, arching her back and pushing closer to my face. I suck her clit between my lips and lash it with my tongue. Her breathing is heavy, her cheeks flushed. I run my hand up her leg, needing to touch her—feel her—as she falls over the edge. My cock aches, but I ignore it and focus single-mindedly on her pleasure, licking her over and over and thrusting into her with my fingers.

“Oh God,” she cries out, her body rigid as she comes. Her thighs tighten around my head, and I push my fingers deep into her, twisting around to find her G-spot and doing my best to prolong her orgasm. I continue to lick gently until her shockwaves die down, then I give her pussy one last kiss and reluctantly straighten.

I’mnevergoing to be able to work here again without remembering her scent in my nostrils, her taste on my tongue.

She’s so beautiful, lying in a sated heap on my desk. Her chest rises and falls as her breathing steadies, and I kiss the curve of her shoulder, unable to keep from touching her. Strands of hair cling to her forehead, and I fight the temptation to stroke them back, to kiss her again, to drag her into my arms and never let go.

“Have dinner with me.” It’s phrased as a statement, but it’s really a request. A plea.

She looks tempted, but she shakes her head. “I should go.” She sits up, and her eyes fall to the bulge of my erection. “But first, I need to return the favor.”

Something sours inside me. I like to keep my relationships with women uncomplicated, and I should be delighted that Lucia doesn’t want to get involved.But I’m not.She’s happy to get on her knees and suck my cock, but she won’t eat dinner with me. She doesn’t want her colleagues to gossip about my gift.

I feel like her dirty little secret, and I hate it. I’m not surprised by her refusal, but her rejection still stings. I’ve learned the hard way not to let the opinions of other people bother me, but Lucia not wanting to have a meal with me hits in the same place that my mother’s abandonment did, and that wound will always be a little raw. It doesn’t matter that I understand why she’s saying what she does—my response comes from a deep, wounded place.

“No, you don’t,” I say curtly, backing away from her. “If you’re not staying for dinner, leave. I have things to do.”

There’s a flash of hurt in her eyes, and it makes me feel like a complete jerk. Then her hurt changes to anger. “Fine,” she snaps, jumping to her feet. “I’m leaving.”

She tears the panties off her body as if they’re made of sandpaper and dresses quickly in her clothes. This time, I don’t turn away. A better man would apologize, but instead, I watch her slide her feet into her heels, and what comes out of my mouth is, “Don’t forget the lingerie.”

“Fuck you.”

I shrug. “You can either take it, or it goes into the trash. Your choice.”

She gives me a truly poisonous glare. “You aresuchan asshole,” she hisses. Grabbing the box off my table, she sweeps out.

Leaving me in my office, my mouth smeared with her juices, with the realization that I want more.

More than the pleasure I coaxed out of her.

More than a grudging orgasm.

I wanteverything.

22

ANTONIO

All evening, I kick myself for throwing Lucia out and entertain serious doubts about my sanity. She was offering me a blowjob, for fuck’s sake, and I turned her down. Who does that?

But then, two days later, I realize why I need to keep my distance from Lucia.

Per my orders, the stevedores in the harbor have started inspecting the cargo they unload more closely. On Thursday, they find five containers filled with handguns.

I order the containers crushed in an industrial compactor, and the guns are destroyed that same evening. I’m expecting Gafur to retaliate, of course, and Leo and his people go on high alert.

But the attack, when it comes, doesn’t target any of us. No, the Russians go after Sandro Rizzi, the head of the stevedores’ union.

In the early hours of Friday, when Rizzi’s coming back home from a party, three men fall upon him and beat him to within an inch of his life.

Leo calls me at three in the morning to break the news. “Sorry to wake you up,” he says. “But I thought you’d want to know.”

“I do,” I reply grimly, clenching my eyes shut and massaging my forehead. “Is he alive?”

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