Page 4 of Captured Fantasy

“You were gone—”

At the front of the room, Mrs. Venetti clapped her hands once and the room fell silent. I hung back with Amadeo, eager for this to be over so I could go in search of that woman. I wasn’t sure what I would say or do if I found her, but she’d been too fucking sweet to just let go without even getting her number.

“Mrs. Russo would like to say a few words, to thank you for paying your respects to her husband,” Mrs. Venetti said, folding her hands together.

Through the music room to our right stepped a woman with blue and violet eyes. My heart stopped for a moment and I felt my jaw clench as realization settled in me. She wasn’t the housekeeper. She was the fucking wife of the man who was dead and laid out in the parlor, just a floor below where I fingered his wife on their bathroom sink.

Jesus Christ, I was an idiot. I swiveled on my heel as she stepped up, her hands clasped in that proper way she’d had them upstairs.

“Where are you going?” Amadeo whispered.

I leaned closer to him. “Mads, I just fucked up.”

“What?”

“I thought she was the housekeeper and I fingered her upstairs in the bathroom. Mrs. Russo, the wife of the man who’s dead.”

Amadeo’s face lit up with suppressed laughter, his shoulders shaking. “You fucking with me?”

I shook my head as I moved out of the living room and strode down the hall through the open front door. I was halfway down the walkway before Amadeo caught up with me, jogging slightly as he fell into step with me. I paused by the curb and rummaged in my pocket for another cigarette.

Amadeo smirked, his dark eyes glittering. “Have you considered—now hear me out on this one—has it ever occurred to you to keep it in your pants?”

“Spot me a cigarette.” I wasn’t in the mood to hear another one of his lectures about settling down.

He passed me a smoke and a lighter from his pocket. I lit up while he stepped into the empty road and pulled off his jacket and slung it over his arm. I followed him out into the street, made narrow by the dozens of shiny cars lined up along the curb. The Russo house was located in a cul-de-sac and it was the last house at the end, surrounded by heavy, ancient trees.

We strolled up the road to where I’d parked. Heat waves rose from the pavement beneath my feet and the air smelled faintly of melting asphalt. The trickles of sweat down my back from earlier had turned into a steady drip. I was going to have to get this suit dry cleaned.

“So, how was it? Fingerfucking a dead man’s wife?” Amadeo asked.

Amadeo and I had no secrets, so I didn’t feel any qualms about being honest.

“I almost came in my pants,” I admitted.

“What did she do to prompt that?” Amadeo’s brows lifted.

“She was just so…tight. And after she left, I licked her off my fingers and she tasted amazing…like I could have eaten her out for hours,” I said.

“Maybe you should go back later and eat her out for hours,” Amadeo said. “Don’t tell my wife I said that by the way. She’d be scandalized.”

“How you ended up married to a woman who’s too shy to fuck with the lights on is beyond me,” I said.

“I love her,” Amadeo said. “It might be dark, but she makes it worth my while. But we’re not talking about me, we’re talking about you and Mrs. Russo. Are you going back to see her again?”

“No,” I said slowly. “I don’t want to disrespect her, not now that I know who she is. She probably thinks I’m a piece of shit.”

“You know she was married off to Gino when he was almost seventy, right? She’s probably been slowly dying, cooped up in that house and you were the first exciting thing to happen in a decade,” Amadeo said.

“Jesus, that’s fucked,” I said.

“I guess Gino wanted someone to manage his house and fuck occasionally and she fit the bill,” Amadeo said. “She’s still very young, about thirty I think.”

I was quiet for a moment. No wonder she’d looked like she’d never been fucked properly. She clearly hadn’t. My mind drifted back to that discreet orgasm, her soft thighs pressed around my hand. That was perfect word to describe it—discreet.

That annoyed me because I’d never in my life aimed to give a woman a discreet orgasm.

I had pulled at the thread of her arousal, but hadn’t managed to unwind her fully. I wanted to see her unbound, to pleasure her until she’d given up her control and her dignity. It bothered me deeply that I hadn’t done that already. She’d made a much more jarring impression on me than I was willing to admit.

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