Page 22 of Caught By the Kingpin
I rally my thoughts. “How am I ever going to get you naked, and under me, if you own all these clothes?”
“You could take them off? Might be fun.”
“I could rip them off. Then we’d end up back here next week, and the week after, and the one after that, with you trying on clothes and showing me your delectable body in infinite variations of pretty wrapping.” That sounds like a great idea to me and the way she presses her thighs together suggests she thinks so too.
“That one we’ll take, but it’s a bit dirty. Is it available in white?” That would suit my purpose very nicely and save us another stop on our way north.
She tilts her head and rises to her feet. At the rack she finds the white version of the dress and holds it up, considering. It’s slinky and long, with a slit up the side almost to her hip. “I can have this one too?”
I pretend to consider, pinching my eyebrows together as I do up my trousers.
“Cara, you can haveeverything.”
10
FELICITY
I love him.
This should be insane. My rational brain is pointing out all the reasons this ought to be wrong, but it’s not. It’sso right. Every part of me has known rejection and hurt and heartbreak. I’ve spent years being unwanted. It’s been an itchy, too tight, bobbled dress I’ve worn so long I didn’t realise how it made me feel.
But that does mean I recognise how different being with Marco is.
Being with Marco isn’t just having taken off that ill-fitting dress. It’s like the clothes he bought me: perfectly fitted, soft and luxurious.
And it was that feeling which made me want to pleasure him, not the gifts.
I’ve heard about blow jobs, and been the subject of crude gestures and jokes. But being on my knees for him was a thrill of power. He broke apart for me, a girl who nobody thought was special.
And I saw the savage look in his eyes as he covered my breasts with his come. It was claiming, yes, but it was vulnerable too. At that moment I knew I could ask for anything and he’d do it, not just to have the moment of sexual bliss again, but to please me.
Afterwards he kept saying yes. Never impatient, never annoyed that I wanted something. We came away with bags of clothes and underwear that whenever they touch my skin, I’ll remember the heat of his attention.
We have hours in the limo driving north to chat. I lean against him and answer his questions about cupcake recipes and decoration. He tells me about his work, pausing at the more unsavoury aspects, but continuing when I nod, unfazed. You don’t live in a mafia compound all your life without seeing some darkness, and god knows it wasn’t like there was anyone to protect me.
Until now. Marco seems intent on looking after me. He feels free to touch my body now, curling a strand of my hair around his finger or tucking it behind my ear. His hands are on me constantly. A stroke of my cheek, holding my waist.
We stop for an excessive lunch at a country hotel, with so many courses I lose track. I’m wearing the cut-off denim shorts and cami from earlier, along with cute canvas-top sneakers, and I’d probably have felt underdressed. Except I was with Marco, and he has this presence that says,Do not fuck with me, you’d regret it. And no one even looks askance at me.
Back in the car, it’s like he can’t decide what he wants to look at more as I speak. His gaze flits between my face, my legs, the place where the delicate top meets my breasts. And if that sounds carnal and greedy, well. I’m worse. I’m trying to cram a lifetime of memories into this journey. I catalogue his every feature, from his excessively long eyelashes to the silver in his curly hair.
“You can ask,” he says eventually when I’m running my finger down his cheek again, skirting the scar.
“About…?”
He huffs.
Right. The scar. I’m curious, naturally, about how it happened. But that turns out not to be the question I care about most. “Does it hurt?”
“Not anymore, though it’s a bit sensitive.”
I press a kiss to his cheek, right over the scar, then check if he’s okay with that. He’s watching me, wary and still as a predator showing its underbelly.
“Who did it?”
“My father,” he says calmly, a hint of amusement in his eyes. “He’s already dead. By my hand.”
Good. I don’t reply because my jaw clenches so hard I may have to have it surgically re-opened. How dare that… I struggle to think of the right word. Bastard. Fucker. Cock-twat-douchbag. How dare anyone have harmedmyman. Marco.
