Italian Boss, Ruthless Revenge

‘Look, can we just start again?’ His usually steady voice was rapid, interrupting her. ‘Can we forget all that has been and start again?’

‘Can we?’ She truly didn’t know.

‘I can.’ Lazzaro nodded.

‘And you won’t hate me again in the morning?’

‘I never hated you…’ Lazzaro said slowly. ‘How can I hate you when all I do is want you?’

But it wasn’t enough. She knew that, knew that, but she couldn’t question him, didn’t want to question him further, because his mouth was on hers, and it was surely sweeter than the truth.

His mouth was ravaging hers—his want matching hers—and the earth shifted as he moved closer into her space. She could hear the zipper of her dress as he pulled it down, the chill of air on the small of her back, and she braced herself for his hand on her bottom. At that moment she would have forgiven him for heading down instead of up—only he didn’t. Each rib, each space was fingered with such lingering expertise that her panties were a damp mass when finally he found her bra, unhooked it. But instead of removing her top, instead of undressing her, he lowered his head and kissed her through her dress and the lace of her bra, his teeth nibbling round each areola, her dry-clean-only dress neither dry nor clean as still he worked on. His greedy hands pulled her dress down at the straps, and a thousand glass beads cascaded to the floor, crushed beneath their feet in the race to get out of their clothes. But there was no time. Caitlyn was whimpering with need to have her hungry nipple in his mouth, and if he hadn’t taken it then she’d have begged.

It hurt.

Oh, but it was a delicious hurt as his mouth stretched her nipple to its greedy length. His lips paused, then he smiled up at her and suckled till it was indecent, till Caitlyn was moaning, her hand fumbling with his trousers, with his belt. One need was satisfied and she was greedy for more now, as still he suckled, trying to get rid of things that didn’t matter to reach the things that did.

She was naked from the waist up and flaming from the waist down, but still he paid her breasts lavish attention as he slid her panties down her thighs. And the bed was just a little bit too far, so the dressing table sufficed, the mirror cold against her back, the surface hard against her bottom. But absolutely the pain was worth the gain, and the angled mirrors gave her never-ending views of him as she laid her head on his shoulder. She gazed at their reflection, saw his arms tighten around hers as he slid inside her, could see her thighs wrapped around his waist as she pulled him in closer, see the dint in his buttocks as her hands went there.

‘Lazzaro…’ she pleaded, and she wasn’t looking any more, but sucking, biting on his salty shoulder, dragging her lips as she tried to hold it in.

But thankfully he wasn’t taking his time tonight. He was swelling deeper inside her as she coiled into him, and she wasn’t sure if it was people in the next room knocking or the thud of the mirror against the wall, didn’t even care where they were as he arched his body and leant back, as somehow he climbed deeper inside her…as somehow he took just a little bit more than she knew she should give.

And after, when they were in bed, when maybe she should have just left it, bravely she didn’t. Boldly, yet terribly tentatively, her fingers traced the length of his jagged raised scar. She watched as he closed his eyes—not gently, but sort of squeezing them together, as if anticipating the hurt her touch would cause, as if the wound was still raw—and Caitlyn knew then that it was.

‘What happened here?’

His fingers caught hers, closed around them. Caitlyn was sure he was about to pull her hand away, and mentally kicked herself for asking too much too soon, but instead of pushing her away his fingers straightened her hand out, till it was the cool of her palm pressing against his cheek. And though they’d just made love, though never in her life had she felt so close to another human being, for that atom of time they weren’t just close, they were together—his pain hers, her comfort his to have.

The tension permanently etched in his features faded away as she leant forward, soft lips on his wound, trying to kiss away the agony. Her salty tears bathed his scar, but only for a little while. Not roughly, but gently, he pushed her away, turned his face away from hers as she voiced the question again.