Twisted Cravings (The Camorra Chronicles 6)

Adamo nodded, and even though I couldn’t see his expression, I warned. “No pity.” The timbre of my voice was almost feral.

“No pity. We Falcones don’t do pity,” he said firmly, snatching the smoke out of my hand and taking a drag himself.

“I almost forgot,” I said sarcastically. Adamo kissed me again, his hand sliding over my bare belly, leaving goose bumps in his way. He began to play distractingly with my nipple piercing again. The glow of the cigarette threw shadows onto his face, reflecting in his dark eyes.

“What you said makes sense. I hope I’m not another safe option.”

I swallowed a moan as Adamo tugged a bit harder. “Sex with you has nothing to do with a safe option, it’s a wild ride that completely rips any semblance of control from me.”

Adamo kissed the corner of my lip and squashed the cigarette. “So this is only about sex and dirty orgasms?”

It wasn’t. Not anymore. Even if my body constantly yearned for his touch. I raked my fingernails over his chest and abs. “What else would it be about? I really enjoy all the dirty orgasms. You never complained.”

Adamo bent over my nipple. “No complaints whatsoever. Every dirty orgasm your skillful mouth and pussy milk out of my cock are very appreciated.” He flicked my nipple with his tongue. Then moved lower, his warm breath ghosting over my belly. He buried his face in my pussy, licking up my lust for him. “I don’t hear your pussy complain either.”

“Shut up,” I gasped, and he did while his mouth and tongue played my pussy like an instrument. Losing control had never felt better.

During the race the next day, I had a hard time focusing. One reason was lack of sleep because Adamo and I had kept each other busy until the early morning hours. The other were thoughts of my upcoming meeting with Remo distracting me. I’d be closer to my mother than I’d been in over a decade. The only time I’d ever really seen her had been in nightmares. Would reality be worse?

I wasn’t sure if I wanted to see her. When I’d thought she was dead, I’d always wished for a chance to confront her, but now that the option was real and in my reach, my chest constricted at the mere thought. Even if the past still haunted me on occasion, I had it under control most days. What if seeing her would rip open wounds I couldn’t close again?

I finished the race in fifteenth place. My worst result so far, but despite my ambition, even that barely registered. All I could think about was that we’d head out to Vegas early in the morning.

Dima didn’t join the party after the race and instead hid in his tent right away. I went after him. I wanted to check on him, and I still needed to give him the sleeping pills so he wouldn’t get in the way of our plan to head to Vegas. I really didn’t need an escort of my father’s men at my side. That wouldn’t make Remo give up any of his knowledge. He’d kick us out with blazing guns.

“Dima?” I called. I couldn’t really knock at his tent. A form shifted inside and eventually the flap opened and Dima poked his head out. He was only in his boxers, a sight I’d seen countless times before, but it felt awkward now. The tattoo of the crossed Kalashnikovs branded his chest—the sign of the Bratva. “What do you need?”

I held up the two cups with vodka. “We didn’t share a drink after the race.”

“No reason to celebrate, right? We both didn’t do well today.”

Dima had never much cared about succeeding in the races. He’d stayed for me. “Vodka is right in any situation. To commemorate, to celebrate and just because.”

The flicker of a smile ghosted across Dima’s face before it disappeared.

I handed him one of the cups and he accepted it as he stepped out of the tent. The dose wasn’t too high. It would make sure he fell asleep soon and would sleep until the morning. His light slumber would otherwise prove tricky.

We bumped cups before we emptied the vodka in one gulp followed by a hiss. I grinned. It was a homemade vodka from Dad’s cook and stronger than the stuff you could buy in stores, especially in the States. Widow maker was one of its nicknames among Dad’s men.

Dima scanned my face. “I’m worried about you, Dinara. Since you found out about your mother, you pulled away from me. I feel like you don’t trust me with your plans anymore.”

I scoffed, even if he’d hit the nail on the head. “You pulled away because you don’t like me with Adamo. I gave you room.”

“Don’t make the mistake of trusting him. A wolf is still a wolf even covered in sheep fur.”