Broken Beginnings (The Moretti Crime Family 3)

The gagging noise gets louder, and her sharp nails dig into my skin deeper as she frantically tries to escape me. I don’t let her go. I hold her in place like the bastard I am.

Her fighting only makes me thrust harder and deeper. Then I slam headfirst into euphoric pleasure. I come. I come longer and harder than I ever have before.

My orgasm seems to go on forever. Claire’s nails dig into my thighs so deep, I’m sure she is drawing blood.

When my balls are completely dry, and I finally release her, she sucks in a ragged breath before gasping for air like she was about to suffocate.

“Fuck.” I sit up.

The post-orgasmic bliss evaporates and is replaced with a mixture of anger and concern. I flick on the lamp on the nightstand, and the dim light illuminates the room. “I told you. Why didn’t you listen to me?”

Her big green wide eyes are watery, and there’s a dribble of salvia on her chin. She looks so fucking beautiful and fragile. I’m afraid if I don’t get away from her, I’ll break her, destroy the good inside of her. She’s all that’s left of my goodness.

I grab her around the waist and pull her into my chest. Her small body fits into my arms perfectly. I half expect her to fight me, to try everything to get away from me, but she cuddles into my chest, allowing me to cradle her in my arms.

“I wanted you, that’s why I didn’t listen… and even after what just happened, it might make me stupid, but I still want you.”

Speechless, I remain in this position, doing nothing else but holding her. It doesn’t take long until her breathing evens out, and I’m sure she is asleep.

Even after she’s seen the darkness inside of me, seen the fucked up deprived man I am, she wants me. She still wants me. My warning was no good, and if I have even half a chance of pushing her away, of saving her from my unbreakable grasp, then I’ll make a better effort. I’ll stop us from heading to a place we can’t come back from.

A soft snore fills the air, and I hold Claire a little tighter.

The last thing I want to do is hurt her, but if I don’t stop this now, I’ll more than hurt her. I’ll destroy her.

25

Claire

After last night, I thought maybe things had changed. Rivulets of light peek through the blinds, and I roll over, squinting my eyes to find the bed empty, the sheets cold where he laid hours ago.

It’s stupid, but I can’t help but be disappointed. The way he used my mouth, owning me, using me. He was rough and didn’t treat me like a fragile flower on the verge of wilting away. And I liked that. Liked that he wasn’t babying me and that he was showing me another sliver of who he was.

Even if I enjoyed it, it left me feeling confused too. Before, my relationship with Lucca mimicked a brother and sister bond. The crush I had on him shattered last night. Now it’s not a crush. It’s an obsession. I wanted him in every way he was willing to give himself to me, even if he wasn’t ready to admit he wanted me too.

We shared something, and even if I can’t describe it, or put it into words, what we did made us closer. It made me feel powerful, like a queen. I held his pleasure in my hands. He wanted me so badly he gave in and crumbled like dry clay in my hand.

I smile while stretching my aching limbs. Lucca might run, but this apartment is only so big, and he can’t hide from me forever. Nothing can ruin the mood I’m in. Leaving the bed, I walk out into the hall. I shiver when my bare feet contact the cold wood floor.

I wonder how long Lucca has been awake and what he’s doing.

The robust smell of coffee tickles my nose the closer I get to the kitchen, and like a bloodhound, I follow the scent all the way to its source. Lucca stands in front of the stove, completely dressed. I stop in my tracks and stare, remembering him in all his glory last night.

His perfectly sculpted muscles and his thick cock. I bite the inside of my cheek to stop my mouth from watering. If I thought he was attractive before, he’s something entirely different now. Like a fine wine, he’s aged perfectly.

Lucca doesn’t look up from the pan of scrambled eggs he’s cooking to acknowledge me. That stings, but not as bad as when I intentionally brush against him while making my way over to the coffeepot, and he merely tucks himself closer to the stove so not to touch me.