She wanted more of me, more secrets. Anything I would give she would take. Sex with Gia was therapeutic. I could make my confession, unburden my blackened soul, and cleanse my guilt with each orgasm I stole from her.
I spread her open, shoving my cock deeper and deeper, burying myself inside her. She took every inch of me. With each thrust, I tore another scream from her throat until she was speechless. I crashed on top of her, my forehead damp with sweat.
“I think there’s something wrong with me,” she whispered, out of breath.
“Why is that?” I pulled out of her and watched as our juices ran down her inner thigh.
“Because I like it when you fuck me and tell me all the bad shit you did today. It’s such a turn on.” She pushed her dress over her ass and spun around to face me. “Normal girls don’t get wet when their man tells them they tortured someone.”
I tucked myself back into my pants, zipped up, and then kissed her forehead. “That’s why you’re perfect for me.”
“And you me,” she countered.
I stroked her jaw with my thumb. “Ready for dinner, beautiful?”
She smiled up at me.
We left for the restaurant with another man’s blood on my hands and my dried cum on her inner thighs. Our relationship was beyond fucked up. But it was our fucked-up mess.
Chapter Eleven
Gia
Before I left the office, I slipped into a tight black dress that hugged my curves and stopped a few inches above the knees. Decked out in my finest jewels and a splash of makeup—which was rare for me—I felt like a different person. For a second, I reminded myself of my mother, except she had hair like silk, and I had my father’s curls.
Angelo drove us to the restaurant with his hand on my thigh, flashing a smile causing my heart to skip a few beats. He wore a charcoal-gray suit and white shirt with no tie. Like every man in his family, he wore custom suits, tailored to fit him perfectly.
He whipped through the city, determined to get us to Dolce before th
e peak of rush hour. Angelo held the wheel with one hand and tapped his fingers on my inner thigh—a single act that had me dripping wet for him. We spoke a few words in the fifteen minutes it took for him to navigate the city, the silence welcome after the day I’d had. I was tired from the mind-blowing sex on my desk. I was exhausted from thinking about the event we had to attend together that weekend.
He drove like an animal. My body tensed, mostly because I wanted him to handle me the way he took each curve.
“You’re quiet,” Angelo said, parking at the valet stand in front of a crowded restaurant. “What’s going on inside that pretty little head of yours? Did I fuck you so hard you forgot how to speak?”
I rolled my eyes at him and laughed. “I’m just taking it all in.” I shrugged against the leather seat, my eyes trained on the brightly lit restaurant. “I have a lot to deal with… you know, with my dad, the new acquisition with your family, and of course, the dinner this weekend. I’m just glad school is almost over.”
A short man wearing a red-and-black valet jacket opened my door before Angelo could respond. “Miss Carlini, welcome to Dolce.”
Surprised he knew my name, I raised my eyebrow at Angelo. He winked, a wide grin stretching across his lips. Then, he slid out of the driver’s seat.
“Thank you,” I said as the man helped me out of the sports car.
Angelo patted him on the shoulder and dropped the keys along with a hundred-dollar bill into his palm. “Thanks, Jimmy.” Then he guided me toward the restaurant.
Another man, middle-aged with short, dark hair, held open a massive oak door for us, greeting Angelo and me by name. We stepped inside, and the scents of garlic and herbs assaulted my senses. It smelled so amazing I could practically taste it on my tongue.
The space was deceptively large with a second floor that overlooked an open kitchen you could see into from every angle. The walls were brick, and the floor was a dark shade of bamboo. In the far corner, I noticed a wine bar made of casks, set up for tastings. The place was simple yet elegant.
Behind the host desk, a young woman with long dark hair waved at Angelo. “Mr. Morelli, your table is ready. Please follow me.”
We never waited anywhere we went. Red carpets were rolled out when you were with a Morelli. Either out of fear or loyalty, it didn’t matter. It was nice to be on top. I loved the special treatment I received when I was with Angelo. I felt like a queen, and he always made sure of it.
She escorted us through the dining area to a private room in the back, checking out Angelo over her shoulder as she made polite conversation. I snorted at her eye-fucking of my man. Angelo would never leave me for another woman. He never even looked at other women. But her not-so-casual perusal of my man didn’t make me want to punch her in the face any less.
French doors opened to an impressive space with leather couches built into the walls. On our right was a bar and entrance to the kitchen. We slid into an oversize semicircular booth lit by candlelight and centered beneath a massive crystal chandelier.
The hostess unfolded a cloth napkin on my lap and poured us each a glass of wine before exiting.