8
Karma
"How dare he!" I pace back-forth-back across the floor of my bedroom. How could he do that? After Cassandra had told me what he had scrawled across my lower back I hadn’t been able to believe it. She had finally procured another mirror from somewhere in the house and had held it behind me so I could see in the mirror over the sink exactly what he had scrawled on me.
Asshole! What a fucking bastard! How the fuck could he do this? "Aargh!" Anger spikes my veins. Adrenaline laces my blood. I glance around the room, looking for something to break, but can’t see anything handy. Damn him. Bet he purposely put me in this room because there’s nothing to vent my anger on. I need to do something… Anything…to give vent to this frustration inside of me.
Why the hell did he do this? Is he that angry with me? Not that I don’t blame him. Guess I’d be very cheesed off if someone had smashed an oar into my head, and then left me to drown... But he’d pushed me to it.
He kidnapped me first. Surely, I was justified in doing anything and everything to get away from him? I hunch my shoulders… Yeah… No… I don’t believe that rationale myself. I mean, when I had thought that I had lost him, I had pretty much fallen apart. So yeah, facts speak for themselves.
I do regret what I did. Nothing justifies what I did to him… Only, he had survived... Thankfully. So, while I understand that he is pissed off at me….
Seriously though, I still can’t condone what he scrawled into my skin. Asshole had marked me…in more ways than one. And I’d thought he tattooed his name onto my body…or professed his love for me? Ha! I pivot and begin to pace again. At least, he’d sent Cassandra to take care of me, so that has to count for something, I suppose. More likely, he wanted to be sure that I don’t fall prey to an infection and die. If I did, he won’t have anyone to torture. No doubt, that’s the only reason he had her clean the scarred skin and bandage it.
That had been two days ago. Since then, the only person I have seen is Cassandra. When I’d asked her where Michael was, she’d said that she didn’t know. She’d brought my meals to my room. After the first two, I had insisted on eating at the breakfast counter in the kitchen, and she hadn’t dissuaded me. I’d eaten dinner on my own earlier—Cassandra had left, saying she had to run some errands—then I had come up to my room…stared out of the stupid window, gone for a walk around the terrace until it had grown a little too chilly.
I had walked around the huge house… Even peeked into the asshole’s bedroom which, holy shit…has a bed which is even bigger than the one at the villa. The bedspread is as blue as his eyes, and the wooden headboard seems to be hand-carved. The entire bed stands on a platform and dominates the room. Other than that, there’s a door leading off to a closet, another door that leads to the ensuite, thick carpet on the floor, also blue, a table and two chairs by the window, another table and chair at the far end of the room with a bank of screens that indicates he worked from there.
The scent of him had been so strong and I had filled my lungs with him. Pure, one-hundred percent Capo. My body had instantly switched on—nipples pointed, skin flushed, blood rushing to my cunt, which I admit, is still wet. I had come back to my bedroom, but haven’t been able to go to sleep.
Where the hell is he? Why hasn’t he returned? Who is he with? Some whore… No wait, that’s me, apparently. So, who is he with? Someone else? Someone he is fucking right now, no doubt, trying to get rid of the touch of my skin on his, trying to remove any trace of my scent on him, trying to bury his cock in someone else’s pussy, eh? Asshole that he is.
I spin around, stomp to the door, then march down to the library I saw earlier. Maybe I can read some books. That will take my mind off of where my bastard of a husband is.
I grab a book, some stupid strategy book—SunTzu and the Art of War.Since when did the Capo read books about war? Though, come to think of it, you could apply the same strategies to Mafia business, I suppose.
I manage to read a few chapters, when the sound of the front door opening reaches me. I hear footsteps approach, then move away. I jump up, run to the door of the study, but can’t see anyone. I walk out of the room, down the corridor, peek into the massive living room, which can seat fifty, maybe? Does he use it for his mafia meetings or something? What do they do during that time? Hopefully, not just sit around and shoot at each other. Ugh, I really am going by stereotypes here, huh?
I pivot, walk toward the kitchen, peeking around the doorway to find him standing at the open refrigerator. As I watch, he pulls out a bottle of beer, shuts the refrigerator door, then snaps off the cap and tosses it in the direction of the bin. It misses, hits the floor and rolls away. I step inside the kitchen and realize I am wearing sleep shorts and a T-shirt, along with a thick pair of socks. It’s from the pile of clothes that Cassandra had gotten. Huh, not quite the outfit I had in mind for when I’d see him again. Not that I have anything else to wear, anyway. I pad into the kitchen, walk around the island and toward the fallen cap of the beer bottle. I pick it up and he swings around. I straighten, flinch when I stare straight down the barrel of a gun.
"Jeez," I murmur, "it’s only me."
Okay, so I had come to chew him out, to rage at him, to maybe slap him, and ask him what he meant by what he did. But now that I am in his presence, surrounded by his overwhelming masculinity, that brooding heat in his eyes as he looks me up and down with no change in expression on his face, and that gun. OMG… There’s something about Michael holding a weapon that’s so damn sexy. Jeez, it’s Summer’s fault. I’ve been watching too many movies with her. That’s why I can’t do anything but gape as he slides his gun back into his underarm holster.
He tilts the bottle of beer back, chugs down half of it. The tendons of his throat move as he swallows, and I swear, my toes curl. This man, he’s a walking, talking orgasm-a-minute, and no, I am not kidding, honest.
He’s wearing another suit… Similar to the one he’d been wearing at the chapel, but without a tie. So, he must have changed somewhere else. At his mistress’ place maybe? I grimace.
His chin sports a five o’clock shadow… Which would feel scratchy to the touch if he dragged it across the skin of my inner thigh… OMG, bet I’d come just from the friction. My scalp itches. My skin feels too tight for my body. The tanned skin of his neck looks so damn inviting. My fingers tingle and my toes curl. I bite down on my lower lip, watch as he lowers the bottle. The white bandage at his temple stands out against his skin.
"Does it hurt?" I jerk my chin toward his forehead, "It looks like it’s healing nicely."
He doesn’t answer, simply swallows down the rest of his beer before placing the bottle on the island. Then he pivots and leaves the kitchen.What the hell?I follow him up the stairs, and into his bedroom. I stand at the threshold, watch as he takes his jacket off and throws it on the bench at the foot of the bed. He sits to remove his socks and shoes, then reaches for his cufflinks, tries to unhook one.
I walk over to him, "Here let me do that."
I undo the cufflink, pull it off, then turn to the sleeve on his other arm. "Who even wears cufflinks nowadays?" I laugh lightly, "It’s quite old-fashioned, actually. But then, you are Mafia. Keep forgetting you guys are still stuck in the sixties.” He glowers at me. "Okay, seventies."
He frowns.
"Fine, eighties…"
The furrow in between his eyebrows deepens.
"All right, nineties, okay? Happy now?"
He snorts.
I unhook the cufflink on his other sleeve, and he stands up and steps around me. I turn as my eyes follow him. He begins to undo his shirt, baring more of that glowing tanned gorgeous expanse of his chest. My throat closes and my nipples pebble. He shrugs off his shirt, tosses it on the bench, then rolls his shoulders. I take in the sculpted pecs, the trim waist, the trail of hair disappearing into the waistband of his pants. He reaches for his belt and I swallow. He unfastens the buckle, lowers his zipper. The metallic rasp shivers across my skin. My nerve-endings pop. He shoves down his pants and his boxers in one smooth move, then steps out of them. His full, thick, hard cock stands at attention. A vein runs up the backside, leading to the engorged, angry, purple head.
I salivate, then gulp. Moisture beads my core. My palms begin to sweat and the cufflinks slide from my grasp. "Whoa!" I tighten my grasp on them. When I look up, the full blast of those icy blue eyes of his greets me.
The hair on the nape of my neck rises. Shit, what am I doing? Why had I walked in here? Oh yeah, it was to confront him about what he’d done to me. "How dare you—" I swallow the rest of the words as he wraps his thick fingers around his much thicker, much broader cock. He pumps his shaft once, twice, thrice…and I swear, his dick swells further. A bead of precum oozes from the tip. I step forward, sink to my knees and open my mouth.