Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 91489 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 457(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91489 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 457(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
I’m suddenly, acutely aware that I’m the only woman here wearing anything at all. My T-shirt might as well be a Victorian ball gown compared to everyone else’s birthday suits. The men, at least some of them, have maintained the dignity of pants or shorts, though several are letting it all hang out with the casual confidence of people who’ve never worried about anything in their lives.
Water splashes from the infinity pool as two women chase each other, giggling. The sound is jarringly innocent against the backdrop of whatever the hell this is. A modern-day bacchanal with better drugs and worse intentions.
“Eyes down,” Giovanni murmurs, his fingers pressing into my hip.
Too late. I’ve already spotted him—Rico—holding court by the bar. He’s still wearing those burgundy suit pants, but his chest is bare, revealing a canvas of tattoos that spiral across his torso. Not the random scrawls of someone who collects ink on drunken weekends, but deliberate artwork telling some story I don’t want to know.
And then his eyes—dark, calculating—find mine across the crowd.
I look away so fast I nearly give myself whiplash. Mistake. Looking at him feels like making eye contact with a predator that’s already decided you’re dinner.
Giovanni’s hand slides to my lower back, steering me toward a poolside cabana. It’s draped in white fabric that billows slightly in the evening breeze, creating the illusion of privacy without the substance of it. Inside, three men and two women are engaged in activities that would make a porn director blush.
Giovanni snaps his fingers. “Out.”
They look up, annoyed at the interruption, but recognition flashes across their faces when they see who’s speaking. They disentangle themselves with surprising speed, gathering discarded clothing and scurrying away like cockroaches when the light comes on.
One of the women—blonde, surgically enhanced to cartoonish proportions—gives Giovanni a lingering look as she passes. He doesn’t even acknowledge her existence.
“Sit,” Giovanni commands, lowering himself onto the plush white couch that’s just been... evacuated.
I hesitate, eyeing the upholstery with forensic suspicion.
“Not there,” he says, patting his thighs. “Here.”
Oh.
Oh no.
“Straddle me,” he clarifies, as if I might be confused about the mechanics.
My stomach performs an elaborate gymnastics routine as I move toward him. This is fine. Just straddling a mob boss at a sex party while wearing no pants. Tuesday things. Normal girl stuff.
I settle onto his lap, my thighs spread across his, the thin cotton of my underwear the only barrier between us. His erection presses against me, hard and insistent, a reminder of what happened in the pool house. What might happen again. Here. In front of everyone.
My heartbeat sounds like a bass drum in my ears. I’m so focused on Giovanni that I don’t notice Rico approaching until he’s right there, dropping onto the couch beside us with casual entitlement.
“Aren’t you going to introduce your woman, cousin?” Rico’s voice carries a slight New York accent, smooth and practiced like a TV mobster.
Giovanni’s hands slide up my sides, then down to grip my hips, encouraging a subtle rocking motion that makes his intentions perfectly clear. I’m supposed to put on a show while he... what? Discusses the weather?
“The Gonzalez shipment arrived,” Giovanni says, completely ignoring Rico’s question. “Three days early. Might be worth looking into why.”
Are they seriously having a business conversation right now? While I’m basically dry-humping Giovanni in front of the entire party? This is some next-level power play bullshit.
Fine. Two can play.
I lean forward, pressing my lips against Giovanni’s neck. His skin is warm, slightly salty. I feel his pulse jump under my mouth, a tiny tell that satisfies something primal in me. His hands tighten on my ass, fingers digging in possessively.
“Did you hear what I said?” Giovanni continues, his voice remarkably steady despite my best efforts. “Three days early could mean—”
I graze my teeth against his throat, and his sentence falters for just a microsecond.
“Excuse me for a moment,” he says, recovering, but I feel his heart hammering against my chest. “My whore is getting horny.” Then he turns his head to me. “You want my big cock again, baby?” Giovanni asks, his voice dropping to a growl that vibrates through me. “Twice in ten minutes? You’re fucking insatiable.”
The abrupt shift from business to dirty talk gives me conversational whiplash. I freeze against him, heat flooding my face.
Rico laughs, a sound like expensive whiskey poured over broken glass. “Must be nice having a girl who can’t get enough. My last one needed a fucking instruction manual and still couldn’t get me off right.”
The casual misogyny makes my skin crawl, but Giovanni’s hands are holding me in place, reminding me of rule number four: do not react.
“Fuck off, Rico,” Giovanni says, his tone casual but with steel underneath. “I’m trying to finish what she started.”
Rico holds up his hands in mock surrender, but his eyes—those calculating, cold eyes—linger on me for a beat too long before he rises and saunters away.