Page 20 of The Beast Who Broke Me
There’s something terribly wrong with me. There must be, to find such things exciting.
But he’s hard, too.
And as he begins grinding into me, slow and deliberate, all those thoughts die away in the feel of it. I feel every thick inch of him dragging against me through the layers of our clothing. He braces one forearm against the wall beside my head, his breath hot against my temple, and uses the other hand to grip my hip hard enough to bruise, keeping me exactly where he wants me while he rolls into me in a familiar rhythm.
I grip his shoulders and hold on. He shifts his angle and my breath falters.
“Look at me,” he growls, and I do, but that’s worse, because his eyes are black and furious. “I hate you. I hate you, do you hear me?”
“Hate me harder,” I gasp out.
He does, grinding into me, pinning me tight against the wall, and I wrap one leg around the back of his thigh to pull him closer. His hand slides from my hip around to the small of my back, and for one unguarded second, his forehead drops against mine. We’re breathing together, mouths almost touching, rolling in a slow and relentless dance while the heat builds between us like a fever.
I’m right on the edge.
Then he grabs my face. “Open your fucking mouth.”
It falls open, obedient and hopeful. Maybe he wants me to?—
He spits straight into my mouth, then slaps his hand over my lips until I swallow it down, looking up into his ravenous eyes. And then he shoves me to the floor again, glaring at me while I think about the fact that two hours ago I was calling myself the Clemenza Boss and spitting at Luca D’Amato’s feet.
“Look at you,” he scoffs. “You’d sell your own damn soul if you thought it’d be to your advantage.”
“I told you before, Dami,” I pant out, still hard even now. “I’ll dowhateverit takes to survive. Right down to sucking your dick.”
“And using innocent people as a shield. You’re exactly like your grandfather. A snake, through and through.”
There’s so much disgust in his face, and he echoes my own thoughts so neatly, that it makes my conscience twinge again. Because ofcourseI wouldn’t offer up Rosa or Vito or Sammy as collateral for me. They’ve done nothing wrong. They are, as Damiano says, innocents.
ButI’vedone nothing wrong, either, except to get born into the wrong Family. And the big difference between Nonno Lou and me is that my threats are empty.
“You can’t blame a snake for doing what comes naturally,” I hear myself say.
But snakes shed their skins. They become something new, and the old skin is left behind, transparent and hollow, a ghost of what they were.
Will I shed my grandfather’s skin? Or am I growing into it?
“I’m going to take a shower in your rooms,” I go on, getting to my feet. “And then I’m going to take a nap. While I’m here, you will sleep elsewhere. And I don’t want to see you until tomorrow, when all of us will gather for Thanksgiving dinner in the formal dining room. Tell Rosa to set things up there, would you? Five places.”
“Tell her yourself,” he snaps, and stalks off.
I let him go. No point yanking too hard on that choke chain just yet. He’ll learn. I’ll make sure of it.
Even if I don’t entirely like what I’m becoming in the process.
I lock the bedroom door, even though it wouldn’t keep out a determined Damiano Orsini. Then I strip and stand under the shower for a long time, letting the water run as hot as I can stand it. The tiles are cool against my back when I lean against them, and my mind goes right where I don’t want it to go: the last time I was in this shower. Dami’s hands bracing against these tiles. The sound he made when he pushed inside me.
Yesterday afternoon. It was only yesterday. Before the cold slap of reality reminded me that I can’t trust anyone, least of all the man who bought me at auction. Whatever was growing between us, he uprooted it himself.
I fall into bed naked and exhausted. The covers smell like him, and I wish that scent wasn’t so comforting. I drift off and sleep for several hours, and when I wake, I’m looking at the bio-locked door on the other side of the room. The surveillance room, I assume. Where he watched me, hour after hour, while I was chained in the basement below. I’ll have to get Dami to show me what’s in there. I want to see how he sees me, because understanding his obsession is the only way to control it.
But first, Damiano Orsini needs another lesson.
I dress in clothes he bought for me and wander into the dining room to make my plans for tomorrow. But when I get there, I stop in the doorway.
The floor is covered with shattered china, and a congealed breakfast buffet sits on the credenza, the eggs crusted over and the coffee a cold black mirror in its pot.
What in the world…
