The savage, p.18
The Savage, page 18
I obey, my breath shallow as he shifts beneath me, the thick head of his cock pressing against my entrance. I’m reminded that I’ve climaxed once already, that I’m aching and swollen from his fingers, but when Renzo directs his shaft between my thighs, when he roughly instructs me to raise my hips, to situate him at where his fingers were only minutes ago… and sweet heavens, when he gently urges me down over the broad head of his steel shaft, the stretch of him is still such a shock, so intense and overwhelming, I cry out.
My nails dig into his shoulders, shaking as I sink down and struggling to take every inch inside me.
He shudders when my muscles clench around him. ‘Fuck,’ he groans, his head tipping back against the headboard for just a second before his gaze snaps back to me. ‘You’re so fucking perfect, Giada.’
The sound of this name… my name on his lips is like a benediction on this act. My eyes prickle and I have to hold back a sob as his gaze devours me.
Then his hand tightens on my hip, his fingers pressing into my skin hard enough to leave marks. ‘Don’t stop. Ride me, baby. Show me how bad you’ve wanted this.’
I start slow, my hips rolling in cautious circles, testing the way he fills me, the way it drags against every sensitive inch inside me.
The shyness that clung to me moments ago is burning away, replaced by something urgent, something needier. I feel his eyes on me, feel the way his breath snags every time I sink down fully, taking him to the hilt.
‘Like this?’ I ask hesitantly.
‘That’s right, just like that,’ he encourages, voice rough with approval. His hand slides back up my body and his thumb brushes over my nipple before he pinches it just hard enough to make me gasp. ‘Deeper. Harder. Make me crazier for you.’
He begins to move with me, and it is all the things I feared and none of the things I feared. He tells me what he feels – in pieces, the honesty shocking both of us. ‘I’ve wanted this so long – God, you’re – look at me – stay with me – tell me—’
‘I’m here,’ I whisper, and then I’m not whispering, I’m speaking, giving him the map as he asked, giving him my hands, my eyes, the sounds I didn’t know I’d make.
I whimper as my nails rake down his chest, as I pick up the pace, my hips slamming down onto him with more force. The sound of skin slapping skin fills the room, wet and obscene, and I can feel myself getting closer, my walls fluttering around his girth.
‘You like that, don’t you?’ he taunts when my gasps turn guttural, his voice a dark purr as his hand slides between us, his fingers finding my swollen bud, rubbing in tight, relentless circles. ‘You like how my dick feels in your tight little hole? How it stretches you? Fills you up?’
‘Yes,’ I breathe, my head falling back as pleasure coils tight in my belly. My breasts bounce with each thrust, my nipples hard and aching. ‘Yes, Renzo—’
‘Fuck, Giada,’ he groans again, his grip turning bruise-harsh. ‘How are you making this feel like the first time again? You’re gonna make me come so hard for you. You’re gonna take every fucking inch of me and milk me dry.’
I feel him swelling inside me, his cock throbbing, and I sense he’s close to another shower of intense pleasure. Because I am too, my orgasm building like a storm, my breath coming in sharp, desperate gasps. ‘I think… Me too,’ I whisper, my voice trembling. ‘I’m – I’m—’
‘Come again for me,’ he cuts in, his voice a command, his fingers pressing harder against my clit. ‘Come on my cock, tesoro miu. Let me feel it.’
That’s all it takes this time.
My back arches on a broken cry that tears from my throat as my orgasm crashes hard over me, my channel clenching around him, milking him as wave after wave of pleasure wrings me out.
He follows with a primal roar, his cock pulsing deep inside me, his seed spilling into me in thick, hot bursts.
We collapse together, breathless, my forehead pressed to his as our chests heave. Minutes later, he’s still buried inside me, twitching with the last of his release. ‘Fuck,’ he murmurs, hot and thick against my lips. ‘I fooled myself into thinking we’d go slow this first time. But slow isn’t your speed, is it, angel? You’re gonna be the fucking death of me.’
I smile, my fingers tracing the sharp line of his jaw, the stubble rough beneath my touch. ‘Then I will pray for your soul as it leaves your body,’ I whisper.
He laughs, low and thick and… sexy enough to send a shiver through me.
He kisses me then, slow and deep, his good hand tangling in my hair, holding me to him like he never wants to let go. When he finally pulls back, his eyes are dark with promise, a wicked glint returning to them.
‘You know,’ he says, his voice a dangerous purr, his fingers trailing down my spine, ‘I still have one good arm.’ His hand slides lower, his fingers teasing the curve of my ass. ‘And I’m not done with you yet. Not by a long shot.’
But despite his words, his lips brush my temple, my jaw, before he repositions us so I’m lying on the bed, my back to his front, his sore arm still somehow draped over my waist, caging me to his body.
A yawn catches me unawares and his voice rumbles in the semi-dark. ‘Sleep now, angel. And if you’re good, I’ll wake you with cock and kisses.’
I’m not good.
Because apparently, what barely feels like an hour later, my body wakes me, my hunger for Renzo urgent and unstoppable.
I sense the moment he wakes up. Tremble with anticipation when his hand frames my hips as if he’s afraid I’ll vanish between breaths, but his voice – God help me – his voice is pure sin brushed in velvet.
‘Come here,’ he murmurs against my throat, guiding one leg over him with aching care. Then he slides inside me and I see stars, dive through constellations.
Heady with bliss, I rock back into him, earning a grunt of approval.
‘Yes. Just like that… sweet girl. You wake me like this and think I won’t take you? Think I won’t fill you slowly until you forget every prayer but my name?’ The words curl through me, molten and tender, his kisses an oath down my neck, his palms stroking my breasts, strumming my nipples and trailing reverence into every inch of skin they find.
I gasp when he rocks harder into me, deeper, surer, and he groans like he’s the one being undone. ‘So good,’ he breathes, mouth brushing my ear. ‘Wanted you like this… soft, needy, climbing all over me in the dark. You feel that? That’s me losing my mind for you.’ His fingers lace with mine, pinning our hands to my chest. ‘Take what you want, angel. I’ll give you all of it. Every time.’
The pace rises, coils, sweetens into unbearable, and somewhere in the rush something else happens – dark corners of my mind flash with image and sound: the scent of lilies; the choir at a Kyrie; the brush of a young man’s knuckles against mine in a pew where we should have been thinking of heaven and thought only of each other.
‘Giada?’ he asks, catching the change.
‘Memories,’ I manage. ‘Not all at once. Glimpses.’
He kisses me like he’s grateful to them and jealous of them in the same breath. The wave takes us a second time, harder and brighter, and I cry out, clinging to him, feeling him go with me, the two of us tipping over the edge together, undone by the same fire.
After, there is only breath. He rolls carefully, keeping me gathered, keeping us skin to skin as if any space would be too cold.
‘We crossed a line,’ I say into the quiet, because the truth deserves a place in the room.
‘We did.’ He presses his mouth to my hair. ‘But there’s no going back.’
I should feel fear at that. I feel peace, fragile and immense. It settles over us like the sea breeze when the heat finally breaks.
He holds me tight. Tighter.
And I turn and tuck my face into the warm place beneath his jaw and let the rhythm of his breathing rock me, slower, slower.
Sleep comes like mercy.
Just before it takes me, I think that if there is ruin ahead, I will meet it with my eyes open. And if there is redemption, it will look like this – his heartbeat under my hand, the night outside, and the knowledge that whatever we’ve started cannot be unwritten.
13
RENZO
I stare at her across the breakfast table, a little jealous of the way the light spilling across the Ortigia terrace drapes over her, like it knows it’s intruding on something holy.
Or unholy.
Depends who you ask.
Giada stands by the wrought-iron railing overlooking the sea, clutching her coffee cup the way she held my shoulders last night, tight, trembling, as if she’s terrified she’ll fall if she lets go. And when she went… holy shit, I’ll never forget it as long as I live.
And fuck me, she looks…
She looks like my ruin.
She’s wearing one of the dresses I handpicked for her. Pale lavender, soft and flowing, cinched with a delicate tie at her waist. The sleeves skim her wrists like whispered reminders of her old life, but the neckline dips just enough to tease me with the memory of my mouth there hours ago.
But it’s her hair that gets me.
It’s still up. Pulled into the most severe knot I’ve ever seen – tight, prim, school-mistress rigid. A knot so modest it should have its own confession booth.
I step forward, drop a kiss at her shoulder just to feel her shiver.
‘You know,’ I murmur into her skin, ‘if you walked into a classroom looking like that knot, every student would sit straighter.’
She whirls around and glares. ‘It’s practical.’
‘It’s criminal,’ I correct, laughing as she smacks my chest. ‘After last night? After the perfectly dirty way you got on your hands and knees for me this morning? And you show up wearing your hair like you’re about to teach arithmetic to delinquent angels?’
Her lashes quiver exquisitely. ‘You’re crude and rude, Signore Salvatore.’
‘And you’re adorable when you’re pretending you’re not tempted to let it down.’
Her cheeks flush a soft, gorgeous pink, then she turns away with a huff, but her shoulders relax, and that small shift – that tiny softening – is enough to make my pulse punch through my ribs. ‘Come, let’s eat,’ I say before I do the next crude thing and fuck her standing up right here on this terrace.
We sit.
And for a moment, it almost feels normal. Domestic. Like there isn’t a ticking clock strapped to our backs and a dark pocket full of enemies sharpening knives with our names on them.
The feelers I’ve put out on Madre Superiora haven’t turned up anything interesting, yet. But today, I intend to tighten the screws.
The table is laid with her favourites again – brioche dripping with honey, fresh berries, ricotta, toasted almonds, blood-orange slices, warm focaccia brushed with rosemary and olive oil. I’ve watched what she gravitates to, memorised every small delight her face gives away.
She bites into a piece of brioche and her eyes flutter shut.
That sound she makes – the quietest hum of pleasure – nearly undoes me.
‘Let’s clear up a few things, hmm?’ I say finally, leaning back, stretching my leg beneath the table until my foot nudges hers.
She tenses.
Of course she does.
She thinks I’m about to take something from her.
But I’m only claiming what already belongs to me.
‘I see you bracing,’ I continue. ‘Don’t. I’m not here to reassure you. I won’t always be able to. And you’ – I point my fork at her heart – ‘you need your fire. You had it once. You’ll have it again.’
That earns me a thin-lipped look of warning.
‘But,’ I add, ‘I’m going to remind you of something I’ve told you before, and will again. You’re mine. You’ve always been mine. You got away from me once – fine. The Man Upstairs scooped you up for a while. Fair dues. But He and you should understand something…’
I reach across the table, slide my hand to her cheek, thumb tracing her blush.
‘I’m not giving you back. Finders fucking keepers, bella ragazza.’
Her breath catches. ‘You think saying you know I’m going to fight you takes the wind out of my sails?’
‘Nah.’ I grin. ‘But I know what will.’
‘What?’
‘You sitting here feeling more alive than you ever have because you’re gearing up to fight me. You lying next to me at night, staring at me when you think I’m asleep and thanking every saint in heaven for your luck.’ I dodge the bit of pastry she flings at my head. ‘You riding my cock like it’s your favourite stallion and making me nut like a jet stream – that’s what takes the wind out of your sails.’
Her face is blazing now, bright enough to shame the sun. ‘I can’t get over how you talk so… so—’
‘Your favourite swearword is motherfucker, baby. Spare me your outrage.’
Her scandalised gasp is fucking adorable. ‘It’s not.’
‘I dare you to try it out.’
She lifts her coffee defiantly, glaring at me over the rim. ‘I will not.’
‘Pretend you won’t,’ I murmur. ‘I can already hear you whispering it in your head.’
Her lashes drop, her cheeks burn warmer, and I laugh because I know she’s doing exactly that.
She tries to look away. I slide a plate of berries towards her, fork a slice of orange, and hold it to her lips. She hesitates only a second before she opens her mouth.
‘Good girl.’
I feed her slowly, savouring the way she shivers each time my fingers brush hers.
My phone buzzes.
And again.
And again.
She glances at it. ‘You’re ignoring it.’
I shrug. ‘Mm. The natives are getting restless.’
Her brows lift. ‘Speak plainly.’
I sigh, drag a hand through my hair. ‘Rafa.’
‘Your second oldest brother. The… unstable one?’
‘That’s one way to put it.’ I lean back in my chair. ‘He’s one of them, yeah. He’s the Enforcer and also happens to be the best tracker in the family. Can sniff out a secret buried at the bottom of the ocean. If he’s calling, he’s pieced together enough to know something is off.’
‘So we’re running out of time,’ she whispers. And I want to applaud her for not shying back from the naked truth.
‘Pretty much.’
She swallows. ‘And you? What’s your role in all this? Within your family?’
Ah. There it is. The realisation.
The truth she’s been circling since the moment she stepped into my world:
The Salvatores are not clean and neither am I.
‘I’ve worked it out,’ she adds quietly. ‘I know your family… They’re mafioso.’
I smile, slow and unrepentant. ‘We prefer “businessmen”. But yes. We do what needs doing. And I have my role within it.’
She folds her hands, knuckles white. ‘Have you killed people?’
I let the silence hang. Think back to the pilfering priest I dealt with in Rome… Fuck, was it only a handful of weeks ago? I feel like I’ve lived five lifetimes since.
‘Would you pray for my soul if I have?’ I ask softly.
Her eyes flicker with something, fear maybe, or compassion, or maybe both. She looks down for a long moment, thinking. Then, ‘I would pray that God sees the whole of you. Not just the parts men might fear.’
Jesus Christ.
I stare at her.
That right there – that answer – is pure mob-wife poetry.
‘That,’ I murmur, ‘is exactly what a Donna della Mafia would say.’
Her gasp is sharp, scandalised, but something glints beneath it.
Not denial.
Not horror.
Interest. Possibility.
My greedy fucking heart lurches.
She reaches for another piece of pastry. My phone pings again – sharper this time, the coded alert I never ignore – but I do, just for one more beat.
She watches me with wide, steady eyes. ‘What now?’ she asks.
I meet her gaze.
‘Now, amore,’ I say slowly, ‘we see who’s trying to find us.’
The phone pings again.
And this time the sender flashes across the screen.
Nightowl
Weasels make chessboards out of the wood when Rats desert sinking ships.
Christ, the fucker is back to his cryptic worst.
‘What does that mean?’
I glance over to find her eyes on the screen. I watch her for a beat, my brain ticking over. I could toss out a half-assed answer because I’m not sure what the message means, save for the Rat part which I’m betting my left nut refers to El Topo.
But… wasn’t I just celebrating how strong Giada was? A simple, genuine answer isn’t going to break her.
‘It’s a message from someone I know.’
She rolls her eyes and I want to kiss her and fuck her until those eyes roll back again in ecstasy. ‘I can see that. I asked what it meant.’
‘You remember the Sicilian word for rat?’
She nods. ‘Topo.’
I watch her carefully. ‘Does the name El Topo mean anything to you?’
She frowns for a second, then shakes her head slowly. ‘Should it?’
I hold my breath for a half a second, then call fuck it. ‘Yeah, it should. It’s your grandfather’s name.’
Her eyes widen. ‘He called himself the rat?’
I laugh, and yeah, I don’t hold back the satisfaction. ‘Not willingly. He was called the rat because he was an ugly fucker, pardon my French. Thankfully, he had the good grace not to inflict any of his fugly genes onto you or your siblings. Probably the best thing he’d ever done in his miserable life.’
I realise how much bitter vitriol I’m spewing when her eyes grow wider with each word. ‘Diu, you make him sound—’
‘Worse than shit-stained pond scum? That’s cuz he is, baby. Sorry but I’m not going to mince my words when it comes to your dear old nonno.’
