Devil’s Thirst: A Mafia Stalker Romance (The Moretti Men Book 1)
Devil’s Thirst: Chapter 32

“Look who’s joined us again.” Kennedy flashes a seductive grin at Sante from the stage as he selects a chair to occupy during practice. I’m walking up the stage steps to go back to the dressing room when her flirtatious words bring me to a stop.

Is she seriously hitting on him right in front of me?

The awkwardness intensifies as she continues. “Little Amelie here never told us she has a brother. Are you military? I could see you serving with big guns. If that’s the case, I hope you’ve had a proper welcome home.” She begins her warm-up as she talks, stretching in the most seductive ways possible.

I’ve never been in a catfight in my life, but there’s always a first time for everything. My vision bleeds red, and all the venomous words I want to say tangle into a useless knot on my tongue.

Fortunately, I don’t have to say a thing. Sante handles her in the most blasé, crude manner possible—and it thrills me from head to toe.

“That’s because Amelie doesn’t have a brother, and I don’t fuck my sister.”

Kennedy scoffs, rallying to save face. “I don’t see how that’s possible. She spends every waking minute practicing. If I had a man like you waiting for me, I’d make plenty of time for him.” She shoots me a spiteful glare.

Sante gets out his phone, not even looking at Kennedy when he responds. “No leading role and no man. Sounds like you should focus on yourself and less on Amelie.”

I honest-to-God snort out loud, then scurry backstage before I devolve into a fit of giggles. I don’t need to see what happens next. Sante executed a perfect KO, though I’m the one in the ring with my arms held high.

I dance my heart out at practice. Only one more rehearsal before opening night, but that’s not the sole source of my inspiration. I feel like I’m dancing with a sign on my back that reads he’s mine. I’m so fucking proud of that sign. I want everyone’s eyes drawn to me so they can see what it says.

I think Sante may have been right. I couldn’t see it before, but I did choose him, and I’m growing more confident with that decision every day.

By the end of evening practice, I’m exhausted. Sante suggests we pick up food on the way home.

“That sounds like perfection.” I rest my head back and melt into the seat. My muscles feel like a mound of Jell-O, jiggling with the slightest pressure.

“Good, because I’ve already called it in.” He drives us to a steakhouse, which is a bit more upscale than where we’ve gone before.

“I thought you said takeout?” I ask in confusion.

“It is. You need the protein. Don’t want you fueling up on junk before the big night.”

“Okay, but I’m not dressed to go in there.” And I’m not entirely sure the concealer I used to cover the hint of bruising on my jaw is still intact.

“You stay put. I’ll grab it.”

“Thank you.” I smile appreciatively.

He’s so freaking incredible that I can hardly believe how lucky I am.

Sante leaves the car running when he gets out, locking the doors behind him. I watch him walk down the sidewalk toward the restaurant until a car pulls up behind us and the reflection of their lights in the side mirror forces me to look away. I’m lost in a stare at the dashboard lights when a knock on the window startles me half to death.

A uniformed police officer is bent at the waist, looking inside the car. He motions for me to roll down the window.

Suffocating unease fills the car like water from a flash flood.

I don’t like cops. I don’t trust them, and I have no idea why this guy would possibly need to talk to me, but I don’t feel like I can ignore him. With my luck, I’ll end up arrested for belligerence over nothing.

He knocks again, spurring me into action. I roll down the window halfway. A compromise.

“Yes, sir?” I say innocently.

“I need to ask you a few questions. Please step out of the car.” His tone is severe, and his piercing stare spears right through me.

The only thing keeping me from vomiting is knowing I’d never forgive myself for ruining Sante’s beautiful new car.

“Um … can you ask me from here?” I manage to hold my ground but in the meekest most uncertain voice possible. “I’m a dancer, and I’ve twisted my ankle.”

“Ma’am, are you refusing to cooperate?” he asks aggressively.

“No! I just…” I just what? I don’t know what to tell him, but every instinct in my body urges me not to step outside the car.

Tears pool in my eyes.

“Please, my ankle really hurts,” I say, not having to act when my chin quivers.

He leans forward like he’s going to reach into the car when a wall of black slides between us. Sante. He’s inserted himself between the cop and the car, slowly walking the officer away from me. His position prevents me from seeing what’s happening. I can hear the low murmur of his baritone voice, but I can’t make out what he’s saying.

My eyes squeeze tightly shut.

Please, don’t end up in a fistfight with a cop.

That would put a serious damper on our evening. I’m debating whether I should step in to de-escalate the situation when Sante abruptly walks away from the man and gets back in the car, setting the bag of food on the floorboard behind me. He raises the passenger window, prompting me to look back at the cop. The man’s staring right at me, a vein bulging from his forehead with such force that steam might shoot from his ears any second.

“What did you say to him?” I ask as we pull into traffic.

“Nothing you need to worry about.” His unconcerned tone is reassuring, but I’m still anxious.

“Do you think he’s working for Talbot?”

“I think he targeted you for a reason that had nothing to do with the law. He followed us, saw me leave the car, and took his opportunity. I don’t give a fuck about his why.”

I guess he has a point. I hadn’t thought about the fact that if I’m with Sante, he brings a whole new set of dangers to the table because of his line of work. I’d only considered Sante’s dangerous side in regard to how he could help me. The flip side of that coin is important, too.

I spend the rest of the car ride home thinking about whether the risks associated with him change my feelings about our relationship. Oran has been in Lina’s life for years now and never endangered either of us. I wonder if Oran’s role in his Irish family business is at all similar to Sante’s part in the Moretti organization. I’ve never seen Oran fight anyone ever, and I’ve already seen Sante draw blood twice. It’s something to consider.

We eat once we’re home. I’m quiet and somewhat contemplative but mostly just tired. Sante seems to understand and doesn’t push for conversation. I appreciate that we’re able to share a companionable silence without feeling awkward. When we’re done, I toss my Styrofoam in the trash and stretch.

“I’m going to hop in the shower.”

He stands and tosses his trash as well. “I’ll join you.”

I’m suddenly very, very awake. He wants to shower with me. Is that a segue to shower sex? I think of the intense chemistry that lives in the air around us and can’t imagine sex not happening if we’re both naked and wet and oh my God so close together.

My nonchalant walk to the bathroom deserves an Academy Award, considering I’m freaking the fuck out on the inside. I start the water and get fresh towels from the cabinet. Sante follows me into the small space, making him seem that much larger.

Breathe, Mellie. You got this.

I decide now is actually a stellar time to brush my teeth. Anything to stall. Toothpaste on the brush, I freeze mid-motion when Sante tosses his shirt to the floor, finally giving me a first peek at his tattooed body. He’s sheer perfection, as I knew he would be. Whoever designs his artwork is incredibly gifted. The all-black designs flow together seamlessly, covering his chest, arms, and back, leaving only his abs unmarked. Abs sculpted in stone, sleek and smooth in a way that makes me want to trace my tongue along each dip and curve.

When his pants come off, he’s in nothing but boxer briefs, and he’s got a hard-on. The biggest, most terrifying hard-on I’ve ever seen in my life.

My wide eyes stare back at me in the mirror, making me realize I still haven’t brushed my teeth, and the toothpaste has fallen from my brush into the sink.

Mel, pull yourself together. Do not act like a total freak.

I start to wash the toothpaste down the drain, dropping my toothbrush in the process.

“You want to know what I told that cop?”

I jump, not realizing Sante has joined me at the vanity and is now leaning his backside against the counter with his hands curved around the edge on either side of him.

“Um, sure.”

He looks over at me, holding my gaze captive with the intensity in his own. “I told him he was harassing my wife, and he’d better replace another favorite pastime if he wanted to keep his kneecaps intact.” He twists his torso to face me and guides a wayward strand of hair behind my ear. “I wasn’t joking when I said I’m going to marry you. You’re mine. That means I’ll protect you at all costs. It also means I have the rest of my life to fuck you in every position imaginable, and I plan for us both to live very long, healthy lives. There is absolutely. No. Rush. Understand?”

How is it he can say the most outlandish thing possible and somehow make me feel better for it? He’s threatening cops and telling me we’re going to get married when we’ve only known one another for a couple of weeks. Every bit of that should petrify me. Instead, his words calm me like a cool breeze on a summer day.

“Okay,” I respond to show him I got it.

What I hear is that he saw my panic and knew exactly what had me worried. I understand that, above all, he wants me to feel safe and comfortable.

Emotions swell in the back of my throat until I catch sight of one of his tattoos that distracts me. I reach forward and trail my fingers across the evil eye inked over his heart. It’s not overly obvious in the mix of his other busy designs, but it jumps out to me.

“It was easier than keeping up with the ring,” he offers casually. He’s making light of his actions, but I can’t ignore the implications of him tattooing himself with the symbol I gave him.

“Why did you leave?” I ask, suddenly inundated with a plethora of questions.

“They didn’t tell you?”

“No.” I shake my head. “Not really. I heard you’d gotten into trouble and went to live with other family.”

He pushes off the counter. “Let’s get in the shower, and I’ll tell you about it.” He hooks his thumbs into my leggings and helps slide them down my legs. I remove my leotard while he takes off his boxers, leaving us both naked. Embarrassment never has a chance to descend. Sante leads the way to the shower, then makes room for me to wet down first.

“You know my father killed my mother, right?”

I open my eyes, water dripping from my lashes, and nod. I don’t know all the details, but I learned the basics from the other ladies mostly because of Noemi. I think she wanted me to know Lina and I weren’t the only ones with a shitty home life growing up.

“Mom was incredible. One of those people who always saw the bright side—like Noemi.” He motions for us to switch places. Once I’m out of the spray, he puts shampoo in his hands and gently lathers it into my hair. “I had no idea Dad was beating her on the regular—making sure not to leave bruises where people could see. He manipulated and threatened her. And when she finally took action to stand up against him, he had her killed.”

“That’s awful, Sante.” My heart physically aches for him.

“The worst part is that it happened right under my nose.”

“You were a kid,” I try to interject quickly.

“I was sixteen when she died. That’s old enough. And to top it off, Dad was going to do the same to Noemi, and I nearly let him.” He speaks without emotion and not in a way that alludes to in-depth counseling and years of healing. His factual retelling is laced with arsenic and frigid to the touch.

Whatever happened back then continues to eat him alive inside.

“I can’t even imagine what that was like.”

He finishes scrubbing and guides me back to the shower spray. “It wasn’t easy, but I also didn’t handle it well. Drinking, stealing cars, all kinds of shit. My cousin Renzo decided it would be best if I started fresh in Sicily. I’m glad he did. It was exactly what I needed.”

Once my hair is rinsed, he swaps places with me again. This time, his cock accidentally grazes my thigh. I quit breathing, my eyes dropping to his rock-hard length. A cloying need swirls deep in my belly despite my fears. He’s so huge, I can’t imagine having that inside me wouldn’t hurt.

I suddenly realize he’s been silent for a while. My stare jumps back to his. He’s watching me, eyes brimming with curiosity and desire.

“You sure you’ve had sex before?”

I cock my head to the side and glare. “Not to inflate your already well-rounded ego, but you’re … bigger than anyone I’ve been with.” I swallow, giving his throbbing cock one more glance. “By a lot.”

He smirks, then turns me around and drowns my hair in conditioner. “Told you I won’t hurt you, Mellie, and I meant it.” His honeyed voice drips down my skin as tangible as the shower water.

“Easy for you to say,” I mutter.

Sante gives my ass a playful smack. I yip and shoot him another glare. While I rinse the conditioner out, he washes his hair and body all in one. I’m transfixed by the sight of the bubbles drifting down every masculine inch of his body—the way they funnel into his Adonis V and the curling hairs on his legs that cause the bubbles to clump, then pop. I could watch the man shower for the rest of my life and never grow bored.

“I won’t force you into anything, but I’m no angel. You keep looking at me like that, and I may not be able to keep my hands to myself.” Strain shreds his voice to a ragged rumble.

I’m so intensely captivated by his body that cautionary thoughts escape me. I’m moving on pure instinct when I reach out and wrap my fingers around his soapy cock.

Sante hisses, his body going rigid.

I peek up at him, intoxicated by my effect on him. It’s hard to decide where to look, but in the end, the velvety goodness pulsing in my palm owns my curiosity. My fingers don’t reach all the way around him. I give a little squeeze, noting they still don’t connect, then slowly glide my fist down to the base and back up. The soap is a perfect lubricant. I feel every vein and supple ridge against my palm.

At this moment, I want to see this man come more than anything in the world.

Thank God, my hand-job game is golden. It’s been the saving grace for a couple of my prior relationships. When you don’t orgasm and aren’t normally drawn to sex, a good handy is essential.

I peer up at Sante through my wet lashes and run my tongue along my bottom lip, then add a second hand to the mix. Sante’s eyes widen.

“Fuck, you’re full of surprises.” His eyes drift shut, head drifting back as I begin to twist and tug on his hardening cock. So long as I don’t think about putting that thing inside me, I relish the feel of him—the soft stretch of his skin gliding over the tempered steel within.

Penises always seemed awkward to me before, yet there’s nothing awkward about his. This masterpiece of nature should be pictured in the dictionary next to the word virility.

“I’m gonna paint you with my cum, pet. You … good with that?” he says through clenched teeth.

I grin up at him, doubling down on my efforts.

He presses his fists against the walls on either side of him, his abs flexing tightly. “Jesus, piccola. Take it, let me see my cum all over you.” A growl starts low in his chest, then rises up to release past his parted lips as jets of semen spurt onto my belly and chest.

I let my hand slip away as soon as I see him start to flinch at my touch, overly sensitized from his orgasm. I love that I now know how that feels. I understand.

Sante flattens one hand over the sticky cum on my stomach and drags it up to cup my breast while his other hand collars the back of my neck and brings us together in a kiss. His touch is reverent. He holds nothing back, and I feel each devoted swipe of his tongue for the promise that it is.

He rests his forehead against mine as we catch our breath.

“You have more to do in here?”

I nod. “I need to shave.” No one likes a hairy ballerina.

“Take your time. I’ll keep the bed warm.” He rinses himself, then cleans the cum from my body before exiting the shower.

Despite his instructions, I hurry through a quick shave, ready to get back to him. It’s a foreign feeling to me. I’m usually not a fan of bedtime for multiple reasons. None of that seems to matter where Sante is concerned.

I even decide to wear my tank top and panties that I used to wear before I started having an overnight guest. Judging by the appreciation in his eyes when I join him in bed, Sante approves. He tucks me into his side with my head resting on his chest. It feels good, but there’s no way I can sleep like that, so I eventually roll onto my side, facing away from him. He grunts at my departure, but I keep at least one point of contact between us, which seems to satisfy him.

The next thing I know, I’m staring into the arctic eyes of a man I never want to see again.

He’s hovering over me, calling my name.

Horror threatens to consume me. Ears ringing. Heart pounding.

I have to get away. I have to run.

But I can’t. He’s too strong. He’s holding me down.

“Mellie, baby. Please, wake up. Mellie, you’re having a nightmare. You need to wake up.”

Ice blue warms to dark brown as the words start to penetrate. Confusion sets in, and my brain scrambles to catch up.

What the hell is happening?

“That’s it, baby. Jesus, you scared the shit outta me.” Sante wraps me in his arms.

It was a dream. A nightmare.

I close my eyes, trying to erase all vestiges of that horrific blue stare. I haven’t had a nightmare in ages. It doesn’t make sense to me. Yes, Talbot is more in the forefront of my mind lately, but that’s because his reign of terror is ending. I feel safer now than I have in years. It’s like my subconscious can’t stand to let me replace peace.

“I’m sorry. I don’t know what happened.” I dab at my forehead, replaceing it sticky with sweat.

“Nightmare had you in its hooks. You have those often?”

“No, not at all. Probably opening night jitters—I don’t even remember what it was about.” I slink away from him and head for the bathroom. I need a moment to regroup.

When I return, Sante is still awake.

“You were awfully upset for it to be about dancing.” His voice has gone quiet. Calculating.

I get under the covers, grateful for the darkness. “Who knows? The brain is a strange place.”

“Mel, you were crying don’t touch me,” he argues, not wanting to let the subject go.

He’s in for disappointment.

“Maybe it was about my parents. I told you, I don’t remember,” I say more forcefully. He may want an explanation, but some things are better forgotten. He can push all he’d like. This is one hill I’ll die on.

He drops the questions, but he hasn’t let it go. I know because an hour later, when I’m finally drifting back to sleep, he’s still wide-awake.