Sweet Prison: An Age Gap Mafia Romance (Perfectly Imperfect Book 10)
Sweet Prison: Chapter 17

Four days later

Incessant buzzing comes from somewhere on my left. I extend my hand and pat the nightstand surface until I replace my vibrating phone. The screen mocks me with its brightness, showing that it’s 6:30 a.m. My movements could hardly be called coordinated as I shut off the alarm and climb out of bed. Grabbing a matching set of black underwear and a bra from the dresser, I head to the en suite bathroom to take a shower.

The reno company will be completing the final touches on the ground floor today and hopefully, everything will be ready for the big meeting tomorrow evening. The high-ranking members of the Family, capos, and investors, will all be voting for or against Massimo taking over the Boston Cosa Nostra. Typically, this vote is nothing more than a formality, but sometimes surprises can spring up. Like when my father was voted in instead of Batista Leone.

It seems the news of Nera’s resignation and awareness that Massimo is responsible for the Family’s prosperity has spread. Once people realized that he had been handling the business end of things for the past two decades, their reaction was immediate and came down with the force of a tsunami. For days, the house has been under siege by would-be visitors, though Peppe’s guys kept everyone at bay. The upper echelon of Boston’s Cosa Nostra society appears to be sufficiently pleased. Considering how much their bank accounts grew under Massimo’s direction, there’s no reason for them to want to change anything.

Unless he loses his temper during the meeting.

The Family loves money. But they value stability more. They would sacrifice future profits in an instant before they let a loose cannon take the reins of their lives. And based on Massimo’s recent behavior, I’m worried that may be the exact outcome.

Ever since his conversation with Salvo on Sunday night, Massimo has been doing his best to avoid me. He has spent most of his time holed up in the dining room, which has been remodeled into a huge meeting hall. At the same time, though—metaphorically speaking—he hasn’t let me out of his sight.

On Monday, when I went to visit my niece and sister, he wouldn’t let me drive myself over to my brother-in-law’s downtown apartment. Massimo insisted on taking me there himself and spent four hours in his Jag, parked in an underground garage waiting for me. Nera wouldn’t let him up. She’s still pissed at him for turning her life into a living hell these last several years. Massimo grumbled and eventually relented, but only after barking at Kai to keep me safe.

Then, yesterday, when I went over to the Leone Villa to direct the movers on how to pack what’s left of my things, Massimo insisted on going with me. He had three security guys follow us in a separate car, and all of them hovered over me the entire time I spoke with the packing crew.

He wouldn’t even let me go alone to the nearest store last night to buy some damn shampoo. Instead, he went to get it himself after ordering Peppe to watch the place like a freaking hawk. I was instructed not to leave his side until Massimo returned. All in the name of safety, apparently.

I turn toward the shelf built-in inside the shower stall and grab one of the fourteen shampoo bottles lined up there. Each is labeled as either “For Sensitive Skin” or “Contains Natural Ingredients Only.” He remembered. Remembered after hearing only once that products with harsh chemicals, alcohol, and fragrances easily irritate my skin. Now, the cupboards under the sink are crammed with bottles of body milk, shower gel, and hair essentials that all bear the same type of labels. All in all, there must be around thirty containers.

After I’m done washing my hair, I leave it to air-dry and head into the walk-in closet. Five minutes later, I’m working the clasp on the tennis bracelet Massimo got for me and exiting my room when I almost trip over a huge male body, sleeping right in front of my door.

“Massimo?”

He leaps to his feet and pushes me behind his back. I’m squished between his massive form and the wall while he snaps his head from side to side to assess the hallway. His left hand is pressed to my hip, but his right is gripping a weapon at the ready. He looks rather deranged.

“Um… There’s no one there,” I mumble into his back. He’s still wearing the gray dress shirt and black pants from the previous evening. “You can put away the gun.”

“Sorry,” he says in a gruff voice and bends down to pick up the pillow off the floor. “I’m usually more alert when I wake up.”

“Why were you sleeping at my door?”

His face darkens. For a few moments, he just sears me with those hellish eyes, then turns and heads down the hall. Well, if he thinks this conversation is finished, he’s wrong! He’s been acting weird for days, and we need to get to the bottom of whatever it is before he goes nuclear.

I trail after him along the corridor and up the stairs to the upper floor. This part of the house hasn’t yet been touched by the renovation company, and it’s in a dreadful state. The ravages of time are more apparent here. Cracked door frames and drywall where the house has settled. Faded, peeling wallpaper in some rooms. Carpet that has seen much better days. I don’t understand why he hasn’t moved into one of the rooms on the second floor, where I am. It’s in much better condition.

Following Massimo inside the room he disappeared into, the first thing I notice is the perfectly made bed. The bedding upon it is pristine, with not a crease or a dent in sight. Even the throw pillows are lined up as they were on my own bed when we first arrived here. That was five nights ago, just after the cleaning company left.

“Where have you been sleeping this past week?” I ask. “Because this bed doesn’t look like it’s been slept in.”

Massimo opens an upright dresser in the corner and starts rummaging through it without a word.

“Will you please answer me?”

He pulls out a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt, then turns around and crosses the distance separating us in three large steps. My heartbeat quickens at having him this close, my fingers ache to reach out and stroke his chest.

“I slept in front of your door.”

My head snaps up. “Why?”

“Because I need to know that you’re safe.” He lifts a stray wet strand that has fallen over my face and tucks it behind my ear. “And, because for some reason, it’s the only place in this house where I can actually get some rest.”

Air gets trapped in my lungs. He is so near that our bodies are almost touching. I want to close the gap, lean on him, and bridge that divide. Yet I don’t dare move a muscle. Afraid to face another rejection. Terrified of hearing him say that he doesn’t see me as anything but his stepsister. So, instead, I content myself with simply staring into his dark, enigmatic eyes, bathing in the warmth of his presence.

“Why?” I ask again.

“Being close to you brings me peace.”

I bite the inside of my cheek. “There’s a couch in my bedroom, next to the fireplace. I can leave the door open tonight.”

Something dangerous flashes in his expression, like a burst of flame—there one moment and gone the next. “Please. Don’t.”

“Why not?”

Massimo dips his head until the tip of his nose almost touches my crown. Almost. He takes a deep breath as if steeling himself.

“I might come in if you do, Zahara. And we both know that can’t happen. Keep the fucking door locked.” Abruptly, he spins on his heel and marches to the bathroom, leaving me to stare at the softly shut door.

What just happened?

What did he mean?

I grab at the doorframe and lean my shoulder on the jamb, suddenly feeling weak in the knees.

He can’t possibly be implying what I think he is.

Or… can he?

***

“Now, the Uzi.” Massimo gestures to the weapon lying on the kitchen island.

Timoteo picks up the semiautomatic and turns toward the backyard. The French double doors are open, revealing the freshly mowed lawn, and at the far end, a makeshift stand with several beer cans lined up along it.

I sigh. “In case you forgot, Timoteo is here to fill the butler position.”

The older fellow worked in my father’s home for almost a decade. After Dad was killed and my sister and I moved to the Leone Villa, Nera had several of our old staff transferred to our new home, including Timoteo and Iris. Following Massimo’s disastrous interviews when he attempted to hire house staff, I invited both of them, as well as a few others who have always been reliable, to work at the Spada Estate.

“Exactly,” Massimo affirms. “Which means the safety of the house should be one of his top priorities.”

“I thought maintaining safety was the job of your soldiers.”

“It’s always good to have additional marksmen on hand. Come on, Timoteo. Fire at will.”

The butler lifts the Uzi and aims at the targets. A moment later, five earsplitting bangs explode inside the kitchen. With my jaw nearly on the floor, I watch Timoteo casually return the weapon to the countertop and clasp his hands behind his back. Then, he turns to face Massimo as if waiting for his next gentlemanly command.

I’ve always known Timoteo to be extremely capable, yet I had no idea he knew how to shoot.

“Very good.” Massimo gives him an approving nod. “You’re settling into this situation with an unexpected ease.”

“I worked at the house when Miss Nera’s husband, Mr. Mazur, was in charge of keeping the property and occupants safe,” Timoteo declares as if that explanation is enough. “After just three weeks under his oversight, I consider myself well-versed in… handling the challenging requirements of a similar work environment.”

“Perfect.” Massimo turns toward Iris. “And the new cook?”

“Iris is similarly adept and used to complexities,” I interject. “She had to deal with cleaning up the office after Kai ‘fired’ the previous Head of Security.”

“I have to say, I wholeheartedly approve of your choices for my new staff.” Massimo meets my gaze. It’s the first time since this morning he’s done that. “Thank you for managing them and everything else these past few days. I’d like to meet with everyone as a group and go over some house rules.”

Timoteo, with Iris close on his heels, rushes past us, probably to gather the rest of the staff, leaving me and Massimo alone in the kitchen.

“Please try not to traumatize them too much.”

A small smile pulls at his lips. It’s not one of his wicked smirks, but a handsome, flirtatious grin that does funny things to my insides.

“I’ll do my best. Although, I’m not making any promises.”

His elbow brushes my arm as he passes by me, and I almost jump out of my skin. It’s the same effect each of his letters had on me when they arrived. The difference now, however, is he is here. In front of me. He’s real. It’s still difficult to wrap my mind around that fact.

I tiptoe out of the kitchen and hang back by the kentia palm in its massive planter where it’s set up by the archway that separates the entry hall from the dining room. Twelve members of the house staff are gathered at the foot of the stairs, all facing Massimo. Timoteo and Iris are at the head of the line, followed by five maids, the gardener, and three undercooks. Tinia is standing at the very end, visibly nervous to be in Massimo’s presence. They all have their hands clasped in front of them and are listening intently to what the lord of the manor expects of them. I handpicked each of them, selecting from those who had worked for my family that I knew could be trusted. They didn’t need to be told how intricate and demanding working in the don’s household could be, however, I still filled every single one in as soon as they arrived. I also hinted that if they experienced difficulties handling Massimo’s temper, they should come to me.

It feels strange to be in charge of anything. I’ve always avoided people in the past, staff included. Now, I’m directing the renovation workers, hiring staff, and even dealing with sales reps while picking out furniture for Massimo’s home. So weird, but it’s not bad weird. Actually, I’m enjoying myself.

“What do you mean, you’ve never held a gun?” Massimo’s growl breaks me out of my thoughts.

I look up, replaceing him looming over the gardener—hands braced on his hips, looking agitated as hell.

“I… I didn’t have a chance to do so, Mr. Spada.”

“That’s unacceptable. What about you?” Massimo turns toward the maids, who all appear as if they are seconds away from fleeing.

All five women vehemently shake their heads.

“Timoteo will teach you all how to shoot a firearm by the end of the week,” Massimo barks. “One of the guys will get you weapons first thing in the morning. Glocks for the men, Baby Desert Eagles for the women.”

Timoteo leans to the side and meets my gaze. The look in his eyes asks me: Is he serious?

I nod.

He blinks, returns my gesture, and faces Massimo again. “Of course, Mr. Spada.”

“Good. Also, your one and only warning: I do not tolerate traitors. Or give second chances. You keep your mouth shut, or I’ll shut it for you. Permanently.”

I sigh. Well… He did say he wasn’t making promises.

Massimo continues barking orders while I watch him from behind the leaves of the palm. Everything about him is fascinating. Like, the dragon designs inked on his massive forearms. Identical in shape and size, the only difference between them is the color—red on his left and black on the right—and the fact that the two seem to be staring each other down. And how the muscles on his back ripple every time he moves. His biceps, stretching the fabric of his T-shirt, bulge beneath short sleeves that look like they’ve been painted on. And then, there are his sweatpants—riding a bit low, enough to reveal the waistband of his underwear. Boxers or briefs?

My hands itch to explore that magnificent body. How would it feel? He’s got a warrior’s physique. I want to touch, to taste every single inch of it. With my fingers, my lips, and my tongue. Is he a passionate lover? He must be. He can’t be anything else with that personality of his. Could he throw me on the bed and fuck me into the mattress? I’d love for him to do just that.

Heat floods my system. The tingling, achy feeling hits my core again. It’s been a constant in his presence, running like a current through my veins. But now, as I’m imagining Massimo taking me over and over, it surges, driving me insane.

Shaking my head to regain my composure, my gaze shifts from his waistband to his hand. It’s huge—like everything else about him—fingers gripping the back of a chair while he speaks in his deep, booming voice. Would his touch be rough or gentle? Would he pin me down? Would he make me beg for more? I bite my lower lip as I picture those inked fingers wrapped around my throat while he ravages my mouth with his. Whispers… between kisses. Him telling me filthy things. Telling me… Telling me something that I’ve only ever dreamed of.

I want you.

I need you.

I love you.

Massimo

I lie in my bed and stare at the ceiling.

The alarm is set, the video surveillance is on. Armed to the teeth, my guys are patrolling the grounds. I just finished my third sweep of the house, confirming everything is as it should be. There are no threats. No intruders in sight. No reason for me to feel so anxious simply because I’ve decided to stop sleeping in front of Zahara’s door.

She’s safe and sound. You’re just looking for another excuse to head back down, to be close to her. Go to sleep.

I can’t.

It’s bad enough she found out you’ve been spending your nights at her door. Not only is it ludicrous, it probably freaked her the hell out.

But what if she needs me? The unknown threat is still out there.

We still haven’t figured out who planted that damn bug on my car, the one that led the shooter at the mall straight to me. Salvo thinks it might have been the feds. I don’t agree, since McBride picked the vehicle up directly from the dealership and drove it straight to the prison.

Whoever has been plotting against you, wants you dead. If, somehow, they manage to get inside, they’ll come for you. Not Zahara. You need to stay put.

As I roll over to my side, my eyes zero in on the door.

Still… What if someone does get into the house? What if Zahara comes face-to-face with a killer and the asshole decides to take her out? She might be struggling for her life while I’m lounging here, a full floor away!

Fuck.

Leaping out of bed, I rush out of the room and down the stairs, cursing myself the entire way. Only once I reach the second floor and plant my butt in front of Zahara’s door, can I finally draw a full breath. If anyone dares to go near her, they’ll have to come through me. And I might actually get some shut-eye tonight after all.

What happened to the promise you made to yourself to never sleep outside her door again?

I tried, okay?

I swore I wouldn’t do it. Even knowing that staying away from her meant sleep wouldn’t come. It’s not as if I’m not used to going without.

Even before she found me sleeping by her door, the temptation had been seeping into my bones, getting harder and harder to fight. Knowing she was right there, with only a wooden surface separating us, had been driving me insane. I kept imagining myself walking into her room, simply to watch her sleep. Just so I could be near her. Just so I could feel the peace that only she brings to me. When she’s by my side, I don’t feel like the stark raving mad asshole two decades in prison made me.

That hasn’t changed. Being the crazy asshole.

At least I’ve managed to keep my dirty thoughts in check. Mostly. I’ve given myself a mental slap whenever reality wanted to slip away. If Zahara had even an inkling of what I’d been thinking, she’d be disgusted. How could she not be?

My thoughts… Lustful, mouthwatering thoughts. Where my hands are on her goddess-like body, tracing every soft curve with my aching palms. Holding her in my arms, her face tucked into the crook of my neck. It’s the only place where she’d be completely safe. With my lips, grazing hers, just as I’d fantasized doing since the first moment I saw her.

The moment when she was a bright ray of light, surrounded by so many dark shadows. An angel among a crowd of devils huddled at her father’s grave. The only person in this world who didn’t feel like a stranger to me.

The only woman who has ever captured my interest. Because of how she saw the real me. The one I tried to hide, yet she wouldn’t let me, burrowing her way under my skin. I should have known then…

I shouldn’t have even…

But like the asshole I am, I still did.

Remembered, what I once told her in a letter. The one where she asked what I would do when I was set free. I’d fuck my way through a whorehouse, is what I told her. After almost twenty years without getting laid, a fucking frenzy should’ve been a piece of cake. Should’ve easily wiped the daydreams of making love to Zahara from my mind. Something I desperately needed. So, that’s exactly where I headed. Had McBride drive me directly from the prison’s gate to a Cosa Nostra strip club, where they serve pussy dessert on the side. A goddamned sugar buffet.

And I couldn’t get my dick up.

Blonde. Dark-haired. Tall and short. Scantily dressed. Naked. The manager kept bringing girl after girl into the VIP room, and my damn cock didn’t even twitch. Not once.

I figured the prison messed me up more than I ever thought, so I left, my broken cock the least of my worries.

That’s one problem I no longer need to solve, though. My cock is stone-hard whenever I picture Zahara in my arms. It works just fine every time I imagine her with me. Her delicate skin. Her jasmine scent. Her… honeyed taste.

Jesus fucking Christ. What am I doing? The combative voice in my head is right. I’m turning forty in two months—she’s half my miserable age. And if that’s not bad enough, she’s my stepsister! I should feel nothing more than a brotherly affection toward her. Yet there’s nothing remotely brotherly about my feelings.

I close my eyes, trying to fall asleep, but sleep doesn’t come. Tonight, the twenty feet separating us is nineteen too many. Feeling like the sickest creep on earth, I rise from my spot on the floor and slowly turn the doorknob to Zahara’s room.

The goddamned door opens.

I fucking told her to keep it locked!

As carefully as I can, without making the slightest noise, I step inside the darkened bedroom.

The carpet covering the floor is thick, muffling my steps as I approach. Moonlight slips through the gap in the drapes, falling onto the bed where Zahara is sleeping. She’s curled in the fetal position atop a sea of white bedding. Despite the long-sleeved nightgown, she must be chilly. Especially with her blanket tossed off and bunched at her feet.

For a moment, I let myself stare at her lovely face. It’s partially obscured by the sleep-tangled strands of her light-brown hair. Her black nightie has ridden up almost to her waist, allowing me a view of the perfect curve of her luscious ass and shapely legs. My dick is instantly a steel rod.

I don’t want to wake her, so I practically hold my breath as I draw closer to her bed. Permitting myself one final, quick look, I lift the edge of the crumpled blanket and carefully pull it over Zahara, high enough to cover her up to her chin. She looks so small. So peaceful. I don’t want to leave her.

Looking around, I spot an armchair nestled beside her desk where it’s set up beneath a window. It’s only steps from her bed and has a direct line of sight. I back away and lower myself onto the seat, all the while fighting to ignore the objections of my painfully hard cock.

For days, I’ve been trying to figure out what’s going on in my head, why I have this obsessive pull toward her. My stepsister. I’ve even gone as far as googling the reasons for my feelings and behavior. This can’t be healthy or normal. Hours and hours I’ve spent combing across various sites, looking at blogs and psychiatric forums covering the issues ex-cons experience as they try to fit back into society.

Who knows if the shit I’ve read is real, especially since multiple disorders seem relevant to me. Several symptoms hit the nail square on the head. Like the constant hypervigilance. The persistent sense that I’m trapped in a rival gang’s territory, just waiting for a shiv in my back. The overwhelming and damn near irresistible impulse to go on the attack, inflicting fear and pain, because for so long it was the only way to keep the cuntfucks in check and myself safe.

The violent urges that I can’t seem to control continue to flow through me. They’re all I know, all I’m used to. Behind bars, the only way to stay alive is to make sure you’re riding at the top. The world around me, I don’t recognize and can’t fucking relate to. Everyone is a potential threat, a potential enemy. Even Salvo. Despite his loyalty to me all these years.

I just…. don’t care anymore. About anything. The fucking Family included. It used to sustain me, like a mental crutch, gave me something to focus on so I wouldn’t go nuts in prison. Like a dog with a bone, not letting go of a bite, for if I did, I’d lose the only thing I had.

That drive is still within me. I will see my plan to the end. But at the same time… I don’t particularly give a shit about it. I want to, though. I want to care, as I did before. Just can’t seem to make myself do it. As if something important, something fundamental that makes me… me, simply died. I feel so lost. And so fucking angry.

One of the articles I came across during my cyber introspection mentioned depression as a possible reason I’m such an irascible bastard. Depression, really? I don’t feel apathy or avolition, which is what I thought defined the condition—a general lack of interest in life. Instead, I want to destroy. Annihilate. Burn the fucking world to the ground, the one that dared to move on without me. Spit on the fate that stole half of my life, leaving me to rot in that hellhole. Kill the cocksuckers responsible for that, those still hiding in the shadows. I want to demolish them, rain death on their miserable heads. Slay everyone.

And amid the chaos, the violence, my wrath, there’s her. My Zahara. My peaceful haven. An angel, offering a hand of salvation to a man burning in his own inferno. She’s grace, kindness, and my last hope. The only thing that keeps me tied to this mortal coil.

I can’t taint the only pure thing lighting up my existence. No matter how crazy it makes me, I won’t put my hands on Zahara, subjecting her to that stigma for the rest of her life.

Deciding that, though, doesn’t make my dick any less hard.

I slide my hand inside my sweatpants and take ahold of my aching cock. Squeezing it to the point of pain that nearly makes me roar into the night.

Yet not a sound leaves my lips. I don’t let it. Won’t risk waking her up to see me losing my sanity. If this was nothing but a physical urge, I’d have an easier time dealing with the madness. Yet, it isn’t. I know it’s not. Because, even with Zahara’s body completely covered, hidden from my eyes, my mind still conjures up her image. It’s not just her sinful curves and ethereal beauty that turn me the fuck on. It’s more.

It’s the idea of having her tucked into my side, my arms keeping her safe. Of having the right to touch her. Whenever and wherever I want. Of being able to bury my nose in her skin, inhale deeply, having the freedom to breathe her in without reproach. This dark abyss I’m facing, I want us to replace a way across—together. I want to tell her all the fears that plague me, things I would never voice aloud to anyone else.

Zahara is the only person who I can see standing next to me for the rest of my life. As a friend. And my lover. My wife. God, I’ve even imagined her pregnant with my babies. A son. A daughter. Mine, all mine. I want to claim her, join in the most intimate and carnal way until we are one. I need her like I need the fucking air.

I squeeze my dick again, this time even harder. A punishment for my dirty thoughts. I need the treacherous fucker to go down.

It doesn’t work.

It doesn’t fucking work.

Letting go of my choke hold, since it’s apparent I can’t force it to behave, I start to stroke. Imagining what it would feel like to be inside her.

You fucking creep. The voice in my head is brimming with disgust. Even my inner self is appalled by my actions. Tugging on your cock in the dark while you watch the woman sleep. One seriously sick bastard, that’s what you are.

“Shut the fuck up,” I growl, barely above a whisper.

Closing my eyes, I pick up my pace. My cock is long past the normal point of no return, and every stroke sends a jolt of agony through my starving body. Every cell vibrates with electricity. But the damn thing is still an unbending rod. Swollen and angry. As if my hand alone is no longer enough to bring the release I’m chasing.

Nearly roaring aloud in pain, I squeeze again and open my eyes.

Only to replace Zahara sitting up in bed. Staring at me with wide, astonished eyes.

Jesus fuck.

I should get off my ass and walk away. I don’t. Instead, I hold her gaze and let her watch me. Maybe this will clue her in on what a twisted son of a bitch I am. Maybe she’ll run, never to return to me. I hope she does. Because God knows, I can’t walk away from her.

Even though I should.

“Shut the fuck up.”

My eyelids crack open. I’m a fairly light sleeper and positive that I heard something close by. The room is dark, and it takes a moment for my eyes to adjust to the unlit space. Once I do, the figure sitting near my desk comes into focus.

Massimo.

The silver beam streaming through the opening in the curtains creates an interplay of light and shadow over his impeccably sculpted, shirtless torso. Is this a dream?

His face is tilted up toward the ceiling, however, his eyes appear to be closed and a grimace is marring his flawless features. I don’t dare move an inch, pretending that I’m still asleep, while my eyes rove up and down his rapidly rising chest. He’s gripping the armrest of the chair with his left hand so hard, I can see the outline of the corded muscles of his forearm. His right hand is somewhat lost in the shadows on his lap, but I can see it moving. There’s a telling sway of the bare skin as it glistens in the dim light.

I feel the color flood my cheeks when I realize what he’s doing. Transfixed, I watch as he pleasures himself. Right here, in my darkened room. The strange tightness between my legs grips me again, as it does each time he is near. I can’t look away. My heart rate blasts into the stratosphere. With every stroke of his hand, the flexing in my core gets stronger.

“Appalled, angel?” he rasps. His voice sounds deeper than usual, his words echo throughout the room.

I swallow, only now realizing I’m sitting nearly fully upright, my eyes locked squarely on him. Yes, I probably should be appalled to replace Massimo in my bedroom, jerking his cock mere steps from my bed. But I’m not. I’m so not.

I suck in a breath and meet his gaze. “Don’t stop.”

Devilish eyes burn through me as he keeps stroking himself inside his sweatpants. Based on the sizable bulge, his dick is huge and fully erect.

He lied. He lied to me after all.

All those things he said… That he sees me as only his stepsister. His assurance that he simply needs to protect a member of his family.

He lied.

As soon as that thought slams into my mind, my heart makes a valiant attempt to break out of my ribcage. It thunders loudly in my ears, and suddenly, all air leaves the room. That devastation I felt for believing his indifference toward me? The despair that gripped me because I thought that there was no chance of him ever returning my feelings? All of that misery was unfounded. A man doesn’t come to a woman’s room to jerk off if he feels nothing toward her.

He fucking lied!

A mix of anger and elation overwhelms me. On trembling legs, I rise and cross the space between us, until I’m standing at his wide-spread knees. My mouth grows dry. My skin feels clammy. Everything in me brims with barely restrained energy.

“Liar,” I whisper. There’s no need to elaborate further because I see it in his eyes—he knows what I mean.

“Guilty as charged.”

His words ring in my head. I grit my teeth. And then, I slap him across his face. A small retaliation for the hurt he caused me. For making me believe he had no feelings for me.

Massimo doesn’t even blink. He keeps stroking his cock, slowly, and without making a sound. His body seems unnaturally tense. A sheen of perspiration glistens on his chest. Is this how a man looks when he pleasures himself? His face is half-hidden in the darkness, though I can clearly see the hard line of his clenched jaw.

That expression doesn’t suggest he’s enjoying himself. He looks like he’s… in pain.

“You said you’d fuck your way through a whorehouse when you got released,” I bite out. I hated that awful letter, and my voice nearly breaks as I push out the words. But I need to know—is this simply the reaction of a man who hasn’t had sex in years? Or something else completely? Of every male in the universe I might have thought could be turned on by me, Massimo would have been the last.

“Mm-hmm. Drove straight there.” His nostrils flare. “And couldn’t get my dick up for anyone.”

I look down at his lap. He pulls his hand away, revealing the outline of his hard-on, tenting the fabric of his pants.

I can’t seem to look away. The anger I’ve been feeling evaporates, replaced with an onslaught of different feelings hitting me right in the chest. Satisfaction from knowing that it’s me who has caused him to be so turned-on. Excitement mixed with bone-shattering nervousness that leaves my mind utterly blank. My fingers are itching to touch him, to assure myself that this is real and not just a product of my imagination, except I don’t dare. I’m afraid this is all but a dream, and I don’t want to wake up if it is. Because this is Massimo. The only man who has ever made me feel this way. The only one who ever will.

“You have nothing to say?” he growls. “Do you think me vile? A sick fuck who came into his stepsister’s room to jerk off?”

My hand is shaking as I hesitantly reach out and lightly stroke his bulge. A guttural, pain-filled moan emits from Massimo’s throat. And I whimper. Shaken by both the sound and the power I feel under my palm.

“Why couldn’t you… get hard?” I give his cock another gentle brush over his sweatpants. “Tiziano always boasts about having the most beautiful girls in Boston.”

“Because none of those women were you, Zahara.” His reply is groaned through his teeth.

A swarm of butterflies takes flight inside my stomach as I let every syllable of his growled reply sink in. For years, I’ve fantasized about him saying things like that to me. In each of those dreamed-up situations, I imagined him softly whispering those words in my ear. I thought I would prefer him to speak like that. I was wrong. This. His growled response, which shows his internal battle—a battle he’s obviously losing—is what I needed. A throb, unlike any I’ve felt, seizes my core, and I feel myself get wetter.

I watch him, this complicated man who turned my life upside down. As a young girl, I wrote to him, hoping he’d step into my big brother’s shoes. I wanted a confidant, a protector. Someone who’d tell me that everything would be alright. Regardless of how tough life got, I wanted him to paint a rosy picture.

He gave me none of those things.

He gave me everything I never knew I needed.

Purpose. Self-confidence. A sense of self-worth.

Without meaning to, he turned me into the person I am today. Strong. Resilient. Capable. The kind of woman I always wanted to be. And that woman isn’t scared anymore. She’s willing to go after what she wants. Him. Even when it’s scaring the shit out of her.

With my whole body vibrating with need, I slowly sink to my knees on the carpet, right there between his legs.

Massimo’s frantic eyes follow my every movement. The tension in his upper body seems to pull tighter. Even in this low light, the pulse point on his neck draws my attention as a slight shiver makes its way through him.

My fingers are trembling as I grab ahold of the elastic of his sweats and carefully pull it down. Massimo’s cock springs free, enormous and ramrod-straight. So engorged, it looks almost purple. My hand shakes as I wrap my fingers around his tip and start stroking along his length.

Steel, encased in velvet.

“Zahara.” Massimo’s deep, rumbling growl breaks the silence. His head is bent, and he’s gripping both armrests with wood-splitting force. “No.”

“Why not?” I wet my lips. “I don’t see you as a brother, Massimo. Haven’t you realized that by now?”

His hand shoots out, fisting the hair at my nape. Fire rages inside his dark, smoldering eyes. They blaze through me, igniting my desire. Setting off an inferno neither one of us could escape. “Don’t say that.”

“Why? It’s the truth.” I lean forward and press my tongue to the head of his cock.

A violent shudder overtakes Massimo’s body, jolting him as if he was struck by lightning. An intense gratification blooms inside me at the sense of victory I feel. I did that. Me. I may not be experienced, and I’m still feeling nervous that I might do something wrong, yet seeing his reaction to that one single touch, gives me the courage to continue.

I lick him from base to tip, just like I’ve seen in videos, enjoying the way he responds. Shallow, fast breaths as he nearly bows out of the seat. Tremors rack him while I circle the swollen head with my tongue, building up the tempo, then lick away the drops of salty pre-cum at the slit. Another proof that all his claims of not being attracted to me were nothing but lies. Why was he fighting this pull between us? How would something that feels so good be labeled as something bad? I lick his cock again, relishing having him come undone under my touch. I want more. I want the taste of him to be branded on my tongue, the same way he imprinted himself on my soul.

The tightness and ache between my legs is spiking. I’ve never felt this kind of overwhelming need as I do now. My panties are completely drenched. Is it the flavor of him, or the fact that I am finally experiencing what I yearned for so long? Getting to know him on a carnal level, having our bodies so in tune with each other.

The silky texture of his stone-hard length scorches my palm as I slide my hand down and gently cradle his balls. When I move closer and seal my lips around his tip, his dick twitches so fiercely that it almost slips out of my mouth. Slowly, I take more of him down my throat while letting my teeth lightly graze his sensitive flesh.

“Madonna Santa,” Massimo groans, tightening his hold on my hair.

Every muscle in his body is taut, so much so that he remains rigid like a fine marble statue. I let my lips languidly glide up his cock. Feasting on it. He is mine. Massimo Spada is finally mine. My heart nearly bursts from that though. I move my mouth to the tip of his cock and suck it, hollowing out my cheeks.

Massimo convulses, and a guttural roar fills the room. Warmth explodes down my throat as he comes in my mouth. I swallow every last drop of his cum. It’s a testament. Unequivocal proof. The truth he’s been hiding from me behind the facade of rejection.

Evidence of his feelings. For me. And not the sisterly kind.

Still feeling a bit anxious, I get to my feet and stand between his splayed knees. His chest is rising and falling at a galloping rate, while his fingers continue to clutch my hair.

“Massimo?” I caress the side of his tightly clenched jaw with my knuckles.

A low and deep rumble, like a lion’s growl, emanates from his throat. The shadows on his bare chest shift when he stands up. His hold on my hair intensifies while he towers over me, staring down at me like a magnificent king of beasts. His other arm snakes around my waist, locking me in a viselike grip and lifting me off the ground. My breath hitches as I marvel at the sensation of being pressed flush against him, and I lose myself in his sultry gaze.

“Are there needles or other sharp shit over there?” he croaks.

I blink, lightheaded and bewildered. “Where?”

He nods toward the antique work desk to the left of us where I’ve spread out the half-cut dress lining.

“Um… no. I don’t think so.”

That seems to satisfy him and he gives me another nod, then deposits me right on top of the silky fabric.

His eyes burn into mine as he trails his palms up my thighs, inch by arduous inch. There’s so much tension there, in his dark, unyielding gaze. His expression is set in hard lines, his stance so solid, it’s like he’s become a mountain, not a man.

“So soft…” Low, mumbled words. “I never dreamed your skin would be this soft. Like feathers.”

Everywhere he touches sizzles as if singed by flame. He doesn’t have a gentleman’s hands. His palms are rough, without any trace of softness. Battered skin which endured so much. Just like his soul. But his caress is so delicate as he trails those coarse palms up my legs until his fingers graze my panties. With the hem of my nightgown bunched around my hips, the black lace is the only barrier between my pussy and his touch.

“I’ve lost sleep on so many nights imagining what you would feel like, angel.” Gently, he pushes my legs open. “And your heavenly scent.”

Should I be embarrassed right now? Does it make me some kind of hussy if I’m not? That instead of closing my legs, Massimo’s words lead me to open them wider. As jittery as I feel over what’s to come, I crave it. Anticipate it with every fiber of my being.

I exhale in short, rapid bursts as he drops to his knees and buries his nose at the apex of my thighs. When he inhales, he sounds like a suffocating man who just got his first breath of air.

“Jasmine. Peace,” he mumbles into my pussy, breathing in deeply again. “And sin.”

Warm breath wafts through the lace of my panties, tingling my sensitive flesh. Want… Need. My legs start shaking. And my hands. I lean back and fall onto the surface of the desk, while Massimo keeps nuzzling my pussy with his face.

“I need…” I pant, grabbing his shoulders and arching my back. I don’t know what I’m asking for. I just know that I need… more. More of him. I want him to know me inside out. I want us joined completely, so there isn’t even a speck of unknown between us. I want to be his in every way.

“I need to feel you… down there,” I pant. “I need it so much that it hurts. Please.”

Rough palms slip under my ass cheeks, pulling my panties down.

“I’ll probably burn in hell for this, Zahara.”

The lace slides down my legs, and then… warm wetness… laving my folds. His tongue.

“Dear God,” I gasp.

My vision blurs, as if the world has vanished. I’m not in my room anymore. Instead, I’m suspended somewhere in midair, trying to remember how to breathe while Massimo feasts on my pussy as if it’s a mouthwatering dessert. He’s swallowing my arousal. Licking away every single drop. It’s as if my most secret imagination came to life. Years of waiting. Hoping. My chest expands as if my heart suddenly became too large for it. My inner walls clench so wildly, I might lose my mind. More. I need more or I’ll completely crack.

“Soaked…” he mumbles as he keeps devouring my pussy. “Do you always get so wet, angel? Can any man just milk your juices like this?”

A light press of his thumb on my clit sends my eyes rolling back into my head. Oh God, he’s added his fingers now, and he is doing the most sinful things with them. Caressing. Tapping. And… dear lord, pinching while he keeps licking my bud. I’m fighting for air, unable to form actual words. Is it possible to die from pleasure?

“Has any man’s touch here felt as good?” Massimo growls into my pussy while the strokes of his tongue turn firmer. More forceful. “I need to know, so I can cut off his filthy, undeserving hands.”

His teeth graze my clit, and then he plunges his tongue into my core. Tremors rack my body, incapacitating me completely. I can’t move. I can’t speak. Can’t even breathe. I’m so far gone already, but then, he closes his mouth around my clit and sucks.

I scream, my voice breaking just like my body, and he… for the love of all that is holy, keeps sucking on me. I’m flying, high above my corporeal form. While back on earth, my body is shaking and shattering, each atom returning to the stars.

Wetness trails down my cheeks as I slowly pull myself together.

“Zahara.” A low, whispered voice, somewhere close by.

I open my eyes and replace Massimo leaning over me, his huge hand cupping my face.

“Angel.” A light brush of a finger under my eye. “What’s wrong?”

Wrong? I try to respond but only manage a feeble gasp. How could anything be wrong when it was so, so perfect?

“Did I hurt you? You’re shaking like a leaf.”

“No…” I pant, staring into his eyes. “It… it was the first time.”

The corner of his lips curves up. “First time a man ate your pussy like that?”

“No, my first…” I trail off, then draw a deep breath to finish, “…my first… everything.”

Massimo’s smirk disappears, replaced with confusion that quickly transforms into alarm. Even in near darkness, with only a sliver of moonlight seeping into the room, I can clearly see the color draining from his face. His Adam’s apple moves prominently as he swallows.

Jerking his head, he takes the hem of my nightgown and gently moves it down, covering my still trembling core. Why is he acting so strange all of a sudden? Did I say or do something wrong? Is he upset because I’m inexperienced? I can’t help it if he’s the only man whose touch I’ve ever longed for.

“Massimo?”

“Hush…” He brushes the back of his hand along my chin and slides his arms under me. “Let’s get you to bed.”

My weight seems to present no problem to him. Massimo easily lifts me and carries me without breaking a sweat. Once he lowers me to the bed, he pulls the covers up to my neck and takes a seat on the edge.

“I’m so sorry, Zahara.” His eyes are downcast, staring at the floor. “I didn’t know.”

“Didn’t know what?”

“That you’ve never been with a man before.”

“Why does it matter?” I’m still shaking all over and can barely form the words.

“It matters, angel. It matters when a sick, selfish bastard almost took your virginity. A man who’s twice your age. One who should only be your protector. Who never should think of you… the way I do. I never should have put my hands on you. Tainted you like this. It’s sacrilegious.”

“We’re not related by blood. It’s not incest.”

“It doesn’t matter. If anyone ever replaces out… Jesus… People will be pointing their fingers at you regardless of consanguinity. In the eyes of the world, I am your family,” he clutches the back of his neck. “Fuck! I almost ruined you!”

I reach out to touch his shoulder. “You wouldn’t have rui—”

“Yes, I would have,” he rasps, sounding defeated. Desperate. “This… us… it can’t happen, Zahara. I’m not going to wreck your life by besmirching you with my lust.”

I stare at his hunched back, fighting the tears that are threatening to burst free. I know him. When Massimo Spada decides something, no force on earth can make him waver.

“It may be best if I stayed somewhere else. I’ll make sure you’re still protected. A full security force will stay here with you. You can turn the house into whatever you want. There’s staff and the means for you to do it. After tomorrow’s meeting, though, I’ll move out.”

My lips quiver. “This is your home. You’d leave it just to get away from me? My presence here is that disturbing?”

Massimo turns around so fast that I flinch. “Don’t you understand? I can’t fucking breathe when I’m not with you, Zahara!” he growls into my face. “My lungs seize up, and I’m left gasping for air. Everything is a motherfucking wasteland, and I’m stuck in the middle of it. Choking. Dying. Day after day. I’ve slept in front of your door just to be close to you. The thought of not having you by my side sends me into a full-blown panic.”

He hits his chest with his fist as if trying to dislodge whatever mass has settled there.

“God, I wish I still had the handcuffs they put on me, just so I could use them to chain you to me. I don’t want to be away from you, and I never want you to leave me. Do you have any idea how sick that is? Can you comprehend how utterly fucking gone I really am?” He cups my face with his palms. “I will not ruin you. The rest of the world can burn in hell, but not you. You’re pure. My angel. And this… we… We can’t happen. Ever.”

I watch as he drags himself away and heads across the room. I’m shocked. Bewildered. Happy and completely devastated at the same time. He feels it, as well. This magnetic pull between us. The yearning. And still, he’s walking away. Just because my father married his mother, and that somehow brands this connection between us with an undeniable stigma.

“Don’t I have any say in this?” I bite out after him.

Massimo halts at the door, grabbing the frame with his hands. “You don’t.”

A sob rips from my chest, the physical pain overwhelming. How dare he crush my heart again! How dare he unilaterally disregard our feelings. And all because it wouldn’t be socially acceptable?

“I’ll pack my shit and leave first thing in the morning,” he continues. “It’ll be easier on both of us.”

I’m so tempted to bury my face in the pillow and bawl my eyes out. Accept the situation like I’ve always done—without a fight. However, I’m not that timid young girl anymore. The one too scared to lift her eyes off the floor. He helped me change her, without ever knowing his impact. I am not dropping my head. I am not letting him walk out of here. I am not allowing him to pull away from me, simply because of this stupid notion that I’ll be made a pariah. I don’t need saving. Not anymore.

“You’re not leaving.”

“Zahara…”

“If you do, I’ll follow you anyway. So let’s just skip the unnecessary packing and unpacking.”

The muscles on his arms tighten as he grips the doorjamb. “My self-control is hanging by a thread, angel.”

“I know. But practicing will do you good. You’ll need your restraint to handle the Council.” I turn around, facing away from him. “See you at breakfast,” I say in the most casual tone I can muster.

A minute passes. I grip the covers in my hand and wait. Another minute.

He’s still here, I know that. I can hear his labored breaths, clear across the length of the room. Is he debating with himself? Why isn’t he saying anything? What if the morning comes, and he leaves anyway?

A low whisper fills the silence of the room. “Is an omelet okay?” My heart skips a beat.

“Sure,” I whisper back.