Wicked Fame: A mafia stalker romance (Wicked Men Book 2)
Wicked Fame: Chapter 13

The moment that scorching kiss ends, I slip off my jacket, then my silk blouse. My breasts are tight with need. I hunger for Gabriele’s touch to unravel me, to let me slip away from the desperation for another high that’s eating at my brain like a worm.

I unclasp my bra under the scrutiny of his narrowed eyes, letting my breasts spill free.

He’s looking at me like he’s seeing me for the first time.

“Like what you see?” I tease.

“Like?” His teeth are sharp as they flash in a smile. “I want to ruin that pretty body of yours in a million and one ways.”

Heat sizzles up my cheeks.

His shoes approach me with light taps. Fevered breaths mingle with fevered moments. His thumb caresses the hard tip of my nipple. Breaching my final insecurity, he reaches down with the other hand, pulling my thong down my legs.

We collide like two burning comets. Mouths mating. Skins merging.

His body overwhelms me. My nerves buzz like live wires. My pulse trips. He’s promising me the ultimate escape and my impulsive soul wants to snort it like powder.

His rough touch travels down my throat. He kneads my breasts, traces the curve of my spine all the way to where it meets my ass. Cupping my cheeks, he places a kiss on my forehead. Gently, like he’s kissing a delicate flower. The contrast of his hard grip with his soft lips sends tremors up my spine.

How could the man who claimed he’d kill me if I pushed him be the same man worshipping my body like it’s the most fragile object in the world? Gabriele’s words are cold, but his touch is warm. I can’t tell which one is the real him. Yet I’m equally intrigued by both sides of him.

The caring man who saves me from trouble and keeps me company is the one who soothes my shattered heart.

But the heartless criminal who’d put a gun to my head and demand I go down on him burns my demons to ashes.

I need both of them. I’m addicted to both of them.

Gabriele grunts, taking something from his pocket. The red Swiss army knife unfolds with a distinct click. An undeniable knot twists in my belly.

The ingrained paranoia in me yells no, but my corrupt soul screams: yes, yes, yes. Please make me bleed.

“It’s your fault for putting the idea in my head.” Gabriele trails the blade underneath my chin. His precise control leaves me hanging on the precipice between fear and arousal. “I won’t use this to cut you, Francesca. Only tease you. But if you don’t want it, tell me.”

Moisture licks down my bare thighs. The headache throbbing at my temples all day is eclipsed by the need throbbing at the apex of my legs. He’s doing exactly what I’ve fantasized about since leaving his apartment. Not in a hundred years did I imagine I would one day be experiencing this in my life.

Please give it to me. Please rip my foolish heart into pieces.

“Why won’t you cut me? Isn’t that the whole point of a knife?” I moan.

“Have you ever been slit with this?” He holds up the blade so its smooth metal body glints under the bulb light from the lamp. “It doesn’t hurt like you think. You can’t even feel it slicing your skin. I want to make you suffer, baby. Hurt you until you scream. I won’t allow you to escape the pain that comes with what we’re doing.”

His nails burrow into my wrist. I can’t tell if he’s begging me or ordering me. We fight a silent war with our gazes.

I stick out my chest, grazing my nipples against the rough cotton of his black shirt. The friction only hardens the already pointed peaks further. “I can take the cuts.”

A head shake. “No. I won’t go there with you.”

I cackle because this is hilarious. “You spill blood for a living, Gabriele.”

“You’re not my job, Francesca.”

“Then what am I? Your whore?” Irritation from my withdrawal coupled with the frustration from having made no progress all day infuses my voice with venom. “Your sidepiece until you decide you want to settle down with a proper wife?”

I shouldn’t push him after he has made his reservations clear. After I promised not to cling or make this more than sex. But I’m addicted to the game we’re playing. The one where we drive each other to the brink, strip each other naked, and caress the fears and wounds decorating our souls.

Fire kicks in my lungs as Gabriele’s wild features grow wilder with fury. His strong hands grab my face roughly, sending jolts of electricity rolling down to my tiptoes. I like being eclipsed by his strength, being at his mercy. Knowing he can snuff out my sorry life with just a snap of my neck, but praying he won’t.

“You’re the canvas I can paint my twisted desires onto, Francesca.” An unholy grin licks his lips. “And God help me, I love you for it.”

My heels quake. A man like Gabriele doesn’t throw around words casually. That admission is more than I’ve ever had from him.

Maybe I’m not so unlovable after all.

Hope settles in the grooves left by trauma. “You love me—”

He quiets me by dragging the silvery edge along my bottom lip. With a little more force, he could easily cut my skin open. His control is sexy. Pleasure carves a path to my core.

His low groan hits my groin. “Pick a safe word, Francesca. Say it and I’ll stop immediately. When it gets too intense, don’t be afraid of pausing to catch your breath. You hear me?”

“Mona Lisa,” I mutter, drawing an amused smile from him.

His shakes his head. “That’s two words.”

“You break the law every day. Don’t start being a stickler for the rules now.”

“Very well. Mona Lisa it is.”

I ache for contact with the cold, unforgiving sharpness of the metal. The promise of death seduces me. The toxic addiction to destruction, danger, death.

The toxic addiction to him that won’t go away.

He grabs my hair. A flick of his wrist. The blade slices through my strands, littering the floor with golden locks.

I yelp in surprise. I wasn’t expecting that. The ends of my hair poke out unevenly now, proof of his violence. Proof of his hands on me. He has marked me. I’m sure that’s what his plan is. To strip away my refinement and dignity bit by bit until I’m nothing more than a mess crying out his name.

“Are you angry at me for cutting your hair?” It’s not a question, it’s a challenge to oppose him so he can show me who the master is.

“Take anything from me.” I flex my neck, surrendering to him. “Anything but your touch.”

I don’t crave the pleasure Gabriele gives me, I crave him—my muse, a man darker than my imagination, deeper than my obsessions, colder than my shame. I’m sucked in by the desires that haunt the depths of his eyes. I need to know every single one of them so badly that I’ll let him play them out on me if that’s the only way I can get him to show me.

“We’ll see about that.” He presses the tip to my flesh, but not hard enough to cut skin. Flutters explode in my belly as he drags the sharp point all the way up my throat. My breaths come faster in anticipation of the sharp point against my lips.

Suddenly, he changes the unwritten rules of the game we’re playing.

Withdrawing the blade, he drives the back of the knife into the softest, most sensitive part of my stomach. I grip his thighs tightly, biting back a cry. But that only fuels his cruelty. He seems determined to keep his promise.

Another blunt strike into my upper abdomen, right in my abs. This time, harder. My lungs contract in protest. Tears fountain up in my eyes. Before I can recover from the stinging under my skin, a flower of pain is blooming at the base of my ribs. The back of the knife is rounded and unthreatening; it’s the force he uses that makes it so potent.

It’s beneath my dignity breaking down in front of him, exposing more of my vulnerability to this manic monster, but the third assault, right under my left rib, frees all the tears I’ve dammed up. My scream pierces the air.

“Felt that?” Gabriele’s knuckles track over the site of the hits. “That’s how you bruise with a knife.”

In my delirium, I fail to contain my tears. I don’t think I’ve cried in front of him before. It’s another shameful secret of mine he’s now privy to.

He curls his mouth in disgust at the waterworks.

I could make him stop. Mona Lisa.

It doesn’t hurt enough for that yet. He hasn’t taken enough from me to make me admit defeat.

Besides, it’s better when my body is in agony because it quiets my mind. A numb mind is exactly what I need in life to keep myself from snapping.

The mobster grabs my waist roughly. Needle-like stings that erupt over every few seconds when Gabriele’s body presses into the bruises left by the back of the knife. The layer under my skin burns with the memory of his recent treatment.

I hear the light, mechanical sound as he folds his knife and places it back in his pocket. He picks me up like I weigh nothing. I slide my bare foot over the stiff outline of his cock poking through his pants, loving the way his Adam’s apple bobs when I apply pressure with my toes.

He dumps me on the only bed in the only bedroom in this place.

We fight over undoing his belt, but he wins, sliding out of his pants and boxers.

“Let’s make this interesting.” The knife slides against my stomach again. I had no idea he managed to grab it before his pants landed beside the bed. He pulls me to the edge of the bed, then gets on his knees, burying his mouth between my legs. With a single lick over my slit, he pushes me right back to the edge.

But his stony voice is what makes my blood erupt with heat. “If you don’t come in ten minutes, I’ll slice you. With the sharp end this time.”

Intoxicating words, those.

Shooting a quick glance at his shadowed features, I let out a shaky breath. “I thought you said you hate blood during sex.”

“I’m confident in my skills so it shouldn’t come to that. As long as you cooperate.”

A powerful current floods my whole system. I feel alive again, like all my cells are breathing air instead of smoke.

What’s wrong with me that being threatened turns me on so much? Last time, too, I loved the sense of danger, knowing that he wouldn’t show any mercy if I held back.

The velvet glide of his tongue explores my wet heat, asserting his dominance into the most intimate part of me. His teeth graze my wet folds, hinting at pain. Time ceases to exist. The whole world beats to the rhythm of the sensations crowding my groin.

He bites a trail down my inner thighs. His lust envelops me. The intensity of how much and how badly he wants me imprints itself into my nerves with every impatient suck, lick, and scape of his teeth.

His mouth surges against my clit, licking, sucking, teasing. My back arches, my body submitting to him. Bliss makes me curl my toes. The assault on my senses is so overwhelming. My whole body registers every flick of pleasure shooting through the places his mouth touches. Breathing becomes an impossibility.

I’m at the edge. There’s only one thing left to do—fall.

Then he gives me the final push, digging the edge of the blade into my skin, reminding me of the stakes.

It sends me spiraling into a supernova. The release slaps hard, harder than ever before, drawing me into a never-ending vortex where pleasure melts into more pleasure until I’m drowning in an ocean of ecstasy.

“Told you I was good.” Gabriele wipes the mess I made on his lips, tossing the knife on the floor. Then grabs the back of my thighs, throwing both my legs over his shoulder as he climbs onto the bed.

I’m both ready and utterly unprepared for the savageness of his cock breaching my wet hole. He fills me completely, bottoming out in a single stroke. As his cock pumps in and out of me with unflinching intensity, I even start to feel the delicious friction of bedsheets shifting against my sore back. Fear of breaking the bed from the force with which he’s driving me into the mattress skims my consciousness.

He’s wrecking me with his cock, and I want to be ruined.

As his thrusts grow brutal, I squirm, dragging my nails along his back. His mouth covers mine, swallowing my screams. My brain is intensely caught up in his aftertaste of beer on his tongue, in the easy glide of my fingers against the silk of his shirt.

His eyes are open, but he’s shutting himself out of this experience emotionally by refusing to look at my face as I bear the brunt of his sadism. He doesn’t want to confront the truth: that he likes causing pain.

Maybe he thinks it makes him a monster. Maybe it does. Maybe that’s why I’m obsessed with being the object of his desires.

Because the truth I refuse to confront is that I’m in pain. I’m hurting so much on the inside, no damage he does to my body could ever hurt the same way.

I numb the agony with substances because I can’t face it. But when I’m in Gabriele’s arms, letting him destroy me, I can’t deny it, I can’t escape it. He won’t let me. I can only drown in it, until it’s so real it can’t be denied.

I’m forced to cope with it.

That’s the game we play.

When he makes me aware of the internal agony, when I manage to push past that pain to explode in ecstasy, I realize how strong I am. That while pain is uncomfortable in the moment, I can move past it. I don’t have to keep avoiding it.

I can take it and emerge in one piece.

He makes me aware of the strength that’s hidden inside me.

Noises part my lips. The raw ache of his strength pounding into me morphs into another release before I see it coming. Beautiful pleasure washes over me, and I let it take everything that I haven’t already given him.

Gabriele doesn’t stop. He continues to thrust into me, pulling out at the last minute to come on my skin. Wet liquid sprays all over the wounds he left on my stomach and my face as his orgasm hits.

“Your body looks so beautiful painted with my cum.” The rough lilt of his voice rolls down my spine, warming parts of me that were starting to cool down. “Now that’s what I call art.”

I cough.

His depraved actions, dangerous words, and cruel smile should have me bolting for the door. But it has the exact opposite effect. His darkness feeds my soul, sating a hunger I wasn’t aware of.

My appetite for this man is endless.

When all is said and done, can I be with someone else after he’s done with me? Won’t I be disappointed with vanilla sex now? All those upper crust boys with their nice manners, smooth hands, and bland personalities drilled into them at Ivy League universities could never compare to the layered, intense character of Gabriele Russo.

A cold sensation slithers up my back.

This feels like way more than just sex right now. Even though he has filled me and satisfied my body completely, my heart beats around empty space.

I need more from him. More than physical pleasure. More than the emotional distance.

I need everything.

“What’re you dreaming about, Francesca?” He brushes back the hair that’s stuck to my sweaty forehead after I’ve taken a shower to wash off all the traces of him from my skin. “Where’s that mind of yours wandering?”

The muscles around my mouth tense but I manage to eke out a sad smile. “I wish finishing my commission came as easy as the chemistry between us.”

“Why can’t it?”

“I don’t know what to draw.” I wanted to draw out the mindless, void state of my orgasm for a bit longer, but my brain is already latching onto the unwanted image of the plain white canvas in the studio, waiting for me to fill it with a masterpiece. “I’m completely lost.”

“Paint a nice scenery, then. You can do that much, can’t you? I’ve seen how fast your hands move when you’re working.”

I cough. “That’s not art. That’s just painting.”

“What’s wrong with painting?”

“Anybody with a half-decent eyesight can do it. I want people to see that I have real talent and vision, greatness beyond technical skill.” So they can never accuse me of riding my father’s coattails. So nobody will ever ask me when I’m going to pick up another hobby. I want to be Francesca Astor the renowned artist, not Francesca Astor, a hotel heiress with nothing more than a pretty face to my credit.

Gabriele shrugs, playing with my hair, smiling at the jagged ends from the haircut he gave me. His dark eyes dipped in golden light from the wall sconces, hold mine for an interminable length of time. “Two nice landscape paintings are better than nothing at all. In my world, you lose your life if you fail to bring the goods on time.”

I appreciate the point he’s making. Even if I can’t admit it to myself right now. There are only so many lies I can manufacture to cover for my lack of productivity. At the end of the day, I’m a trained artist. Even on my worst days, I can produce an accurate likeness of anything I see on canvas. Indeed, I’ve always pressurized myself to come up with something abstract, deep, and grand because that would justify that I have real talent. Then I’d deserve to be famous, to be noticed over every other struggling artist in the world due to my genius.

“What about subpar goods?” I turn to the huge Mafioso dressed in all black who looks out of place in my colorful studio, like a lion in a dollhouse. “What if you bring mediocre stuff in a rush? Do you get killed for that in the mafia?”

Gabriele’s throaty laugh sinks right into my stomach. I’ve never heard the man laugh before. He drains all the air from the room, replacing it with the endlessly echoing sound of his deep voice. “Nah, you just tell them that if they wanted the good stuff, they should’ve paid more.”

“Sounds just like you.” I fail to contain the infectious smile that’s unconsciously stretching my lips.

Gabriele Russo is a man with many faces. The more of him I see, the less I understand. He’s muddying my feelings with his complexity. It was so much easier to hate him when he was being ruthlessly violent when he was just a villain, not a man who showed interest in my demons and my art.

“Francesca.” He snaps his eyebrows together. “Just do what you want and forget about other people.”

“I can’t.”

“You haven’t tried hard enough.”

I fold my arms in front of my chest. “What if I forget about you?”

“Don’t you want to?”

No. 

The hard jerk of my heart catches me off guard.

Is it because he’s my muse, and sex with him is my only salvation from the prison I’m in? Or is it because he pays attention to me in a way nobody has? When he’s around, I’m less lonely. Less frustrated. His perspective helps me see things differently and helps me see myself in a better light. He accepts parts of me that I’ve hidden for so long, I forgot they weren’t guilty secrets.

“You’re the only one who makes me take responsibility for my bullshit.”

“Responsibility? Even though I almost came inside you unprotected?” He rubs a finger over the arch of my eyebrow. “Don’t worry, I know you have an IUD. I’m not that crazy.”

“Wait, how did you find out about that?” I blurt out. “I never told you.”

“Research.” He taps the edge of my table. The click-clacks from his huge silver watch settle between us like tiny gunshots.

“You went through my doctor’s records? That’s illegal!” I yell.

The silver-tongued thug screws his mouth into an amused curve. “I have my men watching you twenty-four-seven at your house. I’ve had my fingers inside your pussy. And you want to guilt me over digging up your medical information?”

When you begin to drown, you don’t realize it at first. You think you can hold your breath and wait it out. But the water starts to burn inside your windpipe and sear your lungs. It’s at that point that you’re done for.

Being with Gabriele is the same. All along, I thought this was something I could keep at bay; an event I could draw boundaries around and contain. Only now do I realize how stupid I’ve been. He has seeped into every part of my life—my body, my mind, even my art. Helpless surrender sedates my nerves the instant that manly scent of smoke and copper floods my nostrils. Parts of me that went numb a long time ago flare back to life in his presence.

I’m drowning in a dense, desperate emotion I don’t understand.

A hot flush burns on my cheeks. Breaths fight for space inside my contracting lungs.

My tight knuckles brush against the fabric of my dress. “Why would you go so far?”

He moves lethally. In an instant, he’s in front of me, nose mere inches from mine. The delicious pressure of his fingertips at the back of my head threatens to unravel the last thread of common sense I have left.

“I have to know everything about you, Francesca.” His smoke-laced breath ghosts over my skin, birthing shivers that slide down my spine to the tips of my toes. His irises are all shadows, no light. Calloused hands slide over my arms, raising all my hair and knocking the air out of my lungs. He locks my wrist in a powerful grip. I may be imagining the fervent note in his voice when he dips his head forward and whispers, “You’re all I think about these days.”

“Because I might be trouble?” I worry my lip.

“You’re already trouble.” The rough edge of his finger caresses my wrist in slow, torturous circles. “You have been since the moment I laid eyes on you.”

“Funny, that.” The spot between my legs is getting hotter, wetter. Dissatisfaction pulses with every rise of my chest because I know there’s no way he’s going to let me finish the way I need him to. “Let’s not forget how you’re the one holding a gun.”

“There are weapons more dangerous than a gun in the world.”

“Like what?”

“Like what you have.”

“Sex appeal? Oral skills?”

“Heart. Compassion. Sometimes, a gentle word is all that’s needed to bring a man to his knees.”

“I have never brought you to your knees, though.”

His pupils expand. “Because you’re not trying, baby.”

“I’m not going to use my emotions to manipulate others. I have better things to do, like create art with my feelings.”

I hop off the bed. For some reason, I’m filled with energy as I often am after having intense sex with Gabriele. I feel like I can make some progress on my art. A brilliant idea just struck me, one that originated from what he said earlier.

“Where are you going?”

“To work on my art. Feel free to go to sleep without me. I might stay up all night.”

“You’ll be alright on your own?”

I nod.

“Gabriele.” I fill my lungs with a fortifying breath. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For being your usual atrocious self.”

Satisfaction drips from his expression. “Anytime, baby.”

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