Arranged Mafia Marriage

Aurora

He fits his mouth over mine, and he takes and takes. His kiss is exactly what I’d expect from a macho, chauvinist pig like him. He thrusts his tongue between my lips and swirls it against mine. His fingers around my throat tighten. He grips my hip, fits me in the cradle of his thighs, and his thick, hard cock stabs into my core. My belly trembles, my nipples harden into pebbles, my belly flip-flops, and What the hell?

I shouldn’t get turned on. Why am I turned on by his rough handling? I don’t feel anything for him. I don’t want his hands on me, and yet, I can’t stop myself from responding to how he expertly swipes his tongue across the seam of my lower lip, over my teeth, how he drinks from me as if he’s trying to suck down the very essence of me, consume me, possess me, ravish me-claim me…

“No.” I try to pull away, but his grasp on my hip tightens. Surely, I’m going to bruise there? I slap against his shoulder, and he widens his stance. He yanks me even closer to him until it seems like every part of me is pinned to him, connected to him, reliant on him, already. My pussy clenches, and moisture laces my core. Heat flushes my skin, and I know I have to pull away from him. If I don’t, I’ll lose myself in his dominance, his mastery, his ability to play my body like a musical instrument. A piano whose keys he’ll caress, and strike, and hammer at until it plays the tune he wants. And I’m not going to do that. No way.

I bring down my foot on his boot. I’m only wearing wedges, but it must hurt a little, for he grunts. His grip loosens, but before I can pull away, his lips soften. He stares into my eyes, and in the depths of his, I see something flare. Something hot, something needy… Something almost helpless and vulnerable… Vulnerable? Hah! There’s nothing weak about this man; not in how he holds me, or in how the powerful columns of his thighs bracket mine, or how he rubs his thumb across my throat in slow circles. Goose bumps pop on my skin. I draw in a shuddering breath, and my breasts push further into the hard planes of his chest. It’s as if every sculpted ridge of those unyielding pecs is imprinted into my skin.

He pulls back, still holding my gaze, his mouth so close to mine that we share breath. Untouching. He simply stares into my eyes, his own even darker, somehow blacker, a shiny polished mirror in which I can see myself. The skin across his cheekbones stretches tight, and there’s a furrow between his eyebrows, as if he’s somehow confused by what just happened. His eyes, somehow, reflect some of the confusion I’m feeling. I reach up to touch his cheek, and he flinches. His lips firm and his jaw tics. He releases me so quickly that I stumble. But he doesn’t right me. He puts distance between us, and I manage to steady myself.

My lips throb, and I can’t stop myself from taking in his mouth, a mouth that I know now could bring me to dizzying heights of pleasure. Too bad they are attached to a man who is part of an institution I abhor. An organization I plan to break away from as soon as possible. I’ll do anything to get my freedom, including pretending to be his wife.

“Fine,” I say in a low voice, “I’ll do it.”

“If all it took was a kiss to get you to agree, then I wonder what else you’ll submit to when I have you completely.”

“I won’t.”

“Oh?” Something glints in the depths of his eyes. “You sure about that?”

Oh, hell, the last thing I need is for him to see me as a challenge. Still, I can’t stop myself from tipping my chin in defiance. “Absolutely.”

“We’ll see.” He raises a shoulder. “Not that it matters to me either way. There are enough women out there who’ll willingly spread their legs for me.”

“So why choose me for this…this farce?”

“Because you owe me.” He dusts his sleeves as if he’s wiping the feel of me off of himself. “Thirty days, Flower. For thirty days, you’ll do as I say.”

I pivot, switch off the flame under the Bialetti, then scowl at him over my shoulder. “I agreed to be your fake wife, not your slave.”

His lips kick up. “Those are my terms, sweetheart. Take it or leave it.”

“Jerk.” I turn on him. “What else do you expect from me during this time?” I curl my fingers at my sides. “You may as well lay it all out now.”

“We’ll be married in a proper wedding in church-”

“What?” I stare at him in horror. “No, no, no, no, no. I agreed to pose as your fake wife-”

“The imperative word there is ‘wife.'”

“I did not agree to marry you in a church ceremony,” I protest.

“The only way for this to work is if the rest of my family buys into the story.”

“We’ll act as husband and wife; surely, that should be enough.”

“Do you think my nonna is going to let us off without a church wedding?”

“If you think I’m going to agree to that, you have another think coming,” I snap back.

“Are you saying no?”

Yes.

Yes.

I shake my head. “Anything else you’re not telling me about this arrangement?”

To my right, the Bialetti begins to bubble as the steam rises through the funnel. The espresso must be bubbling over and into the carafe. I don’t turn away from him to check it, though. Instead, I hold his gaze as he raises a shoulder.

“Maybe, maybe not.” He smirks. “My prerogative.”

Anger flares through my veins. My heart thuds in my chest. How dare he treat me like this? Damn it, I’m a qualified doctor. I went to London to study and survived the winters there. Hell, I survived years of residency, not to mention a stint in the ER. I have saved the lives of people, and now this … this … ass treats me like I’m worth nothing. All of my senses hone in on him. Only when my palm connects with his face do I realize that I’ve slapped him. Oh hell. I stare at the fingerprints that bloom on his cheek. Shit, this is not good, not good at all.

Anger thrums off of him. I take a step back, and his gaze intensifies.

“That was a mistake, Flower,” he drawls.

“Don’t call me that,” I hiss back.

“I’ll call you what I want, when I want, and you’ll answer to it.”

“No.”

“Yes.” He lowers his voice to a hush, “Come here.” He crooks a finger.

I shake my head.

He glares at me, and my stomach twists. Jesus, why did I have to antagonize this man? Why couldn’t I simply agree to whatever he wants? After all, the path of least resistance is the best in these situations, isn’t it? And then… What would set me apart from my mother and the rest of the women married to Mafia men, those who allow them to walk all over them and bear their suffering in silence? I’m not like them. I am not. It’s why I trained to be a doctor, so I could break out of this cycle. So I could ensure that my younger sister could have a better life than as part of a Mafia clan.

And now this … this asshole thinks he can simply order me around? He says he’ll set me free if I do what he wants, but what guarantee do I have of that?

“Don’t make me wait.” He holds my gaze, and I can’t stop myself from being drawn into those dark eyes. Bottomless, fathomless, impenetrable. Any signs of vulnerability I thought I’d seen in them are now gone. His eyes are flat, the look in them almost cruel. It’s a relief, actually. I don’t want to think of this guy as having a heart or emotions of any kind. I need to see him for what he really is. A Mafia guy, someone who likely kills for a living, someone on the wrong side of the law, someone who clearly doesn’t have a conscience. If he did, he wouldn’t manipulate me in this way. Wouldn’t take me for granted and treat me like I’m an object to be possessed.

His gaze narrows on me, and he lowers his voice to a hush, “I won’t ask again.” A shiver runs down my back.

“Now,” he snaps.

My feet hit the floor, and I close the short distance between us. Goddamn it, why do I feel compelled to obey his command? I stand in front of him and tip my chin up. I will not be cowed by him. I will not.

“You will do as I say, understand?”

I scowl.

“You feel me, Flower?”

Whatever. I curl my fingers into fists at my sides so I don’t slap him again. I need to play it smart, just until I figure out a way out of here.

He peers into my eyes, and maybe whatever he sees there satisfies him, for he jerks his chin. “I’ll send someone to mend the front door, and I’ll have my men stand guard outside until then.” He turns and stalks out of the kitchen.

“Wait,” I call out. “I made enough espresso for both of us.”

“You have it,” he says without turning around. “You’re going to need that and more to see you through the next few weeks.”

Jerk. I stick out my tongue at his retreating back, then gasp in surprise when he glances at me over his shoulder. “Also, don’t be late tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?”

“The Christmas gathering that Karma is organizing,” he glances at me over his shoulder, “it’ll be our first official outing as a couple.”

I’d rather slit my wrists. The words are on the tip of my tongue, but I swallow it down.

“Seven pm, tomorrow.” He looks me up and down, “I’ll send you some dresses to try on.”

“No thank you; I have my own dresses.”

“You mean those rags that you wear.”

“They are not rags,” I protest.

“They are not fit for the future wife of a Mafia consigliere.”© NôvelDrama.Org - All rights reserved.

Right.

“And make sure your bags are packed; you’ll be moving in with me after.”

Turning, he walks away.