Their Father Called Me Family, So His Four Sons Made Me Theirs novel · Chapter 2 of 24

Chapter 2: The Counter

In the cottage kitchen Marco takes the first claim with his mouth, and Gemma sets her terms: one at a time, one night each, and no lies. Aldo's text arrives, and Dario is outside the door.

They walked me down the garden path to the cottage, four men in a loose line behind me.

Nobody said a word until the pool.

Then Dario said, "For the record, that was the shortest first kiss I have ever watched."

"It was not short," Nico said, and his voice was still unsteady.

"It was two seconds."

"It was long enough."

Dario grinned at him and then at me, and the grin held.

At the cottage door I turned around and put my back to the wood.

The porch light turned all four of them gold.

"I have terms," I said.

"Of course you do," Marco said.

"One at a time. One night each, until I say otherwise."

Luca's eyes moved to Marco, and back to me.

"And nobody lies to me. Not about this, not about anything."

"Done," Marco said, before anyone else could speak.

Something crossed Nico's face, and then it was gone.

"Tonight," I said, "I choose Marco."

Dario put a hand over his heart. "Wounded. Eldest son syndrome."

Luca touched my arm once, just above the elbow, and went up the path without a sound.

Nico squeezed my fingers and followed.

Dario walked backward after them, pointing at me with two fingers. "Tomorrow I'm going to ruin you, Prestia."

"Go home, Dario."

He went.

I unlocked the door.

Marco came in behind me and shut it with one hand.

The cottage was one main room with a bedroom through an arch, and a kitchen with a long stone counter.

He took off his jacket and laid it over a chair.

He took the reading glasses out of his breast pocket, folded them, and put them on the table.

He rolled his sleeves to the elbow, one fold at a time, and I watched his forearms come out of the white cotton.

"At the table you said you'd take us," he said.

"I did."

"Tonight you decide what you want my mouth to do."

My whole body answered before I did.

"Everything," I said.

"Turn around."

I turned and put both hands on the counter.

He stood behind me and unzipped my dress slowly, one inch at a time.

It fell to the tile.

I stood in my underwear and heels in my own kitchen, and Marco Iannucci breathed out against the back of my neck.

"Look at you," he said quietly.

"Marco."

"Say it again," he said.

"Marco, touch me."

His hands closed on my waist and lifted me onto the counter in one move.

The stone was cold on the backs of my thighs.

He stood between my knees, and for the first time in my life he kissed me.

It was not like Nico's.

It was slow and deep, his hand fisted in my hair, his tongue taking its time.

I heard myself make a sound I had never made in front of a man.

He pulled back an inch.

"Hands behind you. Flat on the stone. Keep them there."

I put them there.

He unhooked my bra with one hand and dropped it on the floor.

He looked at my breasts for a long moment, and then he bent and took one nipple in his mouth, hot and wet, and sucked.

I arched into him.

"Good," he said against my skin. "Let me hear you."

He moved to the other one, and his teeth closed, gently, just once.

"Oh, fuck," I said.

"There she is."

His hand slid down my stomach and under the lace.

He found me wet already, wetter than I had known I could be, and he made a low rough noise in his throat.

"How long have you been like this?"

"Since you folded your napkin."

His mouth curved against my collarbone.

He pulled my underwear down my legs and dropped to his knees on my kitchen floor.

I had never seen Marco Iannucci on his knees.

Nobody had.

He put his hands on my thighs and spread them wide.

He looked at me, bare in the light, for as long as I could stand it.

"Marco, please."

"Please what?" he asked.

"Put your mouth on me."

He did.

The first long stroke of his tongue made my hips come off the counter.

He held me down with one forearm across my stomach and licked me slowly, from the bottom to my clit and back.

Then he began to work me with his tongue in tight hard circles.

I gripped the edge of the stone until my knuckles hurt.

"Don't you move those hands."

"I won't. I won't, Marco, oh God."

He slid two fingers inside me, curled them, and found the place that made my vision swim.

He sucked my clit into his mouth in time with his fingers.

"That's it," he said, and the words buzzed against me. "Let go. Give it to me."

I came with a cry that hit the ceiling.

My thighs clamped around his head and my back bowed off the cabinet, and he did not stop.

He kept licking through every wave, his fingers working inside me, until I was shaking and sobbing his name.

He eased me down slowly.

I thought he would stand.

Instead he looked up at me, his mouth wet and his dark eyes burning, and said, "Again."

"I can't."

"You can. You will."

He bent his head and started over, slower this time, with the flat of his tongue.

The second one built from somewhere deeper, a hard slow climb, and I begged the whole way up.

"Marco, I need you inside me. Please, I need your cock."

"Not tonight," he said.

"Why?"

"Because tonight I take nothing."

He fastened his mouth over my clit and sucked until I went over the edge again, longer and harder than before.

I could not make any sound at all.

When I could see again, he was resting his forehead against the inside of my knee.

His shoulders were rising and falling.

His cock was a hard, thick line against his trousers, right there at my eye level, and he made no move to touch it.

"Marco."

"Let me have this," he said roughly. "All these years I took nothing, Gemma. Let me give you everything first."

I slid down off the counter into his arms, and he caught me, and we knelt together on the tile.

I put my hand on his cheek.

His jaw was rough, and his eyes were shut.

"I'm not leaving," I said.

"Not tonight."

"Not tomorrow either."

He opened his eyes, and for a moment there was nothing commanding in them at all.

His phone buzzed on the counter above us.

He reached up without looking, thumbed it open, and read the screen.

Then he held it out so I could read it too.

The text was from his father.

It said: Bring her to dinner Sunday. She will apologize to our guests.

Marco took the phone back.

He typed a single word with his thumb and showed me that as well.

It said: No.

Someone knocked on the cottage door, three bright raps.

"Not to interrupt," Dario called through the wood, "but I have been standing out here for twenty minutes."

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