Sold to a Marseille Don, So He Knelt at My Father's Grave novel · Chapter 4 of 24

Chapter 4: The Roof

The mistral took the shutters at midnight.

I went up to the roof in his shirt to find out who was making the noise.

The terrace door stood open and banged on its hinge.

Antone was out on the stone in his shirtsleeves, with his back to me and both hands on the parapet.

Below him the Joliette lay lit up, ferries and cranes and the long dark water.

The wind pressed his shirt flat against his back.

"You will catch cold," I said.

He did not turn.

"You came up in my shirt," he said.

"It was on the chair. It smells like you."

That got him to turn around.

He looked at me in the light from the stairwell.

I was bare-legged, and the wind pulled the cotton hem around my thighs.

His breath went out of him slowly.

"Rule two," he said.

"We've broken it twice," I said. "I'm not counting anymore."

"I am," he said.

"Then count this."

I crossed the stone and put my hands flat on his chest.

He did not move.

I felt his heart under my palms, hard and quick, and I felt him decide.

He took my face in both hands and kissed me against the wind.

It was a hungry kiss, open and deep.

His hands went into my hair and pulled my head back for his mouth.

I tasted salt on his lips.

I pushed his shirt up, and he dragged it off over his head and let it blow across the roof.

His chest was bare in the cold air, broad and hard.

A long white scar ran under his ribs that I had not seen the night before.

"What's that?" I said.

"A hook. I was twelve." His mouth found my throat. "Do not stop to ask."

"I want to ask everything."

"Later."

He bit the side of my neck, not gently, and my knees went soft.

"Antone."

"Say it again."

"Antone," I said, and slid my hand down his belly and under his waistband.

He caught his breath.

My fingers closed around his cock, hot and hard and already wet at the tip.

I stroked him once, slowly, with my thumb across the head.

"Santoni," he said, through his teeth.

"Vannina."

"Vannina. If you do that again I will not last."

"Good," I said, and did it again.

He groaned and let his forehead fall onto my shoulder.

I stroked him in the wind, long and slow, root to head, and felt him thicken further in my fist.

Then he caught my wrist and held it still.

"My turn," he said.

"Then turn me around."

He did.

He turned me by the hips so that my front met the parapet.

The cold of the stone came through the thin cotton at once.

I gripped the top edge with both hands.

Below me the Joliette lights swam, and the wind took my hair straight back.

He stood behind me and pushed the shirt up over my hips.

"Look at the water," he said, low, in my ear.

"I'm looking."

"Keep looking."

His hand slid between my thighs from behind and found me wet.

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