Their Father Called Me Family, So His Four Sons Made Me Theirs novel · Chapter 3 of 24

Chapter 3: Closed on Mondays

In the empty club, Dario lets her take him in her mouth in the VIP booth, then admits he is afraid she is only spiting his father. His phone lights with her suspension.

Dario had me against the black leather of the VIP booth before the last bartender's taillights cleared the lot.

Salt was empty on Mondays, and the house lights were low and amber, and the ice machine was the only thing running.

"Say it again," he said into my mouth.

"Say what?" I asked.

"My name, but louder. Nobody here but the ice."

"Dario."

"Louder," he said.

"Dario!"

He laughed against my throat.

The laugh turned into a groan when I pulled his shirt out of his waistband and put my hands on his stomach.

His skin was hot and hard and ticklish, and he flinched.

"Don't," he said. "I'm very serious about this."

"You're laughing."

"I'm laughing because I'm happy. Different thing."

He pulled the shirt off over his head.

Both his forearms were inked wrist to elbow, and I had known that for years.

I had not known the rest.

A line of black script ran down his left ribs, and a plain compass sat over his heart.

I put my mouth on it.

"Jesus, Gemma."

"Prestia," I said. "You call me Prestia."

"Not tonight, baby."

The word went straight through me.

He slid his hands up my back, unzipped my dress and pushed it off my shoulders.

The cool air of the club hit my skin.

He looked at me, and for once he had nothing to say.

"What?"

"Give me a second," he said. "I wrote a really good speech for this one."

I laughed, and he kissed me while I was laughing, and then neither of us was laughing.

His rings were cold against my ribs.

His mouth went down my neck, my collarbone, the swell of my breast.

When he bit my nipple through the lace of my bra, I made a noise that bounced off the mirrors.

"There it is," he said. "Thank you. I was worried."

I climbed onto his lap, a knee on either side of his hips, and ground down against the hard ridge in his jeans.

He grabbed my ass with both hands.

"Oh, that's cruel," he said. "That's cruel and unusual, and I'd like it on the record that I'm not complaining."

I rolled my hips again, slowly, and the denim rasped against the lace between my legs.

Every nerve I owned went to that one place.

"Dario."

"I know. I know, baby, I'm right here."

He slid a hand under the hem of my underwear from behind.

He ran two fingers through the wet, from back to front, and I bucked.

"Jesus. You're soaked."

"That's because of you," I said.

"Say that again so I can put it on a plaque."

I said it again.

He pushed his fingers inside me, slowly, up to the knuckle, and held them there.

I rode his lap and his hand together with my forehead on his shoulder.

I was close in a minute.

"No," he said, and pulled his hand away.

I made a sound of pure outrage.

"Dario!"

"Not like this. Not the first time. I want to watch your face, and I can't if you're hiding in my neck."

He licked his fingers clean, slowly, holding my eyes.

I nearly came from that alone.

I slid off his lap and pushed his shoulders back into the booth.

He went, his eyebrows climbing, and sat sprawled on the leather with his arms along the back and his chest rising.

I stood over him in my heels and my open dress.

"Take that off," he said hoarsely.

I stepped out of it.

I knelt on the floor between his knees, on the black carpet, and put my hands on his belt.

"Prestia."

"Hm?" I said, looking up at him.

"Tell me to stop," he said. "Tell me to stop and I will."

"And if I don't?"

"Then I'm never going to shut up again."

"Dario, shut up," I said.

He grinned, and then I had his belt open and his zipper down, and he stopped grinning.

He was thick and hard and hot in my hand, heavier than I had imagined, and the head was already wet.

I wrapped my fingers around him.

He hissed through his teeth.

"Fuck, that's, yeah. Okay. Yes."

I leaned in and licked him once, from the base to the tip, slowly.

"Gemma."

I took the head in my mouth.

His hips jerked off the booth, and his hands landed in my hair and then stopped, hovering, not pulling.

"Sorry, sorry, I'll be good."

I took him deeper to answer that.

He swore.

He swore in two languages, I think, and he was not shy about the details.

He told me what my mouth felt like, and how long he had pictured it, and what it was doing to him.

Every word was filthy and funny and so honest it made me shake.

"Look at you. Jesus, look at you down there. You have no idea."

I looked up at him with his cock in my mouth.

His face was flushed, his lips open, and the humor had gone out of his eyes entirely.

"That's it," he said, and his voice broke. "Right there. Don't stop. Please don't stop."

I worked him with my mouth and my hand together, slow at first, and then faster, and he began to shake under my palm.

I had my free hand on his thigh and I felt the muscle jump.

"Prestia, I'm going to, I'm going to."

I did not pull away.

He came with a long ragged shout, hot on my tongue, his hand fisted in my hair.

I swallowed, and I kept my mouth on him through every pulse.

He sagged against the leather and swore at the ceiling.

I sat back on my heels and wiped my mouth with my wrist.

He stared at me.

"I think I'm in love," he said.

"It's a start."

"No, I mean it, I think I just proposed to you in my head."

"Dario," I said.

"I'm fine. It's fine. I'm just going to lie here a second."

I sat beside him on the booth, my knees pulled up, and after a moment he opened one arm and I leaned into it.

He was still breathing hard.

His heart was going under my ear, fast and heavy.

"You know what I thought about at your graduation party?" he said to the ceiling.

"That the cake was dry," I said.

"Aldo's toast. 'I gave my oldest friend's girl a degree.' I almost choked on a canapé."

"I thought you had a cold."

"I had a lot of things," Dario said.

He did not say what.

"Okay," he said at last. "My turn."

"You don't have to."

"Get on the table."

I stared at him.

"There," he said, and pointed at the low black table in front of the booth.

Bottle service sat on it on Saturdays.

"On your back," he said. "Now, please."

I got on the table.

The wood was cool and smooth under my spine.

Dario knelt between my open legs on the carpet, his hair a mess and his rings bright.

He ran one hand up the inside of my thigh and stopped at the lace.

"I want to say something," he said. "And I don't want you to tell me I'm wrong."

"Okay."

"Don't do this to spite him."

My body went still.

"I'm serious. If this is for Aldo, I will take everything you give me and still say thank you."

"Dario," I said.

"But I would rather know."

He wasn't smiling.

His thumb was moving back and forth on my skin, slow, and I could feel his hand was not steady.

"I did it because you laughed first," I said.

His eyes closed.

"At the table. When I said I'd take you. Everyone else went quiet and you laughed. I looked at you and I thought, he's glad."

"I was glad," he said.

"Then you know why."

He opened his eyes, and the look in them was one I had never seen him let anyone see.

"Okay," he said quietly. "Okay."

He pulled my underwear down.

He put his mouth on me without any teasing at all, and I cried out.

He was good at it in a way that was almost unfair.

He found a rhythm and kept it.

Every time I started to rise toward the peak he slowed, and I heard myself begging in a voice I did not recognize.

"Tell me what you want."

"Faster," I said.

"Say please."

"Dario, please."

He gave me what I asked for, and he slid two fingers into me with it, rocking them in time with his tongue.

"Fuck, you're so wet. You taste incredible. Come on my mouth, baby. I want to feel it."

I came apart on that table with my back arched and my hands slapping at the wood.

He groaned into me and rode me through it, and kept going.

I came again before the shaking stopped.

When he finally lifted his head, his chin was wet and his eyes were bright, and he looked very pleased with himself.

"Best night of my life," he announced.

"It's Monday."

"Best Monday."

He crawled up over me and kissed me, and I tasted myself on him.

He was hard again against my hip.

I pushed at his chest until he sat back, and then I sat up on the edge of the table.

I wrapped my legs around his hips and dragged him in against me.

There was nothing between us but heat.

His cock slid through the slick of me, base to head, and rode over my clit.

We both stopped breathing.

"Fuck," Dario said. "That's not fair. That is a war crime."

"Don't stop."

"I'm not going to stop. I'm going to be so good."

He braced his hands on the table on either side of my hips and rocked.

Every stroke dragged the thick length of him across the place that already ached, and the head caught at my entrance and slid off again.

I dug my heels into the backs of his thighs.

"Dario, put it in."

His forehead dropped to mine, and he laughed, shaky and miserable.

"Don't say that to me. I can't be a saint if you say that."

"Then don't be one."

"Nico gets the first one," he said. "We voted. Youngest, because otherwise he'd cry in the car."

"You voted without me."

"You were busy with Marco's tongue."

He rolled his hips, slow, and my head tipped back.

"I'm taking this much, Prestia. This much and nothing else."

"Take it."

He took it.

He ground against me in long wet strokes, and I clutched his shoulders and moved with him.

The sound of it filled the empty club, slick and obscene, and he swore at every pass.

I felt the heat gather again, low and fast, from nothing but the drag of him over my clit.

"There," I said. "There. Don't change it."

"I won't. I won't change a thing. Come for me again, baby, come on me."

I came with my nails in his back, shaking against him, and he watched my face the whole time and whispered my name.

He was shaking too, a hair from the edge, and he pulled back with a groan.

"No. Not like that. I want your hand. I want you looking."

I reached down between us and closed my hand around him.

"Prestia, you don't have to-"

"Hush. Look at me."

He looked at me.

I stroked him slowly, base to tip, and twisted my wrist on the way up, and his mouth fell open.

"That's, oh. That's. Yeah."

"Tell me."

"You have no idea how long I've pictured your hand." His voice shook. "Faster. Please, baby, faster."

I went faster, and watched his face the whole time, because he had asked me to.

His eyes held mine until they couldn't.

He came with a cry on my stomach, hot and wet, his forehead dropping to mine, and I stroked him through every pulse.

"Mark," he panted. "Look at that. I marked you."

"You made a mess."

"It's art."

I laughed so hard the table shook.

Then his arms came around me, hard and fierce.

He put his face in my neck and stayed there, saying nothing at all, for a long time.

When he lifted his head, the club was quiet.

His phone lit up on the booth beside us, and the glow caught his face.

He read the screen, and the look on it changed.

"What?" I said.

He held it up.

It was from Marco, sent at eleven.

It said: Aldo's office just suspended Gemma's badge. Don't tell her yet. I'm fixing it.

"I'm not going to lie to you," Dario said quietly. "That was the first rule."

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