Curvy Bride Claimed by the Mafia Don: He Made the Men Who Laughed at Her Kneel novel · Chapter 9 of 24

Chapter 9: The Bay House

He picked my phone up off the cutting table and turned it face down.

"Not here," he said. "Not with her name on the screen."

"Then where?"

"Get your coat."

I didn't have a coat.

I had a wine-stained blouse half-buttoned and a skirt with pins still stuck in the hem.

I didn't care.

He put his sweater back on and held the door.

I walked out past the racks and the window with the green silk hanging in it.

The Escalade was parked under the streetlight with its engine running.

He drove us down the island through the empty side streets.

The bay shone black on the right.

Nobody said a word the whole way.

His house was on the bay side of Ventnor.

It was a shingled place with a low porch and a dock out back.

He unlocked the door without turning on any lights.

He flipped on a single lamp in the front room, a brass one with an amber shade.

The light fell across a leather couch and a row of old photographs.

They showed a man with a grey mustache.

"My father," Silvio said. "He hated lamps. He liked it dark."

"I like it like this."

"Good."

He came across the room and stopped in front of me.

This time he didn't wait for me to start it.

He kissed me slow, his hand in my hair.

He pulled the last of the pins out until my hair fell down my back in a heavy red-brown weight.

"You're shaking," he said against my mouth.

"I'm not shaking."

"You're shaking, and you're not sorry about it."

"I'm not sorry about anything tonight."

He smiled, the first real smile I had seen on him.

It changed his whole face.

I didn't wait for him to kiss me again.

I stepped back and unbuttoned the rest of my blouse with my own hands, right there in the lamplight.

He watched me do it.

I let the blouse fall off my shoulders and threw it at the leather couch.

It hit the arm and slid to the floor.

"Take me to bed," I said.

"Which one?"

"The one you sleep in."

He pulled his sweater off over his head.

I reached for his belt.

My hands were shaking, and I didn't hide it.

I worked the buckle open, then the button, then the zipper.

He let me push his trousers down his hips, and he stepped out of them, and he stood there in the amber light with the scar through his eyebrow and the grey streak over his temple and his cock hard against the black cotton of his boxers.

I put my hand on him.

He exhaled through his nose, slow and controlled, like he was deciding something.

I squeezed.

"Deirdre."

"Don't tell me to stop."

"I'm not going to tell you to stop." He took my wrist and moved my hand away. "I'm going to tell you that I'm done letting you set the pace."

He picked me up.

I made a sound I didn't mean to make, a half laugh and half gasp, and my skirt with the pins still in the hem rode up my thighs.

He carried me down a short hall and into his bedroom.

The bed was made.

The window was cracked, and the bay wind moved the curtain.

He laid me on my back on the mattress and came down over me.

His weight pressed me into the blankets, and I liked it.

I liked it too much.

He pulled my skirt up to my waist and put his palm flat on my belly.

He looked at his own hand there.

"Every man who laughed at you," he said, "never got to touch this. They never will."

"Silvio."

"Look at me."

I looked.

He ran his palm up my side, over my ribs, to the curve of my breast.

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