Sold to a Marseille Don, So He Knelt at My Father's Grave novel · Chapter 5 of 24

Chapter 5: The Desk

I locked his office door myself, on a Monday night, with the whole Joliette burning below the glass.

I had come to bring him the papers for my new company.

The notary had sent them to the house, and Marie-Ange had put them in my hands and told me to go.

The Docks offices took up the sixth floor of an old warehouse.

Everybody had gone home, and only his lamp was lit.

Antone sat behind a wide desk of dark wood with his sleeves rolled to the elbow.

He looked up when I came in, and then he looked at the door.

"You locked it," he said.

"Yes."

"Santoni."

"Vannina," I said. "In here too."

I put the folder on the desk.

A single typed sheet lay beside it, a list of payments in neat columns.

One line near the bottom had been marked in red pencil.

S. Santoni, consulting retainer, monthly.

It went back eleven years.

"What does my uncle consult on?" I said.

"My father's arrangement." His mouth went flat. "It ends the day your company takes the contract. It ends tonight."

"Eleven years of payments," I said.

"Yes," he said.

"For what?"

"For keeping your family quiet," Antone said. "My father never told me what they might have said."

I did not like how it sat in my stomach.

But he rose from the chair, and the thought went out of my head.

He came around the desk and stopped in front of me.

He stood so close that I could feel the heat of him through my coat.

"You came all the way here with papers," he said.

"I came all the way here for you."

His breath caught.

I unbuttoned my coat and let it fall.

Under it I wore a plain gray dress.

He looked at me in it for a long moment, and I watched his hands close.

"On your chair," I said. "Sit."

"I give the orders in this building."

"Not in here."

He held my eyes for one long moment.

Then he sat down in the leather chair, and I saw his hands close on the arms.

I knelt on the carpet between his knees.

The city moved behind the glass, the ferries and the cranes and the long orange line of the port road.

He watched me undo his belt.

"Vannina," he said, rough. "You do not have to."

"Tell me to stop, then."

He said nothing.

I pulled his zipper down and freed his cock, thick and flushed and already weeping at the head.

I wrapped my hand around the base and looked up at him.

"You never let me finish what I start," I said. "Not on Friday, not on the roof."

"I let you on the roof."

"I want this."

I licked the underside of him, root to tip, one slow wet stroke.

He swore in Corsican, low and savage, and his head went back against the leather.

I took the head into my mouth and sucked.

He tasted of salt and heat.

I sank down, slowly, taking as much as I could, and felt his whole body go rigid in the chair.

His hand came down into my hair and tightened.

It did not push.

It held on.

"Look at me," he said.

I looked up the length of him, with my lips stretched around his cock.

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