Spin (Songs of Corruption #1)(47)

I touched his face, his lips, his stubble, his insane lashes. “What would it be like to be your girlfriend?”

He kissed my cheek and jaw. “We’d be friends first. And no touching.”

“No touching?”

“No kissing, no touching.”

“That wouldn’t work.”

He kissed my chest and br**sts gently, little flicks of his tongue on my ni**les. “You’d live with your parents, and I would come to visit you. We would sit and talk in the garden. Your mother would cook for me, and I would sit at the table with your family.” He moved down to my belly, exploring every inch of it. “I would see you at church. Other men would talk to you, and I’d chase them away. Your father would hate me for a while. Then he would approve. I might touch your hand when no one is looking.”

He got up on his knees and opened my legs. “I would f**k other women and you’d understand, because we hadn’t even kissed.” He brushed his lips inside my knee. “Then I’d ask your father for your hand, and when he said yes, I stop f**king other women.” He ran his tongue inside my thigh. “You’d plan the wedding, and I’d work. I’d build myself. Being young and blind, I wouldn’t see that you’re now a target for my enemies.”

He kissed my pu**y gently. “You’d cry on our wedding night and call me a brute.” His tongue flicked my clit. “You’d tell your mother I’m an animal. I’d promise to never f**k you like that again. I’d promise to be tender always.” His tongue ran the length of my lips, circling the clit twice, then back to my opening. “It wouldn’t matter. You’d be part of my life. My world. You’d get hard and cunning to survive, or you’d stay gentle and die.”

“Antonio,” I whispered, “can you do it like that? Can you do it gentle?”

He crawled up until we were face to face. “Come volevi tu.”

I pushed against him, feeling his hard c**k on my pu**y. My ass was sore, but I wanted him again already. He guided himself in, and I took him slowly, his shaft angled to rub against my clit.

“Oh, that’s nice.” I groaned.

He rocked against me, pushing all the way in. “You’re so sexy. I love watching you walk, how your body moves under your clothes. How beautiful. How straight you are for the world, and how you bend and cry for me. I want to go so deep in you we have the same thoughts.”

His eyes were unguarded, open, warm for me. The swelling in my pu**y blossomed as I looked into his face. The sight and feeling mixed, becoming a swirl of emotion and sensation. We moved so slowly together that I felt everything, every inch of skin touching, every firing sliver of pleasure.

“I’m close, Contessa.”

“Can you come with me?”

His face contorted with effort. “Soon. I’m trying to stay slow.”

“You’re amazing, Antonio. Amazing.”

The last word barely made it out of my mouth as I was overcome with electricity. He jerked, slammed into me, and I cried out. He’d put me over the edge. I clawed his back as he jerked and thrust, growling my name. I spread my legs farther, feeling him against and inside me. We came as a crawling, rolling, single creature, as if we were having one orgasm. Even afterward, our breathing was the same and our hearts beat in time.

“I need to see you again soon,” he said into my cheek.

“You’ll come secretly in the night.”

“Yes. I will. Be ready.”

Downstairs, the door opened and banged shut.

“Maybe not so secretly,” I said.

“Ah, this is the director?”

“Yeah.”

“Is there another way out?”

“No,” I said. “But I trust her.”

He got up. “Good for you.”

***

We went downstairs together, dressed and clean, to find Katrina standing in front of the television with a quart of salty vanilla ice cream and a spoon.

“You’re up early,” she called over her shoulder. “Did I wake… Oh, hello,” she said when she turned. “Nice to see you again, Mister Spin.”

“Katrina, you’re up late. Or early, perhaps?”

She put her ice cream down and jammed the spoon into it. “Because I’m amazing!” She threw her arms up like a cheerleader.

“Oh dear, what now?” I crossed my arms.

“I got post-production financing!”

“Oh my god! How? Who? What?”

She said the next part so cheerfully, as if painting on a cartoon face. “Scott Mabat.” She did a little jazz hands shake.

“What?” I yelled.

“Gesu Christo!” Antonio exclaimed.

Her knees bent, and her hands went from jazz to stop. “I have a plan.”

“This better be good, Directrix.”

“I take the money, start post, and get fresh financing from this German investor who’s been sniffing around. I can keep the energy up, then just pay him off when the German money comes in.”

“That guy”—Antonio pointed—“is a lowlife. Okay? He is worthless shit, and he’s sick in the head. How much did you get from him?”

“Hundred thou,” she said.

Antonio and I groaned.