Deep (Pagano Family #4)(39)
At the memory his words evoked, and the seism of grief that followed on the memory, Nick closed his eyes. He felt Beverly’s hand brush his cheek, and then the backs of her fingers passed slowly, softly over his mouth. He opened his eyes again and kissed her fingers. “My Aunt Angie calls me carino, which is like ‘cutie.’
A sweet, surprised laugh burst from Beverly’s lips. “‘Cutie’? Does she know you?”
Catching her laugh with one of his own, he nodded. “Since I was a little cutie, yes. She has a long memory. My Aunt Teresa called me and all her boys cucciolo—‘puppy.’” He slid his hand under her top and caressed the bare skin of her side and belly, warm and soft, trembling under his fingers. “Sei bella,” he murmured, “Ti desidero. Ti penso sempre.”
“Oh, shit,” she whispered as his mouth claimed hers.
He hadn’t meant to be anything more than soothing to her, to stoke the fire of her trust, but now that wasn’t enough. He wanted her on fire in every way. Still, he held back, kept the touch of his lips and his fingers light. He wouldn’t f*ck her tonight, nor until she was without pain.
He’d been serious when he told her he wasn’t gentle. Gentle sex did little for him. Every other facet of his life required his complete control over his body and mind. In sex, he wanted unguarded, feral passion.
He could tell in the way she responded to him, moving much more than he was, moaning and whimpering with every brush of his fingers or sweep of his tongue, that she would be a fiery bedmate. He didn’t want to compromise that experience by rushing her.
That, however, didn’t mean he couldn’t get her off, see a preview show. He pushed his hand into her pants, between her legs. Just a narrow swath of soft, short hair brushed his fingers, then his palm. Oh, yes—she was slick and hot, and she arched her neck back as his fingers slid over her clit and back again.
“Oh, God! Wait—let’s go to bed!”
As he answered her, he pushed his fingers through her folds and into her. “No, bella. We’re not f*cking now. But I want to see you come. I want to have you on my hands when I go back to my apartment. I want to be able to smell you, taste you, when I think about you. Ti penso sempre.” He curled his fingers inside her, and she took a deep, audible breath. It cut off abruptly at the end, and she cried out in pain rather than pleasure. He slowed, but he didn’t stop.
“Open your eyes, Beverly. Look at me. Take it slowly. I don’t want you hurt.” She opened her eyes and locked those blues on him. “Good. Just be easy and feel me.”
When she calmed, he kissed her again, moving his fingers and his tongue in time with each other, exploring the deepest, dearest parts of her, learning what she responded most to. He waited until he felt her breathing pick up again, her hands clenching and unclenching on his shirt. Then he pulled back again to watch her. Her eyes opened a little, half mast at best, and he knew the pain pills were at nearly full force, even as her body writhed under him, around his hand. She wouldn’t be awake long after he made her come—the combined effects of the Percocet and the serotonin would put her right out.
But the Percocet would blunt her pain, too, and he could work with that. He nipped at her lips, bringing a smile to them.
“I thought you weren’t gentle,” she whispered.
“I’m not.” He slid his free hand under her back, holding her tightly to him, and then he f*cked her hard with his hand, using the knowledge of her body he’d gleaned as he’d kept her quiet and brought her slowly up.
Her eyes flew wide open, and her hands clawed into his shoulders. She came instantly, violently, loudly, keening as her body bucked under his. He held her, clamped to him, preventing her from doing more damage to her ribs. Finally, she went rigid for the space of a few heartbeats and then relaxed completely into his arms.
Lord, she was glorious. His hand was hot and soaking wet as he pulled away and straightened her clothes. Again he kissed her, and this time she barely responded. She was falling asleep already.
“That was amazing,” she muttered, her eyes closed and her lips barely forming the words.
“Sleep now. I’ll put you to bed.”
She woke a little. “No, I’m good here. This is just a nap. The day is young.” He stood, and she settled in. “Just a nap.”
There was a fluffy pink throw over a nearby chair. Pink. He laughed. The room shouted feminine good cheer—and it seemed to be contagious, a little. Nick covered her with the throw.
“You are Good Nick,” she muttered as she snuggled under the fluff.
“No, bella, I’m not.”
If he were good, he wouldn’t let someone so light get pulled into his darkness. But he was not good.
oOo
Nick closed the last Velcro tab on the Kevlar vest and started buttoning his shirt over it. At his side, Matty and Chi-Chi checked the loads on an array of weapons: AR15 assault rifles. A trove of shotguns, ranging from military-grade Remington 870s to old-school, sawed-off Mossbergs. And a dozen or so handguns.
His shirt closed and tucked in, Nick tied his tie. Brian came up behind him, holding his suit jacket out. Nick slid his arms in and shrugged it over his shoulders. “Thanks, man.”
Brian nodded, and their eyes met and locked for a second deep in meaning. Nick nodded. There was tension in the room, and Nick turned and scanned the men assembled. Pagano Brothers men, all of them. All but one.