Black Death And White Roses (1) Mafia Romance

50. What hurts the most

Roxana

Most of this chapter is smut, act according to your preferences. Action wise it can be skipped mostly.

"It's okay to be sad, you know. And I would understand if you want to forgive him," I say, looking at Marco's troubled face.

He opens the door to our suite for me and I walk inside, still troubled.

"Genuine forgiveness is difficult. It's really hard to find that in my heart but..."

"But at the same time, he is your brother and he always will be. Marco, I had a brother too, I understand."

"Yes, but yours didn't wander around doing what he does."

"It is what it is. I knew what I was signing up for when I signed that contract. I also want to move on. Make peace with him because I want to be able to return to a normal life."

"Are you sure?" he asks utterly sad and concerned.

"Yes. Out of all people in the world, Stefano is the last I want to talk about right now," I say. I am quite displeased that he turned up there when I was actually having a good time.

I promised myself this would be a night that I would enjoy and Stefano is not going to ruin that for me.

"Okay?" I whisper looking him in the eyes and starting to kiss him slowly then deeper, much deeper, unlike the many other quite chaste kisses we gave each other lately.

There is again a pang of guilt but I push it away in the wasteland that is a part of my soul. Not tonight; I can feel guilty tomorrow and all the days after.

His arms constrict around me instinctively and wander along my bare back and arms.

"What are you doing, Pebbles?" His naturally very dark eyes are now only a huge pupil and shadow fire and his voice is at least two octaves deeper than usual.

"I am kissing you because I want you to fuck me."

He tilts his head so our lips touch only slightly, and whispers into my ear a sublimely suave "no".

"What? Why? I am doing therapy, I am not suicidal and I am fully aware of what I am doing."

"Because I am Italian. We don't fuck. That's vulgar. Ok, sometimes we do but not this time. Fare l'amore è come fare arte, Pebbles!" he answers taunting and smiling.

"If that means what I think it means it's very cheesy." Regardless, I smile because he is not brooding anymore and his mood is better.

"Indeed, but that doesn't make it less fitting."

Stepping back, he looks at me, and on the background of the Venice lights, he starts taking off his smoking jacket, the bow tie, and then undoing, one by one, his shirt buttons.

"Skin contact?" I ask smirking, peeling the dress straps off my shoulders and letting it fall to the ground as gracefully as my slightly nervous self can.

Wearing now only a tiny lace panty and heels I step out of the dress and bow down to undo the clasp of the sandals.

"No. Stop that, I want to take my time."

I just stare at him and feel sudden nervousness. He is damn gorgeous with that stylishly tousled hair and much too defined muscles, that even after three weeks of rest and surgery still look more than well.

"Sit down."

I obey looking up a bit confused not knowing what to expect. Unaffected as mostly, he kneels down in front of me and starts undoing the sandal straps, then moves his lips slowly up my shin and along the knee outlines. It tickles and burns and it feels so weirdly intimate, an intimacy that despite everything, I didn't expect, and that unsettles me slightly.