MILLIE
A satiated smile graced his features, a mirror to his soul in that moment. The tenderness of his answer brushed against my understanding, painting his actions with shades of care. His words wove a tapestry of concern, revealing the layers of his thought process in a tapestry of emotions. There was a playfulness to my retort, an assertion that my constitution was sturdier than he had envisioned. A truth lingered beneath my words, one that acknowledged the ebb of my nausea in tandem with his return to my life.
His response resonated in the quiet of the room, a timbre that whispered secrets and promises. A simple action followed, an intimate invitation that required no words. I straddled him, per his request, allowing his legs to cradle me in a posture of vulnerability. His hands, skilled and sure, unfolded me from within, exposing me to the raw intensity of his gaze.
The shiver that rippled through me was visceral, each sweep of his eyes akin to a caress that painted trails of fire. The afterglow of our previous intimacy was manifest, the undeniable evidence of my arousal a testament to the potency of our connection.
His words, tinged with a primal growl, painted a portrait of the aftermath of our shared pleasure. My legs parted instinctively, a silent offering to his hunger. The complexity of my feelings unfurled within me, a potent blend of empowerment and tenderness as I relished my role in his pleasure. It was a dynamic dance, one where he relinquished control as I guided him into vulnerability.
His touch, deliberate and purposeful, traced a map of my inner thigh. But the promised destination remained uncharted, his gaze locking onto mine with an intensity that sent shivers cascading through my frame. The question he posed hung in the air, a challenge that stirred the depths of my being. The urgency in my response was a raw reflection of my desire, the plea for release a fervent invocation that rose from the core of my being.
A darkness mingled with his dominance, his words a reminder of the complexities that fueled our connection. The symphony of need crescendoed, my body and soul in harmony as I pleaded for his touch. The slow entry of his fingers was torture, an exquisite agony that bordered on the divine. My world collapsed inwards, a vortex of sensation that spiraled into a climax unexpected in its immediacy. Against the backdrop of his legs, my form bowed, the relief that surged through me transcending words and boundaries. Whimpers escaped, a cascade of sound that dissolved into the aftermath of pleasure.
In that moment, our connection was etched in the fabric of time, a tapestry woven with vulnerability, intimacy, and the unspoken promise of more to come.
In a room dimly lit by a few scattered candles, the air seemed to hum with an electrifying tension. Gio, his fingers endowed with a practiced finesse, traced delicate patterns against my skin, setting off a symphony of sensations. As I surrendered to the cresting waves of pleasure, his gaze held me captive, an unspoken connection passing between us.
The rhythm of our bodies was a dance, a harmonious choreography of intimacy. My hips swayed in tandem with his languid movements, each slide in and out a languorous exploration of desire. With an almost tantalizing slowness, he delved deeper, his fingers curling skillfully within me, igniting dormant sparks that sent shivers cascading down my spine. A sudden jolt of ecstasy surged as his thumb found its mark, a well-orchestrated crescendo that pried a cry of bliss from my lips, unbridled and raw.
Yet, Gio’s relentless ardor refused respite. The sweet torment continued, his fingers a skilled maestro of pleasure, coaxing another climax from the depths of my being. My body succumbed to the sensations, a mixture of euphoria and surrender leaving me trembling. I leaned into him, my palms finding purchase against the warmth of his chest, the intensity of the moment etching beads of sweat upon my skin.
Within the depths of his gaze, a storm raged, a tempest of desire and possessiveness that left me breathless. Gasping for air, I managed to voice my doubts, the words leaving my throat in a raspy whisper. His response was a mere murmur, a command to relax and yield to the passage of time. His endearing endearment, “my princess,” reverberated through the air, infusing the moment with a sense of urgency and purpose.
I acquiesced, reclining against his sturdy form once more, the slow rhythm of his fingers persisting, devoid of haste. Each motion painted an intimate tableau, an unabashed showcase of vulnerability and want. The air grew thick with the scent of our shared arousal, punctuated by the unmistakable, wet sounds of our intimate connection. A plaintive whimper escaped me, only to be met by Gio’s unyielding possessiveness, his eyes tightening their grip on my soul.
Time became an elusive concept, an abstract notion in the wake of sensations that seemed to stretch into infinity. The tightening of my inner walls was both pleasure and pain, a poignant reminder of the intensity of our shared encounter. And then, like the crescendo of a symphony, release crashed over me once again, leaving me gasping for breath, my body a canvas painted with the hues of unadulterated passion.
In an almost cinematic motion, Gio surged upwards, his lips melding with mine in a kiss that spoke volumes. I clung to him, his taste and touch grounding me in a reality woven from desire. His voice, a mere whisper against the tender expanse of my throat, painted words of awe and reverence, and in that moment, all I could manage was a fervent nod, my voice lost to the echoes of the pleasure we had orchestrated together.
~*~
I shifted my position in the bed, moving over to Gio’s side. The scent of him still lingered on the sheets, and a rush of emotions flooded my chest. Gio had left early in the morning, embarking on a journey to Washington DC. His purpose: to assess the stability of the current Underboss’s leadership following Amadeo’s demise. Despite his absence, there was a reassuring certainty that he would return tonight.
The morning light urged me to leave the warmth of the bed, driven by an unfamiliar pang of hunger that stirred within me. It was odd, as I struggled to recall the last instance I’d felt such morning appetite.
Descending to the kitchen, I found Leonardo already seated at the bar counter, engrossed in his mobile device. His gaze lifted as I entered, prompting him to rise promptly. A light laugh escaped me, and I quipped, “I’m not exactly royalty. No need to stand on ceremony.”
He hesitated for a moment, then settled back into his seat. Leonardo differed from Dario in demeanor-less readily approachable, more guarded. I helped myself to a cup of tea and a banana, leaning casually against the counter. It was evident that he was uncertain about how to interact with me, likely mulling over the information Gio had shared with him.
I blew gently on the steaming tea, glancing across at him. “How long has it been since you became a Made Man?” The question floated between us, a thread connecting our curiosity.
“About five, or maybe six years now,” he replied, his eyes distant as he recalled his induction. It had happened on his fourteenth birthday.
A sense of intrigue compelled me to press further. “And now you find yourself as my designated protector,” I mused aloud, a note of curiosity lacing my words. “I imagine it’s not a role you actively sought.”
His response was a nonchalant shrug, though there was a hidden intensity beneath his facade. He wouldn’t admit it, but the implication of his duty gnawed at him. “I follow Gio’s commands. Protecting his wife is an honor-it shows the trust he places in me.”
My fingers traced the rim of the teacup, my mind wandering to his future. “That’s true,” I agreed softly, acknowledging that Leonardo’s responsibility encompassed not just me but also our unborn child. “But you won’t be tied to this role forever. I’ve heard whispers that you’re destined for the role of Underboss.”
He shook his head, a touch of uncertainty clouding his features. “Nothing’s certain yet. It all hinges on proving myself. And even if I do…” He trailed off, a flicker of unease crossing his expression.
My curiosity persisted, my head tilting as I absorbed his words. “Gio doesn’t care about your parentage, that your father wasn’t married to your mother.”
“Others do,” he responded, his lips twisting with bitterness. The complexity of his lineage was a burden he carried.
The story I’d heard-that his mother had tragically ended her life due to her affair with Gio-hovered on the edges of my understanding. Yet, it was not my place to dig into his past.
A solemn nod conveyed my empathy. “Many will oppose your ascent through the ranks. But those are the voices you needn’t concern yourself with.”
In his eyes, a glimmer of acknowledgment emerged. It was as if, through our conversation, he was beginning to see me as more than just a figure to guard, recognizing the shared human experience that connected us both.