Chapter 4 What's my name

In one stride, he was there again, between my legs. I lay back, hands shaking as I gripped the edge of the counter, and unexpectedly his fingers grazed my clit.

A moan slipped through my stiff lips.

“So wet, Ikkohafina…” he murmured. “You hate me this much, yet you’re extra wet for me?” he teased as his fingers played with my folds.

“Hmm…” I moaned when I tried to speak, forming nothing but incoherent sounds.

“What was that?” he teased further, not letting up until my body trembled beneath his touch.

When he finally released me from his fingers, he lowered himself until his head was between my legs. I tried to squirm away, panic fluttering in my chest, but his grip tightened around my thigh and waist, holding me firmly in place.

He pulled me to the edge of the counter, my legs skillfully twisted in his hands, locked in a grip I could never escape from.

He inhaled deeply, lingering there for long seconds, before finally dragging his tongue from my asshole to my pussy.

I shivered.

But that was only the beginning of his planned wreckage.

“How did you know I love eating a freshly shaved cunt?” he taunted softly. “Did you look me up… Ikkohafina?”

Before I could respond, his mouth closed around my clit.

He took his time, rolling his tongue over me, sucking slowly, deliberately, like he had all the time in the world. His mouth worked my flesh as if it were sweet and perfect.

I moaned.

He groaned.

He ate me like he was doing it for himself, not for me. His lips kissed my pussy passionately, messy and wet, as if he were french-kissing my core.

His tongue flicked rapidly over my clit until I screamed, my fingers tangling in his long hair. He sucked harder, those deep, masculine sounds rumbling from his chest.

“Ohhh… hmm!”

“Feels so good…” I heard myself say as pleasure swallowed me whole.

Fuck.

He was all over me, eating me with such intention that every nerve in my body ignited.

“Ohhh, Dario…”

“Yes… just like that,” I gasped. “Hmm, Dario, please…” I begged, not even knowing what I was begging for.

“Please… please…” I whispered when he pulled away and met my gaze.

“Rio,” he said calmly. “That’s what you’ll call me.”

Then he went back to sucking, plunging his index finger into me at the same time. I was so tight that we both moaned when he pushed in and out, slowly at first, then deeper.

As he sucked and fingered me together, I completely unraveled. I was so close I could feel it building again, coiling tight in my belly.

“Ohhh my—hmm, Dario! Dario!” I cried, pleasure consuming me.

Just as I was about to come, he stopped.

“No—no, please…” I cried out desperately.

With an angry, lust-filled gaze, he asked coldly, “What is my name?”

“Dario.”

“Don’t fucking play with me,” he growled.

I’d said this man’s name only a handful of times since I’d met him, but now it slipped from my lips so easily—especially when he swirled his tongue over my clit again before sucking.

“What’s my name?” he rasped, his tongue pushing against my entrance.

A throaty, obscene sound escaped me—one I never knew I was capable of making.

When I didn’t answer, his mouth left me again. His smoldering gaze locked onto mine, sharp and unyielding.

“What’s my name?”

“Dario,” I breathed.

His eyes flashed.

Then fullness overwhelmed me as he slid another finger inside, doubling the pressure, lighting a wick through my bloodstream. He held his fingers still while I tried to rock against them, but his grip around my thigh was immovable.

“Name?” he pressed again.

I shook my head, hating this game. I had Dario on the tip of my tongue, but when he pulled his fingers out and plunged three back into me hard, the word caught in my throat and came out helplessly.

“Rio.”

A tremor ripped through me as his mouth returned to my clit, licking and sucking while his fingers worked me again and again. He moved leisurely, unhurried, making deep sounds of satisfaction as if savoring every second.

He slowed when the pressure built, driving me mad, until “Please” slipped from my lips.

Then his fingers curled inside me, the fire growing hotter.

When he slowed again, panic seized me. I tugged at his hair, shaking my head, not knowing what I’d turned into—only that “Please” spilled from my mouth over and over.

He finally gave me what I wanted.

His mouth steady, his fingers relentless, he worked me faster, harder, until there was nothing but deep, scorching pressure.

His dark gaze found mine.

My last thought—before the final please left my lips and the pressure exploded through me like an inferno—was simple and terrifying:

He loves to be begged.

The fire faded into a languid heat, spreading in slow waves through my body.

I lay slack against the counter, pulsing around his fingers as he continued to move them slowly, deliberately, until even that stopped.

I released a shaky breath, running my fingers through his hair, not ready to let go. It was the only part of him I was allowed to touch.

My first orgasm with a man.

And I hated to admit it—even to myself—but it was the most addictive thing I’d ever experienced.

When his hands slid up my thighs, my nerves flared.

Did he want me to reciprocate?

Did he expect more?

Shyness crept over me as I sat up, and when he braced his hands on the counter and met my gaze, I knew he could see it all.

He hadn’t even removed his tie, while I sat naked in front of him. Now that the heat had settled, it all felt even more obscene.

“You’ll call me Rio from now on,” he said coolly. “No more of that Dario bullshit.”

I nodded hesitantly. My whispered pleas still echoed in the kitchen, his words cutting through them like a blade.

I didn’t know what I expected next—but it wasn’t for him to turn his back on me, walk out of the house, and shut the door behind him.

I exhaled shakily, collapsing against the countertop.

Merda.

I was in over my head.

The ticking of the clock pulled my gaze upward as I slid off the island.

I’d been engaged to Rio for barely an hour, yet I already felt turned inside out, as if he’d stolen pieces of me I’d never get back.

This man ruled the city’s underworld.

There was no escaping him.

I traced the rim of his whiskey glass, the air-conditioning chilling my bare skin. I leaned against the counter and took a sip, hoping it would numb the memory of his scruff against my neck, hoping it would erase his clean, masculine scent from my senses.

It didn’t.

I remembered—like it was yesterday—when I’d confessed my love to him five years ago. He’d been the laughing uncle, the cheerful one who loved me unconditionally, just like Papa did. Somewhere along the way, that affection turned into love.

He dismissed me. Avoided me. For two years, until the war between our cartels erupted.

My life had been a living hell.

People in the Nostra envied me for my beauty and my name. They saw advantages, power, privilege—never the disadvantages I lived with every day.

It had been so lonely.

And now, even the orphanage—the only place that brought me joy—was being taken away from me too.