Wicked Fame: A mafia stalker romance (Wicked Men Book 2)

My tiny palm meets his open one and he engulfs it in his warmth. I trip on my heels when he jerks me forward, landing against his chest. He cocoons me with his arms, sweeping me away. Past corridors. Past people. Past the shadows flashing over us.

Until we’re standing outside the restrooms.

“We’re doing it in the toilets?” I screech. It would be my first time.

Irritation crackles in the snap of Gabriele’s fingers. “Would you rather do it out in the open in front of everyone?”

“If those are the two choices, I guess it’s going to be the toilets.” Clamping down my resistance, I follow him into the women’s restroom. I check all the stalls to see if there’s nobody else. But Gabriele doesn’t let me complete my inspection before he hauls me into one of the empty stalls.

I sniff at the air.

“Don’t turn up your nose already.” The sound of the bathroom stall door bolting shut vibrates against my ears. “It’s about to get dirtier. If there’s anything you don’t want me to do, any limits, speak now.”

There are only a few things I haven’t experimented with before, sexually, and I doubt he’s going to take it that far. “You can do anything you want as long as you don’t make me bleed or bruise me. Not even a tiny cut. And of course, use protection. It’s non-negotiable,” I say. “You can be a little rough, but not too much. Also, don’t choke me.”

A tiny smile curls against his lips. The smallest hint of remorse flickers in his expression before hunger and lust overwhelm him as much as they’re overwhelming me.

He pulls down my zipper and lowers the front of my dress. The clasp of my bra almost breaks when attacked by his impatient hands. He yanks it off. My breasts spill out into his large palms. He squeezes me, kneading my soft flesh, flicking the hard buds that have been begging for his attention since earlier. I relish the tiny cuts and scrapes that dot the surface of his skin, which add roughness to his touch and make my nipples peak.

His mouth comes down on the bud of my nipple and he kisses the hard peaks, sending flutters of pleasure straight to my groin. The burning hot press of his tongue against my erect bud floods my brain with blissful blankness. Shock clashes with ecstasy. Shivers course through me. It’s as close to the feeling of being high as I can get without actually being high.

He turns his mouth to my other breast, biting down this time, gathering me up in his arms easily, holding me in the air as he ravages my breasts until even the brush of cool air against them hurts.

I lean against his shoulder.

He’s built like a tank, his body carved with unforgiving muscle and hard lines. I’ve never done it with such a powerful and violent man. I’m sure he won’t be loving or patient. But that’s exactly the reason I want this so much.

I brace one hand against the wall and another against his solid chest. He impatiently slides a hand under my dress, cupping my sex, squeezing it through the barrier of my lace panties, drawing out every bit of resistance from me without ever directly touching my skin. My body is flooded by cool, beautiful sensations. My hips rock forward, hungry for his brutal touch.

His dark eyes glisten with naked animosity. The sharp edge of his teeth caresses my earlobe. Thrill lances straight to my core, spreading moisture down my center.

“Antonio was right about you being a horny little slut.” His sultry whisper licks a trail of fire through my insides. I moan, coming undone. The bad part about wearing fine lace underwear is that he can definitely feel the wet spot through the thin fabric.

And he grinds his finger into that exact place, letting me know how much he’s enjoying my humiliation. His mouth presses into my cheek so his rasp ghosts over my skin like smoke. “Look at your pussy dripping for a man you barely know. You’re dreaming of these rough fingers wrecking your insides, aren’t you?”

Warmth and arousal curl at the base of my stomach with every filthy word out of his mouth. It’s sick how much I need his brand of raw degradation. I want to be taken hard and fast without any gentleness. So I can forget who I am, where I come from, and what the future holds for a girl like me. I want to stop being me.

I dig my nails into the back of his tailored jacket. “Shut up.”

“Why?” He fists my hair with his other hand, pulling my head back and exposing my neck. A scream rises up my throat. “You don’t like dirty talk?”

No, I love it. 

I shake my head. The eagerness with which I’m grinding against his fingers probably makes words a moot point anyway. My breath stretches taut.

“Will you let me turn you inside out, Francesca?” he asks.

My assent croaks out of my throat as my body surrenders to a wave of pleasure.

But he doesn’t give me the sweetness I crave.

My inner muscles clench around emptiness, needing another hit of degrading words delivered in that uncultured, stony rasp. My mind’s warping back to that dark place, repeating an endless loop of Not good enough.

Even a cold-blooded killer with zero standards doesn’t want you, Francesca. 

In just a simple power move, Gabriele has revealed the deep cracks in my self-confidence. Was that his intention?

I curl my hand over his unyielding shoulders, bridging the gap between our bodies. “Show me your worst, Gabriele. Let me see it. I have to see it.” So I can stop needing you. 

My hazy brain, addled with insecurity and substance dependence, can’t think straight in the presence of something as undeniable and uncomplicated as lust. What’s another bad choice when my life’s brimming with them?

Gabriele pushes me back until my back’s flat against the wall. “You said it yourself. Don’t whine to me later.”

“I’m not a kid—”

Fear punctures my lungs and squeezes the air out when he rips my panties off. I gasp at the torn scraps when they land around my feet. Shit. I’m going to be bare for the rest of the night.

“You psycho!” I hiss. “I still have to go home.”

A hint of humor glitters in his eyes. Judging by the upward flick of his lips, Gabriele finds my attempt at modesty highly entertaining.

“What did you imagine it was going to be like? Did you expect a mafioso to quote Shakespeare and make love to you gently under the moonlight? I like pain, Francesca. And you’re going to learn to like it, too.”

Even an idiot could decipher the subtext scrolling through his blown-out pupils: You can’t avoid this pain with drugs and alcohol. I’m not going to let you.

The hairs on my body stand up. Suddenly, this doesn’t feel like mindless sex anymore. He’s seen through me into the ugliness nestled under layers of false cheer and polish.

Is this what he meant when he said he’d help me? That he’d help me face my worst parts that I refuse to face otherwise?

Anxiety pecks at my chest. Need tightens into a heavy rock in my belly. But every feeling cuts out to silence when Gabriele’s hand crawls back up my thighs. I lock my arms around his neck and spread my legs, opening myself up to his assault.

It takes him no time at all to find my clit. The rough texture of his fingertips abrades my tender, over-sensitized flesh, setting every nerve ending ablaze. One finger thrusts into my entrance, making my legs buckle. His teeth sink into the softness of my neck. He doesn’t wait for me to get comfortable before he thrusts two digits into me at once and proceeds to aggressively fuck me, just like I have been waiting for him to. A dark pleasure unwraps in my bloodstream. My nerves sing with satisfaction. God, this feels even better than I imagined. How long has it been since someone gave it to me so good?

“I’m going to screw you like a whore, Francesca.” The threat curls over Gabriele’s tongue. “Because under all that posh preening, that’s exactly what you are, isn’t it?”

The slippery wetness dripping down my thighs intensifies. I whimper. This man could make me come with words alone. My back hits the wall every time I jerk against his fingers. I love how trapped I feel between the hard wall and Gabriele Russo’s harder chest. This is better than drugs.

“Say you want to stop,” he demands. “I dare you to say it.”

“No.” I grind out through my clenched teeth. Ecstasy is radiating through me. All these sensations chewing my insides are dissolving my pride, my self-preservation, and the very fiber of my soul.

My wet channel eats up his fingers greedily. I stretch for him, yearning to fill the nagging, empty void inside me. My hips move on their own, seeking release in the primal strength of this monster. Pleasure crashes over me, plucking away every self-doubting thought in my head.

Electric shocks shoot in my veins when he curls his fingers inside me, hitting me where I need it the most. My back arches, my body leaning into Gabriele’s strong arms. I hate to admit how much I love the solidity of him against me.

These past few months, my world has consisted of impossible expectations and shifting illusions. Highs and lows manufactured by powder and paint. But this moment is real. The pressure of his fingers inside me is real. The depraved words he whispers to me are real. So real it fractures my soul to know I’ll never have something like this again.

Moving up and down on his thick fingers, I’m unraveling. Then Gabriele’s fingers scissor me and the burn of that stretch catapults me closer to the edge of my release.

A soft sigh escapes my lips. “So good.”

“Then why aren’t you screaming my name?” he challenges.

“Are you crazy? There might be people here.”

“I don’t give a fuck if some stranger finds you’re a nympho. Scream my name or I won’t let you come.”

I need to stop before this man wrecks my life with his filthy mouth.

This is so twisted.

He’s a thug who stalks me all day.

He has killed countless people with the same fingers that are pressing against my G-spot.

He’ll probably shoot me without batting an eyelid if it comes down to that.

Why am I not scared of him at all?

Why in the world am I turned on by how thrilling it feels to be vulnerable in front of a guy who doesn’t value life?

The answer twists my gut. It’s because Gabriele has no pretenses. He shows all of his darkness without flinching. He accepts his disgusting impulses without condemning himself.

Sure of his place in the world and living for his own validation—he’s everything I can never hope to be.

A hard slap against my pussy sucks me away from my overthinking. I bring my teeth down on my bottom lip, tamping down the impulse to cry. To scream. But Gabriele is persistent. His flat palm smacks my tender flesh again and again. Each fresh wave of pain only sends me soaring higher. Coupled with how he’s brutalizing my insides, I could come in three seconds flat. But he keeps pulling out his fingers. Stopping. Demanding me to call out his name.

Leaving me no other choice.

“Gabriele, dammit! I will strangle you if you don’t stop doing that.” The echo of my high-pitched wail reverberates throughout the space. I really hope nobody heard that.

The swoosh of someone flushing the toilet razes my prayers to ashes.

I pale. Great.

Gabriele Russo’s smile widens to show teeth. “That made my day.”

“You’re a sadist.”

“You’re a prude.” His thumb runs across my pussy lips, tracing their edges. The sudden tenderness on the heels of the stinging pain still radiating through my flesh sends shivers to my core. He gives my clit the same gentle treatment, rubbing and pressing and lavishing it with reverence.

Before I can yell at him to go hard and fast again, all the heat and ecstasy wash down my nerves in a rippling orgasm. Pinpricks of waxy light dance in my vision like snowflakes falling from a white ceiling. In that instant, even this grubby bathroom turns into a beautiful scene worthy of being immortalized on a canvas. I pray I’ll remember this sight when I’m home at night. And maybe, I’ll be able to paint a picture that can capture the bliss I feel when I stare at the grime-flecked white paint while pasted against Gabriele Russo’s chest, his thick digits still stuck in me.

Moisture, the evidence of my pleasure, drips from me, gliding down the mobster’s knuckles. He brings his hand up to my lips and makes me lick it off. I’m still floating so I do it without a complaint.

One foot eases out of my shoes to venture up his clothed thigh, to where the unmistakable swell of an erection is poking through the fabric. This man is hard for me. Wonder why that makes me feel invincible.

My fingers snag on the button of his pants. I begin to lower myself to the floor, opening my mouth, eager for the weight of his cock on my tongue. “Don’t worry,” I tell him. “I’ll return the favor.”

When I look up at him, he’s no longer smiling. Dark, nameless rage glitters in Gabriele’s eyes. He grabs me by the arm and pulls my body upright.

“This is not a trade,” he says.

“I didn’t mean it—”

“Stop, Francesca.” He rips my hands away from his person, pinning them back to my sides.

Doubt cramps my stomach. Something’s wrong. His whole demeanor has changed. The flirtation, the lust, everything has evaporated from him. Leaving behind only anger that smokes against my skin.

His jaw ticks. He bites out the next words through gritted teeth, “We should stop here. Before you start thinking this is something it isn’t.”

His statement rings with recrimination, scarring the air between us.

Without an explanation, he bolts out of the stall. The tick of his footsteps mirrors the slow bumps in my heart until they vanish altogether.

When doubt slithers back up my throat, I don’t immediately scrabble for the wine they’re serving outside.

Instead, I crave the feel of Gabriele inside me.

Slipping out of the bathroom, I hunt for his shadow. He’s nowhere.

Disappointment crashes into me.

Looks like I’ve found an addiction more dangerous than drugs.

Him.