“Can you hold on a second while I fetch a glass of water?” I ask as we walk back into the house, Dom carrying my pile of books. I pull the small pack of tablets from my clutch.
“What are you taking, bambola?” Dom snaps, but follows me to the kitchen, and sets down my presents with a scowl. When I casually hold out the packet, he snatches it up and glowers down at the poor cardboard. I’m surprised it doesn’t combust. “Where did you get those?”
“Just some sleeping tablets,” I say innocently. “I got them from Jessa Lambeth.”
“Why?” he growls.
“To help me be out for the count.” So that you’ll do more to me.
I think Dom would have stayed out until dawn, buying me books and being all couply, and I don’t understand why. He’s so deliberate about being attentive to me when we’re in public. And I think we both want more closeness in private too, but the moment we’re alone it’s like there’s a force field around me.
Except when he thinks I’m asleep.
And I’ve been thinking about his name for me. Bambola. My fake-husband calls me his doll, and all evening as he spoiled me with extravagant books, I pondered how to repay him.
And that was when it occurred to me. If a doll-wife is what he wants, then that’s what I will be for him. I can goad him into giving in to what we both desire by being exactly the doll he calls me.
“Have you not been sleeping well?” There’s worry around his eyes. He doesn’t return the packet, turning it over in his big, black-inked hands.
Hands I want on me. Unrestrained.
“Oh no, I’ve been sleeping fine.” The sleep isn’t really the issue. It’s what he won’t do to me before I sleep.
I need more.
“Then why drugs? It’s not good to—”
“I’m just so wired after the book auction. I don’t think that coffee was really decaf. I’m going to put the books on the shelves, but afterwards, I don’t want to lie awake for hours, you know?”
He looks disturbed as he returns the tablets to me.
“Thanks.” I smile up at him and toss the pill into my mouth. His brows draw together as I bring the glass to my lips and use my tongue to push the pill to the side just before I take a sip of water, tucking it into my cheek. His gaze dips to my throat as I swallow.
He’s not breathing, and I hide a smirk.
I lie on my tummy, because maybe he’ll find it easier if he can’t see my face. I leave on my knickers at first, but then, I think about it, and wriggle them off, leaving them on the bed next to me because Dom said he liked them. But the logistics of getting them down my thighs or out of the way? Nope. I want him to have complete access.
It’s a long wait, and I can’t relax. I’m vibrating with need, my nipples hard on the covers.
Eleven comes and goes.
Last night he didn’t delay so much, and I’m convinced he will be here before midnight.
The grandfather clock in the hall chimes twelve and my mood slumps.
Perhaps he won’t visit?
I convince myself of it. Maybe he doesn’t want me, and isn’t interested in using my body as he said he was. Does it disgust him that I took—pretended to take—sleeping tablets?
It’s a long time after twelve, but before one, when the door handle twists.
There’s a deep, masculine sigh.
“You should lock your door when you’re out-for-the-count, bambola,” he whispers, his voice hoarse and tortured. “Are you awake?” he adds a little louder.
Keeping my breathing even, I remain totally still.
“No, you’re asleep, bambola, ready to be defiled by a man who loves and needs you so much he can’t help himself. I can’t keep away.”
The wash of relief as I hear his steps across the carpet towards my bed is almost as good as an orgasm. He’s here. He’s come for me.
I feel the moment he sees me fully. I left on a light in the corner of the room, and I know it highlights my bare body. My bottom sticking up. My hair over my shoulders. My face is in shadow, but one of my knees is raised.
And it stops him dead, exactly as I’d hoped.
“Fuck…” He sucks in a breath. “You’re naked. If you knew what it does to me, you’d run.”
Right into his arms, yes.
“You would definitely lock your door.” He groans. “You’re the most perfect thing I’ve ever seen, and you can’t be mine.”
I love the way his Italian accent comes to the fore when he’s aroused. It’s sexy as all get out.
Focusing on keeping my breathing calm, I ready myself and hope. I hope so much, though I’m not sure exactly for what. For him to touch me, yes. But I need him to go further than he did last night.
His fingertips on my shoulder are unexpectedly tender and soft, then he sweeps an unmistakably possessive hand down my body, over my hip.
“You’re so beautiful, bambola,” he says, almost reverently. “Exposed, and mine. I can’t wait to do this when you’re awake… I want to see your eyes looking up at me.” He sighs. “But that’s not going to happen.”
He skims his fingertips down the dip of my spine, and when I guess a man who was restraining himself would stop at the base of my back, he doesn’t. A deep, wounded sound comes from his chest as he trails a path between my buttocks and to my bared slit.
“Have you been thinking of your monster, coming to get you tonight, bambola? Did your dreams make you a horny little toy for me?” It’s a rumbling tease, and it makes my clit twitch.
His fingers find my clit and stroke right over it in a move so confident it’s pure arrogance. It’s taking, even as it’s giving me pleasure. I wish I could rub my aching nipples against the sheets, and push onto his hand, begging for his cock.
The touch to my bottom is rough. A possessive grasp. Now he thinks I’m unconscious, all his base desires have risen to the surface. Then his hand is gone and there’s just the rhythmic, insistent strokes to my clit.
A chink of metal, the whoosh of leather. A button pops and then the sound of his zipper is the perfect harsh music. The shh of fabric being pushed aside.
I strain to hear him stroking his cock.
I can’t at first. The wet sounds of his fingers on my pussy and the spiralling feeling of pleasure obscure it.
It’s his groan that reveals that he’s touching himself slower than I was expecting. Like he’s rubbing his cock up and down with the intention to enjoy it, not just get off as quickly as possible.
“You’re unbelievably lovely,” he whispers. “My good girl. I don’t deserve your perfection.”
This is better than anything I’ve ever felt. He somehow knows my body, pushing me further and further into pleasure with his fingers. I’m close, just needing a small bit more. A missing part. Then there’s a touch at my entrance, and pressure.
His finger slides into me, satisfying in the moment and yet not enough a second later. I pulse, and he moves faster.
“You’re so wet, and my god. Such a needy little pussy. Grasping at my fingers. My good girl needs something bigger don’t you?”
Yes. Yes, I do. I’ve seen his cock. It’s magnificent. Scarily big, but I want it anyway.
He continues to pump into me, rubbing his thumb over my clit. I’ve touched myself, sure, but it has never felt as all-encompassing as this. He senses my body like we’re tuned to each other.
I’m writhing, right on the brink, crazed with the intensity of my desire for him. Dom.
“I can’t.” He sounds like he’s trying to convince himself of something. “I shouldn’t.” He groans. “But my god. You need it, don’t you?”
I do. I really do.
“A toy… But there weren’t any on your wish lists or social media posts, were there? So I didn’t buy you one.”
What? What has that got to do with it? The question slips away. I don’t care as much as I crave my fake husband.
“All I have to satisfy you is… I shouldn’t.”
You can, I tell him silently. Do it. Please.
“You trust me, and you’re sleeping.”
There’s the rustle of his knees as he shifts closer.
“But your sweet, weeping, needy cunt…” He groans. “Just the tip. Just because a pussy this soaking wet needs a cock to hold.”
Something hot and blunt and silky brushes my inner thigh and I bite the inside of my lip to keep my face impassive, and not cry out. Then his frighteningly large bulbous end touches where I’m slick.
I can’t help the sound that emits from my throat.
“It’s okay, bambola,” he soothes me. “It’s almost a pacifier. This will make that empty little cunt of yours feel better.”
He pushes against me, achingly slow, until there’s a pinch. But it feels right, and my clit throbs.
He lets out a stream of Italian words I don’t understand. I can’t even tell whether they’re praise or a prayer or swear words. Maybe they’re all three.
“Bambola, you’re so tight.”
I’m close to coming. Inside, I’m screaming, desperate. I keep my eyes closed, a whine tears from my throat.
More. I need something more. Just…
Then like a cork popping into a bottle, there’s a complete change between us. An extra fraction of an inch into me, and the fullness hits a pleasure centre I’ve never felt before, and I’m coming, the white light of it rolling over me from where we’re joined.
Vaguely, I hear the now-familiar raw sound of Dom orgasming too. Inside me. Even through the spasms of my ecstasy, I can feel the wet heat he’s filling me with, and the way it overflows.
Then there’s just our breathing and the silence as the pleasure ebbs away, leaving contentment.
I really want to open my eyes and see what he looks like. What is he thinking? But I don’t have to look, because he tells me.
Dom strokes the hair from my cheek and kisses me tenderly. “I love you so much.”
I love you too. I say the words in my head. They feel right.
I’ve fallen in love with the mafia boss who cherishes me when we’re pretending to be a couple, and when he thinks I’m asleep, but won’t admit to any emotion when it’s the two of us alone.
I’ve broken through this barrier he put between us of him being too old, and the special bond we share being only fake.
He came inside me. The power of his desire has given me a secret: I could get pregnant.
“That was…” He gives a rueful laugh. “You coming on the tip of my cock? That was the single best thing that’s ever happened to me, mia bambola. And knowing I spilt my seed in you is a close second. A precious gift. Thank you.”
He continues to place soft kisses over my cheek and neck, until we’re both breathing evenly again, and I’m so relaxed and happy, I might actually fall asleep.
My fake husband doesn’t feel so fake now.
“I need to clean you up.” The withdrawal makes me instantly empty and I long for that closeness. His steps go to the bathroom, and a tap runs. Then he’s back.
“We made a mess,” he says teasingly, then hums with pleasure as his fingers move over my pussy.
“Fuck, bambola.” He exhales roughly. “My sleeping beauty. There’s blood.”
He breathes out, hard.
And I get it.
It’s perfect. Whatever happens, I will have the sweet memory of how I lost my virginity to a wonderful man I adore. A forbidden man who I love. And who I know now for sure, loves me.
He continues to use the washcloth to clean my sopping pussy lips.
“I don’t regret it though…” He slides one finger into my passage, and I have to bite down on my lip to keep from moaning. “Push a bit of seed further up.”
Kissing the dip in my lower back, he slowly pulls his finger out, and his weight shifts away from me.
“Buonanotte. Sleep as sweetly as you deserve.”
Then there’s the soft noises as he withdraws and lets himself out of my bedroom.
I lie exactly where he’s left me, motionless, for a long time. Despite his attention with the washcloth, I’m slick between the legs, and I think about how he put his sperm further up into me. As though he’d like it if I were pregnant.
I could be pregnant with Dom’s child.
That spreads a warmth through me. The most delicious secret. I know that he might have made me pregnant, and he doesn’t know that I know.
