To say meeting the Santoro family is overwhelming is a gross understatement.
But with the bantering and poking fun at each other around the dinner table, it does feel like the Brady Bunch. But instead of being a blended middle-class American family, it’s an upper-class Italian mafia family.
They welcome non-blood members—not just me, but Gabriele and another man named Raf—into the fold and show them the same love. Gabrielle, Raf, and Andro hug and kiss Gina and speak at length with Tommaso. Gina clips their ears as much as she does her sons, and Tommaso is the same, not discriminating who’s on the receiving end of his scowls. Scowls that hide a little smile as he talks with his brother, Marco.
This is not what I envisioned—not that I ever envisioned sitting around the dinner table with the upper echelons of a mafia family. But it’s blowing my mind.
I know, though, that this doesn’t discount their criminal activity and how they make their money… If I think about that too long, panic rises inside me, which Creed somehow detects and places a hand on my thigh or leans over and kisses my temple. But I witness these are caring people who love deeply and have a moral code based on small snippets of conversations I catch around the table.
When Creed takes it upon himself to bring up the project I’m working on for the business proposal of my not-for-profit idea, my cheeks burn, but he encourages me to share it. They all listen intently and ask questions. Like Zac, Ollie, and Antonio had asked when I told them about my idea, Andro asks about the comprehensiveness and the need to go so deep.
“Wouldn’t a place to get them back on their feet be enough? Those other pieces are so… complex and not one sector’s area of control.”
I shake my head, sipping the delicious red wine. “The poverty cycle continues to be perpetuated unless it’s broken. Those opportunities come from having housing, food, and income stability. Having services there or co-located nearby rather than the vulnerable,” I use air quotes, “I hate that word, but I’ll use it for it now—women having to find time, transportation, and other supports to access their medical and social needs, especially when that mom and children are at the height of their vulnerability, is critical.”
Tommaso rests his elbows on the table, regarding me. He coughs; it sounds phlegmy and painful, and I feel Creed stiffen slightly. Placing my hand on his muscular thigh to soothe him, he rests his tattooed hand over mine and squeezes it. “Have you seen this business proposal, Creed?”
I clear my throat. “It’s not a real—”
“Yes, it is a real business proposal, angel.” Creed doesn’t let me finish my objections. “It may have been developed for a class, but it’s still a business proposal in every sense.”
“One that sounds exceptionally thought-out,” Massimo adds; his deep brown eyes are as intense as the rest of him.
“And to answer your question, Papá, I have seen the proposal.”
Tommaso sits back in his chair. “The Glade building may be a good fit. You also purchased the land nearby, although you’d sacrifice the profits if you didn’t build for tenants as you were considering.”
“That is a great potential site,” Creed agrees.
Tommaso turns to me. “You two should do a site visit and see what inspiration and visioning comes from that, Sophie.”
My head swivels between Creed and his father. Are they saying what I think they are? I shake my head. “I… You can’t be serious.”
“Why?” Gina prods. “It sounds like a worthwhile venture, dear. Perfect for Santoro Ventures Inc.”
Are they just being nice, trying to suck me in? Fanning my ego to make me feel better?
“It’s just a class project,” I protest. “And something like this would need huge resources.” I’m still researching and finalizing the budget portion of the proposal, but I know it will be into the seven figures if it’s resourced fully. “It would need capital. Contacts—”
“I have capital; I have contacts.” Creed smiles at me, and I shake my head again, about to protest further. This is ludicrous.
“Have you told her about Jo’s daughter, Creed?” Andro finishes his tiramisu and snags his dad’s remaining portion.
“Who’s Jo?” I try to keep my tone and face neutral.
Creed’s all-seeing, piercing icy-blue eyes are on mine, and he runs his thumb down my chin. “My executive assistant. Her daughter, Susan, has recently been in a situation just as your project intends to help. Her husband was abusive and controlling; he never let her work.”
Andro’s handsome face darkens. “He controlled the money, didn’t let her have a vehicle, kept her identification, and allowed her to leave the house only when he approved it.”
“Susan recently had a child, and he got even more violent. She finally escaped and ran to Jo,” Creed explains. “Susan had no training, no work experience—only had the clothes on her and her daughter’s back. Sure, she had Jo, who she could stay with, but how many don’t have a safe place to go or somewhere physically close enough to get to? The charity model works for some things like clothing and protective shelter for the short-term, but it doesn’t work against the barriers or help her break that cycle.”
My eyes skate over his face, seeing the fire in his eyes and the determined set of his jaw. “You’re serious about this.”
He interlinks our fingers. “I am.”
“It’s a wonderful project idea, mia dolce ragazza, and one that is sound if mio figlio is considering it,” Tommaso says. “He has been successful because of his cunning instincts in the business world and knows when an investment is good.”
“You should be proud, Triple S.” Vito grins. “Kudos from Babbo aren’t handed out like candy on Halloween.”
I have no idea what to say. The fact that Creed is considering this project adds to my overwhelm.
Sensing that, Creed stands and gently pulls me to my feet. When I stand, he immediately tucks me into his side, and my body curls inward to his even before I realize it.
“Please excuse us, Mamma and Papá. It’s been an overwhelming day.”
“Of course.” Gina pops up, rushes around to us, and cups my cheek. “Whatever you need, if my son doesn’t anticipate it first, you ask, you understand, mio dolce bambino?”
“Si. Grazie,” I say, making her beam at my use of Italian. “Thank you for the meal and for welcoming me into your home.”
Creed has his own residence in the city; however, we’re staying here until we can learn more about Morales and my father. The high gated walls protected with security, and being in a house with mobsters and Creed, makes me rest easier.
Everyone says goodnight, and Creed leads me from the dining room into the wide hallway toward the sweeping staircase.
The soft gold walls and dark brown wood beams make the house feel comforting and warm. In the family room, the stone face of a large hearth glows with a small fire. The thickness of the carpet mutes our steps as we climb the stairs.
Creed told me his room is in the far area of the house. No one had batted an eye about us staying together, nor had Gina or Tommaso even suggested I stay in a separate bedroom.
Suddenly, hesitation and nervousness become my greatest hurdle.
I haven’t been with anyone since Creed four months ago. He assured me he hasn’t either.
He told me he would never let me go again, and I agreed. But this feels huge. More meaningful than the one-night stand I had thought we had. More meaningful than that bliss-filled week we had together before everything crashed around us.
I want him. I want my future to be intertwined with his. I love him.
Yet, I feel I’m on the precipice of a life-altering moment—one that will define me and my actions from this moment on.
I’m choosing to put myself first, to allow myself to live and experience this love between us. I’m putting us first. I’m willing to try to bring my family around. It’s a significant shift, rather than putting them at the forefront and sacrificing my wants and needs. And if they can’t accept my choice, it will break my heart, but I’ll still choose Creed.
I’ll always choose Creed.
We walk along the upstairs hallway until Creed stops us at a dark brown wooden door. He stares at me, gently pushing my hair back from my face. Without a word, his hands settle at the base of my neck, his thumbs brushing the soft hollow at its center. He’s strong—his hands could tighten and easily overpower me—but there’s no fear in me. Only trust. Only safety with him.
His blue eyes aren’t soft and gentle, though. They’re hard right now. His dominant side is coming out, and the thought makes me shiver.
When we walk through that door, I know before we exit out of it again later—hopefully much later—he’ll have worshipped and revered me. However, as certain as I am of that, I know we have something to address before then.
I left him. Pushed him away. Pushed us away. I may not have destroyed us, but I had broken us.
I shiver again. Not in fear, never in fear with him. I shiver with anticipation, with want, with need. For him, as well as how he’ll decide to punish me. I know he won’t punish me in a bad way, but in a way that reminds me who I am, who he is, and who and what we are together. And to never turn my back on that ever again.
“Don’t hold back,” I whisper, my gaze holding his.
His hands tighten around my neck, and his eyes darken. One thumb skates up my throat to my mouth. Dragging his thumb over my bottom lip, his eyes lower to watch the flesh pull and relax as he plays with it.
“You’ll take all of me? Everything I give you? Everything I ask of you?”
“Yes.” I trust him implicitly and completely. He can be domineering in bed; however, I never felt I needed a safe word. It’s as if he instinctively knows my hard limits—maybe because they’re his, too. It’s yet another sign of how he’s made for me, and I’m made for him.
“You want everything I give you? Everything I need to do to you?”
“Yes.”
God, yes.
He gives me one last hard look, studying and reading my face. Then he opens the door and jerks his chin for me to enter. Once I’m inside I stop while he closes the door. Hearing the lock click into place rakes a shiver down my spine.
The room is decorated in deep and rich tones. Unlike his penthouse in San Diego, which is cool and modern, this room feels warm and welcoming. Thick strips of jade alternating with dark terracotta cover the wall. A black four-poster bed stands on a step-up platform, the comforter resting atop a lighter jade color than the walls. A chair sits in the corner, as well as one beside the reading bench of the window.
Feeling Creed’s intense eyes on me, I turn. He stands beside the door, not moving toward me.
Uncertainty and inexperience make my insecurities rush forth. I clasp and unclasp my hands, unsure of what to do next.
“What do you need, angel?” he asks, even though seconds ago, he asked if I’d take everything he’d give me and do what he asked of me. He reads me like an open book and ensures that I know I’m the center of his universe.
I remember the first time I was with him and his words: Never hold back from me. Never be shy about what you want or need.
I don’t want to hold back or be shy about what I want or need. But the chasm is still between us, and I don’t know how to bridge it.
“I don’t know what to do,’ I say with complete honesty. ‘I don’t know what you need or want me to do.”
“But you know what you want, what you need?”
I nod, biting my lip. “You.”
“That’s it?” His eyes flick down to my lip, drawing my attention to the fact that I’m gnawing on it, and I stop.
“I want and need you, Creed. All of you. I want and need us.” My voice cracks.
His strong, inked hands undo his suit jacket. I ache to be the one to undress him, to claim the pleasure and reward of slowly uncovering every perfect inch of his solid, sculpted body. To touch his heated skin, feel it under my palms. To lick and taste him, to kiss him. To fall to my knees and suck him deep into my throat and worship him.
But my choice and what I put us through these past months stand between us. He needs retribution for that, atonement for that sin—I need that as much as he does—before he worships me.
Right now, the gentle man who views me as his treasure is dormant, and the dominant one takes center stage. And God help me, I love and want them both. One wraps me in the sweetest, safest love, and the other lets me fly, unrestrained, pure, and wild.
He shrugs out of his jacket. “I’ll take control, angel.”
His words nearly make me collapse with relief. I feel an undeniable need to yield to him and his commands.
“Stay where you are,” he orders, then walks to the chair in the corner. Sitting in it, he relaxes back and spreads his legs wide like an arrogant king. “On your hands and knees, Sophie.” I comply without thinking, and my pussy clenches so tightly when he growls. “Crawl to me.”
A humiliation kink isn’t my thing; however, the dominance in his tone and words make the little submissive hidden inside me eager and happy, so freaking happy, to follow his commands.
I’m sorry I’m clothed as I crawl across the carpet. The thought of doing this—crawling to my man, on my hands and knees, willing to do whatever is required to mend what’s been injured—completely naked, my breasts swaying, my hips rocking, my butt and pussy tilted up, makes my panties wet.
His eyes darken further as he watches me come to him, his hands clenching into fists, the tendons popping beneath his skin. When I reach him, he says, “On your knees. Sit back on your heels.”
Again, I comply immediately. Staring at the tattoo swirls above his collar, covering his neck to his chin, I lick my lips, desperate to trace the patterns and taste him.
“Undo my shirt.”
I lift onto my knees to pull his shirt free from the waist of his suit pants, then reach for his buttons. One by one, I undo them to reveal the perfection of his body beneath. Once his shirt is undone, I reach for his cufflinks, noting the stone’s color—deep amber with swirls of dark, rich tones of bronze and copper.
“Take my shirt off me,” he orders darkly.
I place my hands on his chest, relishing the feel of his hard, hot flesh, then push the shirt back and slide it off each chiseled arm. He relaxes back into the chair, and I place his shirt on the floor and return to sitting on my heels.
I’m wetter than before, and every shift and movement makes my nipples rub against the lace of my bra.
“Now, my pants.”
I lick my lips again, my hands reaching for his belt, deftly undoing it, before I turn my attention to his button and zipper. My breathing is ragged as I pull down his zipper and see the wet spot of pre-cum on his boxer briefs. He lifts his hips, and I pull both his underwear and pants down over his hips, his impressive erection springing free. I’ve dreamed and fantasized obsessively about this tattooed dick the past four months.
I stare at it, momentarily stunned at seeing it in the flesh again, my fingers curling into the material of his pants still on his thighs. He settles back into the chair, and I take in the beauty of his artfully decorated hard cock. Then my breath catches, and my eyes fly to his face.
“You tattooed the head,” I whisper, my eyes falling back to the broad head of his cock. Angel wings hug it and the furled feathers of the edges have my name.
“I told you this cock would only ever belong to you, angel.”
And he marked it with my name. I want to run my tongue over the bulbous head, trace the new mark—my mark—then swallow him whole. I want to lick that bead of pre-cum away. Drag my tongue into the deep groove of his head and up along the thick vein on the underside.
He catches my chin and lifts my head. His eyes are dark and his nostrils flare. “Finish removing my pants.”
My core clenches at his domineering tone, and I obey without question.
First, I slide his shoes off, then I drag his pants with his briefs down his legs and add them to his shirt on the floor. He’s fully naked, and I’m full of anticipation of what he’ll command me to do next.
This is the reverse of the kink I discovered I loved—with me being completely naked and him taking me while he’s fully clothed—and I’m just as turned on. With this naked devil who looks like a god before me. I may be on my knees, but somehow, I feel like I’m the most powerful being on the planet.
He tips my head back again and pins me in place with his intense gaze. “Do you deserve my cock, Sophie? My cum?”
“Yes,” I say without hesitation. “You told me it’s mine.”
He chuckles, a sound of sin and darkness. “Tell me.”
“Your cock is mine. Your cum is mine. Mine. Only mine.”
His thumb strokes my cheek and jaw. “Suck me in. Swallow me right down the back of your throat like my good girl.” When he stops me from doing as he ordered me to, a soft noise of need escapes me. “I won’t last long this round. My balls are already sucked tight to me. I’m going to fuck your mouth and your throat. Shoot my cum into your mouth, and you’re going to suck me like you’re trying to drain my balls. But you are not allowed to touch yourself—not your pussy, clit, or tits.”
A burning ache is almost driving me mad, and I nod, whispering lustily, “Yes, sir.”
I love how his nostrils flare every single time I use that phrase. I moan in relief and desire when he tangles his hands in my hair, fisting it, then directs my head and mouth down onto him. I suck him in as he instructed, then swallow him right down the back of my throat with no gag reflex trying to force him out.
“Fuck,” he groans, his hips bucking. “Good girl. My fucking. Good. Girl.”
He uses my hair to lift and drop my head, pulling shallower every few strokes to let me draw in air. The thick fullness of him in my mouth, sliding in and out of my throat, makes me moan wantonly. Pleasure fills me for taking him so well, and at how he reacts to me and how he’s losing control so quickly.
That I can affect him this way—a man powerful not just in body, but in the position and success he’s carved out for himself. A titan who broke the mold of his family’s expectations. He is his own man—fierce in his love and unwavering in his loyalty.
And he’s mine. Mine to love, to please, and to worship.
More pleasure surges through me. Even though I desperately want to touch myself, I focus on giving him pleasure and submitting completely to the dark need emanating from him.
Pain flares on my scalp as Creed pulls my head back and my mouth off him. Pleasure chases the pain, making me moan. He looks at me, his beautiful blue irises so dark compared to the usual light icy-blue.
“You’re touching yourself,” he snarls.
My fingers dig into his thighs, and I shake my head in denial.
“You think I don’t see you rubbing your thighs together, using the friction and touch of your panties and jeans to give you the satisfaction you seek?”
“I didn’t realize,” I gasp.
He continues to control my head by fisting my hair, holding me away from his cock. Using his other hand, he roughly runs it up and down his iron-hard length.
He’s taking his cock away from me, taking his pleasure from me.
A bead of pre-cum oozes out, and before he can smear it away with his thumb, I beg with a whisper, “Please.”
He stops stroking his length, stops taking that away from me, and pushes his tip to my lips and paint them with the bead of cum. “Take me in, angel,” he rasps.
I waste no time to suck him back into my mouth.
The taste of him… The feel of him sliding deep into my mouth… It fills me with contentment, especially as he cups my head, guiding me to take him deeper down my throat, and he groans long and low.
I love the sounds of his pleasure. The sounds of pleasure that I’m giving him.
I want to feel him unravel beneath my touch, to feel him thicken in my mouth and pulse his creamy cum down my throat. I want to glide over him, milking his orgasm and doing my best to drain his balls of cum.
I get my wish as his breathing turns haggard. His hips thrust, his hands tangle in my hair. He groans when I dig my nails into his thigh, which carries me higher in drunken bliss. When he comes, groaning my name, if there was even the slightest touch on my clit or nipples, I would fall over the edge and climax along with him.
I know from experience that he can re-harden quickly, so I continue to worship his cock. When he pulls me off, I smile like a cat who has gotten the forbidden cream because he’s on his way to full mast again.
“On your feet, angel,” he commands in a deep, husky voice.
The power of my need and want for him makes me shake as I rise.
He stands, pulling his belt from his discarded pants on the floor. “Hands out, wrists together.” He loops his belt around them when I listen immediately. Then he pulls me toward the bed, and I admire the bunch and flex of his muscular back, ass, and thighs. I follow him as he steps onto the raised platform of the bed, and he turns me to press my back to one of the posts. “Arms over your head.”
My wrists are bound with his belt and the thought of him restraining them above my head makes my core clenches, and I feel a release of wetness. If my panties weren’t soaked before, they certainly are now.
He secures the belt high on the bedpost, then steps back to admire. His cock juts toward me like it’s seeking its home in me. I know he’s punishing me, making me wait for my release, but this is the best punishment because delaying or denying me orgasms brings the most intense kinds.
He leans low, breathing deeply. “I can smell you, angel.”
His words don’t shame or embarrass me; they turn me on more, and make me squirm in need.
He steps back from me, and panic rises within me. Not because I think he’ll leave me tied up, but because I need him. I’m drunk on him; I’m an addict for him. He can’t take that away; I’ll surely lose my mind.
He is naked, and I am fully clothed. But I need that changed. Stat.
“Are your panties wet?”
“Soaked,” I say shamelessly.
He steps back from me, licking his lips. “Your nipples are visible from here, angel. If I rubbed, flicked, pinched, and twisted them, would you come?”
“Yes.” I know I would because I’m on the verge of detonation just standing here.
“Well, we can’t have that, now, can we?”
A curse rises to my lips, but a keening noise escapes me instead as I pant. He smiles, a devil’s smile.
“We can’t have you coming too soon. You still have a punishment to endure.”
And call me twisted, but I’m looking forward to that as much as the reward at the end.
