Indebted to the Mafia King
Peacetime

Eleni

Two hours later, bags fill the back of my car, my deep blue manicure is just dry enough that I'm able to drive myself home, and my hair feels so light that I keep shaking my head back and forth just to feel the curls bounce. Gianna's hairdresser only took off a few inches, enough that it hits my shoulders instead of my mid back, but he added layers that "frame my face," whatever that means, and I feel like a million bucks. I pull into the driveway wearing the first outfit Gianna picked out for me with just a few minutes before dinner at seven.

I race inside and start hunting for Dante. Not in the kitchen. Not in his office. Eventually, the sounds of TV lure me to the living room, where he sits sprawled on the couch, looking bored. "Hi," I say.

He glances up, then sits fully upright. "Holy shit."

I flush. "Do you like it?"

"Like it?" He leans over the back of the couch. "I think I've had wet dreams about it already."

I laugh. "What did you do while I was gone?"

He groans. "Nothing."

"Nothing?"

He nods glumly, looking suddenly sulky. "This is the side of the mafia you haven't seen yet. Peacetime."

I drop onto the couch next to him. "What's so bad about that?"

"It's boring." He drops his head into my lap.

I card my fingers through his hair. "Well, you weren't always the boss. What did you used to do when there wasn't something to kill or raid?"

"Nothing." He rolls his eyes.

I nudge him. After a moment, he looks up at me.

"I guess that's not quite right," he says. "I used to sit around Piacere and dream about...this. Having someone to do nothing with."

Something in my chest aches. I smile. "That's very sweet."

He chuckles a little self-consciously. "If you want something less sweet, I forgot to arrange anything for dinner."

"How did you keep this place afloat without me?" I tease.

"I didn't." He pulls the camisole aside and presses a kiss to my stomach.

The sensation flutters up through me, and I laugh. "That tickles."

He grins and does it again. I squirm and try to push him off, giggling helplessly, but he holds on. His mouth is hot against my skin, teasing and torturous. "Stop it!" I laugh.

Dante looks up at me, fire in his dark eyes. "Color?"

My core instantly lights. "Green."

He returns his mouth to my stomach, and the tickling begins anew. I wriggle and shove. The sensation starts to become overwhelming, a new kind of torture that doesn't involve any pain. He lifts my camisole higher, exposes my bra, finds every spot that wrings helpless giggles from my lips. His arms cage me in place, inexorable. He kisses back down my chest, teases the hem of my pants. "Dante," I pant. "Please."

"You can beg better than that, pet," he murmurs.

Hot need floods me. But not the submissive need to please him. The brass-knuckle need to remind him my obedience is something he earns. I wait, time my move. When he's torturing my ribs, as much as it tickles, his hold loosens. That's my chance.

He returns to the spot once more, and I buck, breaking his hold. I leap up from the couch. He stares at me, hungry and feral. "Make me," I say.

And then I take off. I sprint through the house with no real destination in mind. Dante's footsteps pound behind me, a promise and a threat. I shiver and wheel around to head upstairs, where the staff tends to go less. Dante's socks slip more than my bare feet, so I gain a second. Once I reach the top landing, a wild impulse overtakes me. I shed my blazer and leave it on the banister. My camisole, I dangle off a doorknob. Dante's door yawns before me, wide open. I drop my bra on the floor as I dodge inside and shut the door.

In the last split second before it opens, I shimmy out of the leather pants and my underwear.

The door bursts open, and Dante flings himself inside, already stripped down to nothing more than his boxers, his cock visibly erect. My heart hammers. He tackles me onto the bed, and we land hard.

"You brat." He backhands me and claims my mouth in a bruising kiss.

I laugh up into him, breathless and free. Whatever punishment he doles out, I've rightly earned, and I'll take it with a smile on my face.

He runs his hands over my ribs, and I shudder with the ghost of his earlier tickling. This time, he's not nearly as gentle. His touch is possessive, sharp. He plucks my nipples, gropes my breasts, all without abandoning my mouth. His teeth split the thin skin of my lips, and coppery blood joins his taste in my mouth. I grin.

"You like this, don't you," he growls. "You act out because you want to be used."

I nod until he pulls back and grabs my jaw.

"If you want to be used, squeeze your tits together."

I obey. He pulls off his boxers, then climbs on top of me and slides his cock between my breasts. The sensation is strange, just to the left of the pleasure I'm looking for, and I toy with my nipples as he fucks me.

"I thought you wanted to be used." He knocks my hands away.

I grin and pluck my nipple again, hissing at the pleasure-pain.

"Disobedient slut." He slaps me again.

The pain sparkles through me, bright and brilliant, and I laugh. That word can't touch me. Nothing can.

"I'm not going to be able to punish you today, am I?" he says.

I shake my head.

"Then there's no reason to deny myself your pretty little pussy." He pulls out of my chest and leans over to the nightstand.

I release my breasts.

He clicks his tongue. "Did I tell you to stop? I deserve the view at least."

I can give him a view. As he slides on a condom with his back to me, I gather my breasts in one arm, displaying them, and spread my lower lips with the other hand. Wetness drips over my fingers, and I pray he's feeling better enough for more than one round. Fuck dinner, I want to eat Dante alive.

He turns back and grins. "Hold that, then, you little slut."

I grin at the challenge, and he slams his cock into me without another word. The sudden stretch burns just a little, and I laugh. His hips press my hand against my clit, increasing the pleasure. I play with my nipples as much as I can. "Fuck, you're hot." He scrabbles toward the nightstand for a second, then pulls out an old-fashioned Polaroid camera. "I picked this up after your little reaction last time. Thought you might want to see yourself from my perspective."

As he rams into me, the flash goes off. A photo shoots from the front of the camera and rains down onto me. I don't grab it. I won't lose that easily. I keep myself open as Dante takes picture after picture of me, splayed out on our bed without a care in the world. He never loses rhythm, slamming my hand into my clit. My orgasm arrives between snaps of the lens, in strobing technicolor, every second captured until Dante follows me over the edge.

I don't even let him pull out before I'm kissing him again. We're nowhere near done.