Alessandra Torre - Masked Innocence

He cradled his head in his hands, then looked at me. “All you need to know is that Broward was helping one family gain power. It was supposed to be done discreetly, without alerting those who the power was being taken from. Something went wrong, and the situation was discovered too early. Broward was collateral damage, killed to erase all evidence of their involvement. He was a weak link, someone who would have yielded easily to persuasive questioning.”

Persuasive questioning. Torture. “So now I’m the weak link,” I said softly.

He nodded, his face grim, handsome features almost pained in their seriousness.

“And you are involved...how?”

He ran a hand through his thick hair, and the traces of gray in it picked up the light. “I have a lot of...connections to local organized crime families. I was originally approached for a family takeover a couple of years ago. I was not interested, wanted no part of it—plus, corporate structures are not my area of expertise. When I refused, they looked elsewhere.”

Genovese. “Broward.”

“Yes. I’ve heard about a few other clients of this variety he has taken on. I approached him, several times, telling him to refuse the business, to get out of this situation, but he has always shut me down. Whether it’s because of our history, or his own ego, I don’t know.” He blew out a burst of air and looked at me, frustrated. “From the sound of the conversation you overheard, I wouldn’t be surprised if it was me he was speaking to. We just argued last week about it.”

I nodded, absorbing the new information. “Will they know I’m here?”

“They’d be idiots not to, and they are not idiots. Dangerous, impulsive, but not stupid. By now they know everything about you, and that is the biggest problem we have.”

“Will they use you to find me?”

He laughed wryly. “Not in the manner you might think. But, Julia, you are looking at this the wrong way. There is no way to hide. If they don’t already, they will soon have your Social Security number, your car registration and know when your next period is due. There is no point in hiding. There is only one thing to do.”

“What?” Hope had entered my voice, a small glimmer, and I was afraid of giving it too much credence.

“It’s something I have to do on my end. It’s better if I don’t tell you any more.” He rose, taking his empty glass to the sink. I ground my teeth in frustration and rose, following him and grabbing his arm.

“And what, I’m just supposed to be a sitting duck while you ‘try’ something out without clueing me in on it?”

He growled, grabbing my wrists hard and pinning them together behind my back. His face, inches from mine, was tortured. He stared in my eyes, reading them, then lowered his mouth to mine, hesitantly at first, then harder and deeper, his hands releasing my wrists and sliding down my waist to my ass, which he gripped tightly, a hand on each cheek, squeezing and kneading the muscles there. I felt his emotions through his mouth, his kiss possessive, protective. I wrapped my arms around his neck and he lifted with his hands, picking me up easily. Our kisses frantic, I wrapped my legs tightly around his waist, my hands in his hair, and he carried me to the table and laid me down, leaning over me. His mouth left mine, me gasping, my hands reaching for him, but he held me down and trailed his lips down my body, pulling up my tank top and exposing my breasts and pink nipples.

Hot breath hit my skin as his soft lips traveled, down my neck to my breasts, him planting small kisses along the way. He took his time on my nipples, being impossibly gentle with them, and I arched my back, pushing into his pelvis and lifting my breasts deeper into his open mouth. A small cry left my lips as he grabbed my tits, pressing them together and sucking them into his mouth.

“Please,” I whispered, frantically reaching down, grabbing his jeans, trying to unbutton them, my hands grabbing and pulling anything and everything, the overwhelming need to have him inside me ruling out any logical thoughts in my head. “I need you.”

“I don’t have—”

I cut him off, moaning the words of my beg. “I don’t care. Now. Please. I need you to fuck all of this insanity away.”

He lifted his head from my breasts and yanked open his fly, bunching my skirt around my waist and moving aside the cloth of his underwear. His cock popped out, hard and ready, a drop of precome glistening on its tip. I practically swooned, and before I could move, he was pressing the tip of it on my wetness, past my panties and shoving the thick girth all the way in.

I gasped, entering some unworldly plane of delirium. The release of having him bare inside me, of having his strong, massive body over me, my legs spread and back flat on his kitchen table, was mind-blowing. He moved inside me, his mouth at my ear, hot breath on my neck. My hands pulled at his T-shirt, pulling the cloth over his head, exploring the tight muscles on his back, my body craving more, more, more of him. He moaned in my ear, fucking me faster, our skin slapping together, filling me completely, then leaving me wanting. Fill, want, fill, want. Words came out, jagged in my ear.

“God, I need you, Julia, so fucking bad.”

It wasn’t enough for forever, but it was enough for right now, and I held him tight and squeezed my muscles around his cock, him moaning in immediate response. At that moment, in his arms, I didn’t think about the danger, or my job, or any of the shit that was falling down around us. He gave me what I needed, and I took what I wanted. I came, dissolving in his arms, screaming aloud, releasing my fear and frustration in a wave of exquisite pleasure. The orgasm was strong and beautiful, and I went limp when it ended. He slowed his strokes, breathing hard and kissing my face, lips and neck.

“I love fucking you,” he whispered, still moving inside me, slow and delicious, burying himself with every stroke. His words awakened my spent muscles and I moved, pushing against the table with my feet and rolling him over, straddling him for the first time, and gasping at the feel of him from this angle, his whole cock inside me. I rode him, pumping up and down, his hands traveling over my torso, his face strong and possessive beneath me. I leaned forward, my hair brushing his face, and buried myself deep on his cock, grinding my clit against his pubic bone, moaning at the pleasure it brought me. He took over, wrapping his arms around me and fucking me from below, fast and hard, our bodies slapping, slick and furious. The orgasm came, jarring me, taking my breath, an explosion of my world, and I screamed his name as his cock carried me through it. The last waves were still subsiding when he jerked out of me, his voice terse and quick.

“Suck it.”

I moved off him, as quickly as I could in my final stages of euphoria. Burying my fingers inside me, I moved them in and out while I took him in my mouth—gagging on his width, and sucking hard and fast, my free hand resting on the rough fabric of his jeans, still on.

He came, filling my throat, his hand on my head with gentle pressure, his voice calling my name over and over until he was limp and drained. I rolled over, spent, next to him on the hard table, my skirt bunched and twisted around my body, my panties discarded somewhere on the floor.

I laid there for a solid minute, then rolled on my side, resting my head in the crook of Brad’s arm, tracing a line on his abs. He spoke, his hair muffled in my hair.

“That was incredible.” He kissed my head, then laid his head back on the table.

“Yeah. But it doesn’t help my current predicament.” I sighed, tucking my hand into his jeans, into the hardness and warmth there.

“It’s going to be okay, Julia.” His words were reassuring, his tone terrifying. It spoke of desperation and fight—as if he would somehow force the fate of my future. This shouldn’t be his fight, but I was powerless in it, an easy pawn that could be swiped off the game board without consequence. I said nothing, rolling over and hugging his hard body, wanting the strength it provided.

I needed a distraction, and Brad needed twenty-four hours to take care of whatever his cockeyed plan was. We argued, a discussion bordering on a serious fight, about his refusal to share his plan with me. It was an argument I lost, his face stern and unyielding. I was almost grateful. I didn’t know how much more information I could take. To be safe, we decided that I should stay in the house, out of sight. A ridiculous plan, but I didn’t have a better one. I called Becca, asking her to come by and hang out, promising mimosas if she would come and keep me company. I would have asked Olivia, but she would have sniffed out trouble before she even walked in the front door. Becca was a lot less observant.

She arrived thirty minutes later, her silver Mercedes convertible pumping out music loud enough to cause the closest blueblood to have a heart attack. Becca doesn’t leave the house unless she is perfectly coiffed, so I wasn’t surprised to see her trot up the front steps wearing designer jeans, four-inch heels and a sequined gold top. Martha answered the door with a grunt, and I stepped out of the kitchen and waved Becca in.

Seeing me, she squealed and jogged over for a hug, passing right by Martha’s death stare of a welcome.

“Look at you, you sexy thing!” she said, giving my just-had-sex-in outfit a once-over. Evading her judgment, I grabbed her hand and pulled her through the house. Martha called to me as I was rounding the bend of the hall.

“Don’t think I’m going to be waiting on you two!”