Stolen Touches: Chapter 20


“This is hilarious,” Pippa says, looking back over her shoulder at Stefano and Vincenzo, who are trailing a few paces behind us. Two more bodyguards are following a little further back.
“Yeah, tell me about it,” I sigh and turn to enter the next boutique.
“I feel like there should be a camera crew following us, as well.” She giggles. “Why would anyone need four bodyguards? You said your husband was a businessman, not the president.”
“He is a bit extreme.” I approach the dress rack and fish the phone out of my purse to call Salvatore.
“About the dress for Rocco’s wedding. How about gray?” I ask, looking at a long and flowing gown. “Or should I go with something more colorful?”
“You can wear whatever you want, as long as it covers your ass.
“Well, thank you, sugar pie, that was really helpful.” I snort and cut the line.
“You’re really into him,” Pippa comments, looking past me at the dress. “What was that, the third time you’ve called him since we started shopping?”
Actually, it was the fourth. I called him while she was in a restroom, as well.
It’s been two weeks since Salvatore asked me to call him whenever we’re not together. In the beginning, I wasn’t exactly punctual. He never commented on it or reprimanded me for being late with my “check-ins.” I think he was feeling bad for asking me to do it in the first place, but, every time I was late calling, I noticed a slight strain in his voice, as if he was on edge. After that, I decided to be more diligent with my communications.
“Yup.” I nod. “I really am.”
It’s the truth. Weird or not, I enjoy spending time with Salvatore. I don’t even mind his quirks. If there wasn’t his continued insistence that I do not work, I wouldn’t harbor any lingering resentment to the marriage, arranged or not.
“Shit,” I say as I’m taking the dress to the cash register. I think I’m falling for my husband.
After a quick coffee at the mall, we drop Pippa off at her place and head home. The car enters the garage, and while I’m taking my phone out to call Salvatore and tell him I’m back, the elevator doors open, and he steps out. As I’m reaching across the back seat to collect the shopping bags that are piled next to me, the door opens, and Salvatore slides in beside me.
“Out!” he barks at the driver and Stefano in the front seat.
As soon as they exit the car, he grabs me around the waist, pulls me onto his lap, and puts his nose in my hair. I try to turn my head, but he just tightens his grip around my middle, pressing me to his body.
“Four hours, Milene,” he whispers into my ear.
“I called you every hour.”
“I know.” He presses his face to my neck and inhales. “Do you think I’m crazy?”
“A little?” I snort, wrapping my arms around his neck and pressing my lips to his.
“Is that a problem?”
“Not really.” I shrug and kiss him. It should concern me. The thing is—I don’t mind Salvatore’s OCD behavior or his need to know where I am. I don’t mind calling him, either, even more than every hour if that’s what it takes to quell his anxiety. In fact, I kind of . . . like it. “You know, something came to my mind when Pippa and I passed a flower shop earlier.”
“What?” he asks as he nips at the side of my jaw.
“You were the second creep. The one who sent me a ton of flowers.”
I lean away and pin him with my gaze. “A hundred vases?”
“Ninety-six. That’s all they had.”
“One would have been more than enough.”
Salvatore watches me for a moment, then bends forward and touches his nose to mine. “It’s all or nothing with me, Milene. You should have figured that out by now.”
Yeah. I guess it is.
* * *
I comb my fingers through Salvatore’s hair, watching him from my spot astride his waist as he reaches to pick up his bottle of beer from the floor. It still surprises me, seeing him so relaxed.
We’ve been lounging on the sofa in the living room for almost an hour—him watching the game and me sprawled across his chest, texting Bianca. She stopped replying to my messages about ten minutes ago, meaning Mikhail probably came home. God knows, those two can’t keep their hands off each other.
“I can’t believe you like beer,” I say.
“I don’t know. You always seemed more like the fine-wine type to me.” I trace the line of his jaw with the back of one finger. “It’s the suits.”
“I have nothing against wine. But it goes better with cheese than it does with football.” He tilts his head and kisses my finger. “What did your sister say? Any news from home?”
“The same. I’m still waiting for her to reply to the last text.”
Salvatore lifts his hand and traces his thumb over my bottom lip. “Ask her to pass on a message to Petrov for me.”
“To the Russian pakhan?”
“Yes. He should know that the Albanians have started to do business with the Irish.”
I type a quick text and send it to Bianca. “Anything else?”
“Nope.” He takes the phone from my hand, places it on the coffee table, and removes the throw pillows from the sofa, throwing them on the floor.
“Did the poor pillows do something to offend you?”
“Yes.” He throws the last one over the back. “They take up too much space.
“Maybe we should shop for a larger couch.” I bend my head and plant a kiss on the side of his jaw.
“Couldn’t agree more.”
His arm comes around my waist, and he pulls me down so I’m lying on my side, pressed between his body and the back of the sofa. I reach for the waistband of my leggings and take them off, before removing Salvatore’s sweatpants and boxer briefs. I do the same with my panties, tossing them next to Salvatore’s clothes on the floor.
He takes my hand, lifts my fingers to his lips, gently kisses each one in turn, then proceeds to move his lips across my wrist and along my arm, sending tremors throughout my body. He does all of this very slowly, holding his lips over the spot for a few seconds before moving on, as though every kiss is meant as a statement. It’s captivating, the way he caresses my skin, because Salvatore has never seemed like a patient lover. The attraction between us has always been an explosive force, both hard and intense.
“You have no idea what you do to me, Milene,” he whispers when he reaches my shoulder, and I tremble. “No fucking idea.”
His lips meet mine, and I wrap my arms around his neck, squeezing him to me with all my strength. I don’t think he realizes how much he’s messed up my own mind. It’s scary. I don’t even know what I feel anymore. Am I in love with him? With this controlling, grouchy, closed-off man? Someone I haven’t even seen smile once in all the time I’ve known him? I’m afraid I am.
My hands travel down his neck and over his shoulders to rest on his chiseled chest, and, without breaking the kiss, I throw my leg over his waist and move so I’m seated on top of him.
“I want to make love to you,” I say into his lips and feel him go still under me. “Will you let me?”
When I open my eyes, his steady gaze is fixated on me. “Yes.”
I smile and brush my fingers over his lips. Ilaria was right. He doesn’t deal well with feelings. It’s as though he’s unable to grasp the meanings of the various emotions and has trouble processing them. I move down his body until his cock is pressing against the wetness of my sex. Inch by inch, I take him inside me, reveling in the way he gradually fills me up. It’s large, his cock. Having all of him inside me feels as though my walls are going to burst. I love that.
When he’s fully in, I bend to place my lips at the center of his chest and move up to trail kisses along his neck until I reach his strong jaw. I’m rotating my hips methodically and continuously, but as delicately and as slowly as I can, just to keep him on the edge. When my mouth reaches his, I lift my hips up until only the tip of his cock remains inside. Salvatore regards me, his eyes glued to mine and his hands gripping my hips, but he doesn’t move. I smile, then slam down onto his cock and simultaneously bite his lip. He inhales sharply and places his left palm lightly against my cheek while his other hand wanders to where our bodies are joined.
“I’ve been wondering, cara,” he says and presses his thumb to my clit, making me moan.
“What?” I lean back and continue rotating my hips.
His fingers pinch my clit lightly, and I shudder but resist the need to move faster. Instead, I maintain the slow tempo, enjoying the way his hazy, lust-soaked eyes fixate on mine.
Salvatore’s hands move to my ass, and he squeezes, making me whimper. In the next heartbeat, he slams into me from below so hard I gasp.
“You’ve never been scared of me,” he says. “Why?”
I smile, as he continues to rock into me, his tempo building.
“Answer me, Milene.”
“I was too mad at you to be scared!”
“That”—he thrusts his cock into me again with such force I explode in an instant like fireworks and thunder—“is the most idiotic answer I’ve ever heard.”


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