Edible: The Sex Tape (4 page)

“
O
h
, Marco, don’t stop.”

His blue eyes are fixed on mine as he grinds into me, penetrating me deeper with each thrust. He’s smiling at me. Oh, how I love that smile. I close my eyes and imagine the first time I saw that smile. Sitting in a booth in the corner of the shop. My father’s arm around his shoulders, congratulating him.

“I’ve missed you, Marco.”

I slide my hand behind his neck and pull his mouth against mine. It feels just like our first kiss, only better. We’re older now. Wiser. I work for the department and Marco, he….

What does Marco do for a living?

“I love you, Marco. Tell me you love me.”

He smiles as he kisses the corner of my mouth, but he doesn’t say anything. I rake my fingers over his back and he doesn’t make a sound. Not a hiss of air through his teeth or a soft moan. Nothing.

“Marco, please.”

His cock is so thick, stretching me as he lifts my leg and pierces me slowly. I wrap my other leg around his hip, beckoning him further inside. Gasping, I throw my head back and he kisses the hollow of my throat. Ecstasy. This is pure, ethereal ecstasy. Dream-like. He slides his hand between us to caress my clit and my body quakes beneath him.

“I’m going to come, Marco. I’m coming! I’m coming!”

A soft chuckle wakes me and I find August next to me. The room is dark and I’m holding his hand prisoner between my thighs. A searing heat creeps up my cheeks as I realize I was dreaming about Marco again.

“Did you come?” August says, and I can hear the smug grin in his voice.

I push his hand back then turn around to face away from him. “Sorry.”

He slides his arm around my waist and presses his chest against my back. “Goodnight, Becky.”

“
W
hen was
the last time you two went on a date?” Lita asks as we cross Vanderbilt.

A jerk in a silver hatchback blares his horn at us. Aren’t hatchback drivers supposed to be stereotypically nice?

Lita and I pause on the corner of 42nd and Vanderbilt, Grand Central Terminal. I make a move to hug her goodbye and she laughs.

“Nuh-uh. Answer my question, Becky. When was the last time you and August went on a date?”

Her light-brown hair is a bit frizzy and her top lip is sweating from the sticky night air. She still manages to look gorgeous, like she just stepped off a photo shoot at an exotic location. Like she’s been spritzed and primped to look exactly this way. Lita hates when people tell her she looks like a model. She actually thinks it’s an insult. She desperately wants to be taken seriously. She gets this from working on Wall Street where her model stature and smooth voice must command notice.

“We’re not dating. We’re in a relationship. Date nights are for married couples trying to revive their relationship. There’s nothing wrong with August and me. We’re solid.”

“Solid as the wall between you. When was the last time you went to his apartment?”

I want to launch into my usual spiel, but I’m actually afraid of how many times I’ve said the words aloud.

August and I have a comfortable relationship. We don’t need to cling to each other every second of every day to feel secure. August loves me. I know that because he remembers my birthday and my favorite ice cream flavor. He knows how many kids I want (two, he wants four). And the biggest plus of all: he’s not afraid to talk about marriage. He loves that I want a big wedding. And as soon as his blog is established enough that he can take more time off, we’re getting married.

This is the part where you begin wondering if I’m actually this naïve. I’m not. I’m far from naïve. I may be a midtown girl now, but I was born and raised in Bensonhurst.

Born and raised in Bensonhurst.
Whenever someone hears this phrase, they automatically assume I must be related to a crime family. Some people are brazen enough to come right out and ask me – in a joking manner, as if that makes the question less inappropriate. I just chuckle and say something like, “Wouldn’t that be cool if I was?” That’s what people want to hear.

People don’t want to know the truth. They don’t want to know that I left my entire family behind at the age of eighteen, except for the occasional phone call to my mother. They don’t want to know that I chose a job in law enforcement with the hopes of sending my family a message. That message: I want nothing more to do with them. They especially don’t want to know the things I’ve seen. Because people who idolize the mafia actually think that being the daughter of a crime boss is glamorous.

They imagine me in my fur coat, diamond encrusted fingernails. Maybe I’m dangling a designer handbag from my arm, stuffed with an adorable teacup Chihuahua. They imagine men who aren’t afraid to get their hands bloody, coming home and using those same hands to rip off my lacy panties and claim me. They imagine a sexy, sinful cocktail of glamor spiked with a large dose of unyielding power.

For the most part, they’re right. But they still haven’t seen what I’ve seen. And what I saw in my living room, at the tender age of thirteen, was my father strangling a man I had come to know as Uncle Frank. A crime for which he was never punished, despite the many times my father has been in and out of jail for pettier crimes. The truth is that I barely know my father. I hope that never changes.

I look into Lita’s wide gray eyes and I lie. “I was at August’s apartment last week.” I clap her arm awkwardly. She shakes her head so I lean in to hug her goodbye. “Enjoy your trip to Poughkeepsie. I’m sure your mom will have plenty of potato salad and honey-glazed ham to fatten you up.”

“Don’t rub it in.”

She releases me and her fingers glance over my forearm as she walks away. As I watch her set off toward Grand Central Terminal, all I can think is that I
am
naive. I am
so
naive. I haven’t been to August’s apartment in four months.

I spin around to face the street and flag down the first cab. I’m going to August’s apartment. I’m going to demand to know what is wrong with us. I’m twenty-three years old with a gorgeous twenty-five-year-old boyfriend who never takes me to his apartment. I know what he’s going to say. He’s going to say it’s because I prefer midtown to the lower east side. Avoiding his apartment is just his way of trying to be agreeable. I’m not falling for that.

I throw my arm out angrily, determined to hail a cab and fly to August’s apartment on a wind of fury. But the first car that stops for me is not a taxi. It’s a shiny black SUV. And before I can step aside to try to hail a real cab, a man appears at my side, his fingers discreetly curling around my wrist.

“Your car is here.” His dark eyes are locked on mine, never blinking, not even as the SUV door is flung open. “Your father needs to speak to you.”

That’s all he has to say.

C
lick here to purchase
Knox
: Volume 1
.

Click here to purchase
Knox: Complete Series
.

E
ROTIC ROMANCE

KNOX Series

LUKE Series

CHASE Series

UNMASKED Series

C
ONTEMPORARY ROMANCE

Forever Ours
(Shattered Hearts #1)

Relentless
(Shattered Hearts #2)

Pieces of You
(Shattered Hearts #3)

Bring Me Home
(Shattered Hearts #4)

Abandon
(Shattered Hearts #5)

Chasing Abby
(Shattered Hearts #6)

Black Box
(stand-alone novel)

P
ARANORMAL ROMANCE

Parallel Spirits
(Carrier Spirits #1)

N
ew York Times
and
USA Today
bestselling author Cassia Leo loves her coffee, chocolate, and margaritas with salt. When she’s not writing, she spends way too much time watching old reruns of
Friends
and
Sex and the City
. When she’s not watching reruns, she’s usually enjoying the California sunshine or reading – sometimes both.

E
DIBLE
: THE SEX TAPE

by Cassia Leo

http://cassialeo.com

F
irst Edition
. Copyright © 2014 by Cassia Leo.

All rights reserved.

Cover art by Cassia Leo.

T
his book
, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without expressed written permission from the author; exceptions are made for brief excerpts used in published reviews.

A
ll characters
and events appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real events or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.