Relentless: A Bad Boy Romance (Bertoli Crime Family #1) (22 page)

He lifted my panties out of the way, and before I could take a breath, his tongue darted in between my pussy lips, quick and rapier-like, stabbing me open and thrilling me. His nimble tongue snaked deep inside, licking my inner folds and setting my nerves on fire with pleasure. I was vulnerable, with his hands pressing my thighs into the table and his weight behind me, but I didn't want to move. I was secure and safe with him, protected.

The aroma of my arousal came to my nose, and I trembled, feeling my orgasm building inside me. I pushed back, burying my ass into his face as he licked and tasted me, desperate for more. “Dan . . . oh Dan . . . fuck me baby. Make me come.”

I couldn't make out his mumbled reply, but he brought his right hand between my legs, gathering some of my moisture before finding the hard nub of my clit and rubbing it in a feather-light stroke. My eyes flew open, and it felt so good I felt like my heart would explode. My fingers clawed at the table as I trembled on the edge of coming, but he kept me frozen there, caught in agonizing ecstasy, until I couldn't take it any longer. “Please . . ."

“As you wish,” I think he said, his tongue leaving my pussy to quickly stroke against my clit, the sensation pushing me over the edge. My feet curled up off the ground and my body convulsed, thick, guttural moans ripping from my chest as I came. I can't say it was the biggest orgasm I'd ever had, because each time Daniel and I made love, each orgasm felt like the biggest, and each one was completely different. This was almost relaxing, forcing me to let go and give in to him and to our love.

I was just starting to come down to earth again when I felt him behind me, and the sound of him opening his zipper came through over the sound of Puccini that was still playing on the stereo. It had nearly filtered out of my consciousness when he was feasting on me, but now, with the head of his cock pressing against me, I was aware of everything, from the sound of the violins and horns to the weave of the tablecloth underneath me, but most of all, the blunt tip of his massive cock at my entrance. “Give yourself to me, Adriana. Show me what you want.”

I lowered my feet back down, happy for the high heels, which let my legs stretch up enough that I could push back, impaling myself on him and filling my heart with happiness. I kept pushing, not caring if I was being stretched or about the slight edge of pain that came from having him so deep inside me again after such a long time without him, just knowing that I needed that connection, that completion.

I whimpered when I felt my ass tickled by the soft tuft of trimmed hair at the base of his cock, and I wept softly in joy. “That . . . that's what I want.”

He took my waist in his hands and pulled back, pausing for a moment, only the head of his cock inside me before thrusting back in, driving me against the table with his force and passion. He had gone without sex for that time too, and he was on the edge of losing control. I had never felt sexier, knowing that it was me who was making this wonderful man overcome with lust.

Daniel pounded into me, my hips pressed into the hundred-year-old oak of the table as Puccini's music sang about love and romance and the mysteries of the world. The impact of each thrust shook the table, and I was swept away on the wave of his desire. Throwing my head back, I cried out, tears of happiness trickling down my face as he grabbed a handful of my hair and kept going, his breath huffing in and out of his chest.

He let go of my waist, and suddenly, a small crack filled the air as he smacked my ass, the heat and sting mixing with the heady explosions of pleasure inside me, driving me insensate and wild. I was overloaded, my body clenching and pulsing with wave after wave of pleasure as Daniel's cock filled me over and over.

Another orgasm built within me, and I threw my all back into him, trying to match him thrust for thrust until we were overwhelmed. I was coming, so hard I couldn't even make a noise, and my breath was locked in my chest as my entire body rushed higher and higher, until I was almost certain that I would die due to being unable to breathe. I didn't care—it felt so great, and I was almost disappointed when air flooded back into my lungs and time returned to the world.

I was drained, my legs shaky and my throat raw from crying out, even though I didn't know I had been doing it. I sagged against the table, sweat making my dress stick to me and my chest heaving in long, shuddering gasps. “Tell me it feels better the more we do this.”

“I don't know,” Daniel asked, “but we have the rest of our lives to find out. Shall we?”

“Let's.”

“
Y
ou're working for whom
?”

Daniel checked his Beretta and shrugged, making sure his suit was ready for work. “Come on, honey. Just because we don't like his music, it's not his fault. That would be like blaming Gaga for Tommy's drunken dancing at our reception. You didn't seem to get mad at her though. In fact, if I remember right, you were pretty buzzed when she went to Carlo's house for dinner with the family.”

I had to admit, going to the family manor to have dinner with a Grammy award winner was a pretty cool experience, especially coupled with the fact that she had raved about my artwork. Now, I was only six months from graduation and I already had five orders for pieces. “Still . . . Phil Collins?”

Daniel laughed and pulled his jacket on. “Sweetheart, it's for one night only. He's flying in town for the environmental awards dinner the governor is holding and flying out immediately afterward. It's an easy five grand. He's just making a speech and then glad-handing.”

I grumbled, but nodded. “Okay, okay. At least he's not singing, and you did get me a seat at the table.”

“Exactly,” Daniel said with a smile. “Just think—how many millions of dollars will be surrounding you, all, I'm sure, eager to meet the artist who is catching the attention of the entertainment set? Why, if you play this right, you might end up meeting Banksy.”

“Ha ha ha,” I replied, wincing afterward. “Ouch, kiddo, hold on there.”

Daniel came over and ran his hand over my now noticeable baby bump, his face in a sort of soft awe. “He's getting big.”

“He's going to be like his daddy, I'm sure of it,” I said, feeling the baby inside my womb shift again before settling down in a comfortable position. “Mom says she hopes he has my hair though. I think she just wants the redhead gene to get passed down another generation.”

“I was thinking maybe this one could be blond, and then our second can be a redhead. A girl, with beautiful green eyes like her mother,” Daniel said softly, wrapping his arms around me and hugging me carefully. We still made love often. The doctor had very clearly said it wouldn't hurt the baby. We just had to be more creative with how we did it.

“You are the most romantic man in the world, you know that?” I replied, kissing his nose, then his lips. Our kiss deepened, until we let go, both of us sighing, and Daniel discreetly reached down to readjust himself in his pants. It was those little things—I don't even know if he did them consciously—that helped me still feel beautiful even as my body changed.

“It's easy when I'm married to the world's most beautiful woman,” he said, his eyes open and honest. That, more than anything else, helped me. In the nearly eight months since opening Neiman Security Consultants, he'd been able to be bodyguard or consultant to some of the world's most famous. He'd guarded pop stars, media personalities, models, politicians and businessmen all over the Pacific Northwest, and still, I could see in his eyes that none of the women he met measured up to me. The one-time player and enforcer for the Bertoli Crime Family had become the most dedicated husband in the world, and I couldn't be happier. “So what are you going to do in between now and when Carlo comes around to take you to the benefit?”

I chuckled and stepped back, straightening his tie. He was in his blue suit, with a black tie and white shirt—very conservative, but very imposing. He knew with that look, his Terminator act was easy to do, and that was half the job. “Carmen's going to come over about three o'clock and help me with a bath and massage. She says she's got a new oil that's guaranteed to not give me stretch marks when our little one gets bigger. I don't know if I believe it, but it can't hurt.”

“How is school going for her, anyway?” Daniel asked, sitting down and putting on his shoes. She'd recently gone back to dance school, and was working part-time as a massage therapist in a rehabilitation clinic Uncle Carlo was invested in. “Well, I hope?”

“She's doing great, she says. And she's happy that Carlo is sponsoring her while she works part-time at the clinic. She didn't think he was being serious.”

“You know him. If he says something, he usually means it,” Daniel said, finishing his left shoe and going to his right. “Especially since the clinic lets his men do rehabilitation and other things for free. No hanky-panky though.”

“Still, I bet the boys love getting a back rub from her,” I said with a laugh. “She's got good hands. Among other things men like.”

Daniel finished his shoes and got up, coming over and kissing me again. “Well, tell her that I think she's doing an amazing job so far and wish her the best.”

“I love you.”

“I love you too. Unfortunately, gotta go.”

I nodded and kissed his nose again. “Say hello to Phil for me, and that I'm looking forward to tonight. If anything, you've got some interesting stories you can tell him about us and his music.”

Daniel laughed and walked to the door of our house. It wasn't anywhere near the size of the Bertoli estate, but it was our own. He walked out, closing the door behind him. The early fall day was brisk, but he showed no signs as he got into his brand new work Mercedes sedan and started it up. He waved, and I waved back. “I love you. Both of us," I whispered to myself.

Daniel drove off, and I watched him go before walking back to my studio in the back of the house. Carmen was due in an hour or so, and in the meantime, there was painting I wanted to do. A painting full of light. And joy. And most of all, love.

* * *

"
A
nd so
, as our country faces the challenges of a new generation, it’s still important for us to remember the values that brought us here. Hard work. Family. And most of all, our faith, both in each other and in God."

I tried not to sigh too much. I knew that it wasn't what Daddy would want. I hated this sort of political stuff, especially since I thought that the man speaking had absolutely no idea how to lead a dog pound, let alone a higher office. Still, my sigh caught Brittany's attention. She leaned over to whisper in my ear. "Abigail, come now. Try not to fidget so much."

"Brittany, nobody's paying attention to me. Everyone's paying attention to Greg," I replied, also keeping my voice low. I may not have wanted to be there, but I still was doing my best to respect Daddy's wishes. "He's the man of the hour."

"Still, people are going to look. And I've asked you before; in public, please call me Mother," Brittany said. Actually, she wasn't my real mother. Brittany Worthington-Rawlings had married my father when I was thirteen years old. After his first marriage was cut short by a traffic accident that took both my mother and my older sister's lives when I was three, Patrick Rawlings had raised me by himself for nearly eight years before marrying again—this time not so much for love, but for what could best be termed
advantage
. Tired of working so hard and still being stiffed by those in established families with society connections, Daddy married Brittany Worthington. From one of the long-established families in Atlanta, she'd fallen on hard times financially when her first husband had been convicted of insider trading and sentenced to five years in jail. She hadn't signed any sort of prenuptial, so their bank accounts and estate were considered one by the IRS and the SEC, which cleaned her and her family's hundred-year-old fortune out to the tune of tens of millions of dollars.

She hadn't exactly been living on the streets. People from Brittany's roots don't end up on the streets, but she had been forced into societal situations that she didn't want to be in, such as not going to the Master's Gold Tournament because she couldn’t afford to be even a basic patron.

For both of them, the marriage had been advantageous. At first, I'd been quietly opposed, because my daddy shouldn’t marry for anything but the most noble of intentions. I'd held my tongue, however, and I had to admit that as the years went on, they did seem to care for each other, even if there was never quite the amount of tenderness and affection I had seen in the old home videos of Daddy and Mom. Of course, both also got what they wanted, too. Daddy got access to the society connections that had eluded him for years, and Brittany got access to Daddy's bank account, free and clear of the government.

But, it never really seemed like she wanted to be the mother to a nearly teenage girl, and for that, she and I didn't really get along all that well. She never went to any of my school events, parent teacher conferences or anything of the sort. The only time my presence was really important was when she wanted me to grow into a young society woman that she could mold into the image she wanted. It was the last thing I wanted, but there wasn't much I could do about it.

Around the house, at least, we could avoid each other as we were three people living in a house that had five bedrooms along with ten acres of property. As long as we weren't in public, that suited both of us just fine. On the positive side, though, Daddy still kept a bit of his blue collar roots, and at least at home, he didn't mind if I acted like a bit of a tomboy. I could wear shorts and t-shirts and go hang out in the back yard however I wanted. On the weekends or when he had free time, Daddy and I would go riding our ATV's, go fishing at the river that ran through the back of the property, and all sorts of things that we both enjoyed.

In public, though, he let Brittany have a much freer hand in her critiques of how I acted. "Honey, I spent too many years breaking my back because too many people around these here parts still think who you know is more important than what you know. They'd let me build their houses, their office buildings, hell, even their country clubs, and they never let me inside, no matter how much money I had. These people have ways of doing things that I don't know, or perhaps I do, but I know that there's no way I could get through those ways on my own. Brittany does know, and she can get through, and I want you to learn from her. Because I’ll be damned if I'm going to let my daughter scrap and scrape the way I had to before you were born."

Regardless of the reason for his thoughts, Daddy didn't say anything as Brittany corrected me for the tenth time that night. At least I didn't have a stepbrother or stepsister to go along with the whole deal, a sibling who would know all of the rules that I didn't—or did know but didn't want to follow. There was nobody my age, at least, to give me the hairy eyeball. That would have been too much.

"Abigail, you must learn the most basic lesson. In public, you’re always being watched, and you must always be watching as well," Brittany whispered, continuing her lesson. "For example, did you notice that Henrietta DeKalb has already drunk four glasses of wine during her husband's speech?"

Henrietta DeKalb, wife of Gregory DeKalb, was one of Brittany's frequent points of observation. There seemed to be some sort of long-term animosity between the women, but I never quite understood what it was. For all I knew, it stretched back generations. That was the way things ran in this level of society. Still, for all of Brittany's pointed commentary, I didn't really care if Henrietta was sucking down Old English Malt Liquor straight from the bottle, or if she was primly sipping Darjeeling from a china cup. I just didn't want to be there.

Unfortunately for me, Daddy's desire to be accepted into the upper crust of central Georgia society meant I had to endure such events on a much more frequent basis than I'd have liked. This night, we got to listen as Greg DeKalb gave a campaign speech in front of the *ahem* fraternal club that both he and Daddy now belonged to. Daddy had been accepted only after his marriage to Brittany. Greg was running for Governor in the next election, and he was certainly hitting up his cronies at the club for funds. While I saw nothing wrong with trying to get money from his friends, the dog and pony show that was this speech and dinner just dragged on my nerves. Seriously, why not just go around the golf course while shooting a round and ask for support? At least then I wouldn't have to sit through it.

Thankfully, Greg's speech went on for just another few minutes before he wrapped it up, and the two hundred dollar per plate dinner started. I glanced at the ornate grandfather clock against the wall near where we were sitting, stifling a curse that certainly would have earned another rebuke from Brittany. Once the lights rose, I turned to Daddy, pointedly ignoring her. "Daddy, I understand that this is something you wanted to do, but would you mind if I go?"

"Go where, honey?" Daddy asked, reaching for his knife. Two hundred dollars was a lot of money for a steak dinner, and inwardly, I was thinking that for the price of just one of the three plates Daddy had paid for, he and I could have had a lot more fun doing something else. "Dinner just started, and if you go now, you'll miss dessert. It's supposed to be the famous bourbon vanilla pudding. Since you're over twenty-one now, I don't think it'd be too bad if you had some."

I looked down at my steak, which despite the price tag looked like something I could have gotten at Outback, and tried not to push it away. It's not that I have anything against a good steak. In fact, I'll eat just about any meat you put in front of me, but that night, I didn't want to even touch it. What I wanted to do was get out of that club.

Daddy's marriage to Brittany had certainly solved some problems for him, and I gave him credit. He didn't let it change who he was at the core. But there were still issues that I didn't like. First of all, it made Daddy even more desperate to be accepted in this upper class of Atlanta society, and as anyone who's been to high school in the past generation can tell you, the worst way to be accepted was to act desperate for acceptance. The society types begrudged Daddy a seat at their table, partly because of Brittany's connections but also because of his money. He'd built so many houses and owned enough housing subdivisions that he could have ignored them, but he didn't, probably because of his roots in the working class. He wanted to show them up and at the same time force them to accept him after they'd ignored him for so long.

But, the biggest problem I had with Daddy's marriage to Brittany was that it made his overprotective streak even more stifling. When Mom and my sister, Connie, had been killed, Daddy and I only had each other. For eight years, Daddy protected and cared for me, and I was the only girl in his life. I was all he needed, and he was all I needed. We took care of each other, like the times I'd make Kraft mac & cheese with cubed ham on the nights that he had to be at the job site late. He'd come home to a warm meal, and I'd already fed myself and cleaned up everything but his bowl, and if I was awake, I'd be either doing my homework or watching a bit of TV like a good girl should.

When Brittany came along, though, Daddy had gone from merely making sure I didn't get hurt, to letting Brittany set all sorts of rules about where I could go, what places were good enough for me, and worst of all, which people I could and could not see. She wanted me to carry on the society connections that she had given Daddy access to, including making sure I met up with the right kind of boys. Most of them were snobbish losers, and more than a few I felt even I could kick their asses. It was the biggest source of conflict within my family, and now that I was nearly twenty-three, I was sick of it.

"Daddy, one of the girls from my European history class invited me to an art exhibition, and I told her I’d go. I didn't know at the time about tonight. But if I leave now, I can meet up with her in time for the opening event," I said, trying not to put a hint of whine into my voice. I was a senior at Georgia Tech, for God's sake!

"I don't know, honey," Daddy said, looking at me worriedly. "Who is it?"

"The artist? I'm not really sure. I think it's someone from Germany," I said, blatantly avoiding the question since I already knew the reaction. I'd known Brittany long enough to practically read her mind on this subject.

"I think what Patrick wants to know is, which friend are we talking about?" Brittany asked. I didn't really like Brittany, but I didn't hate her either. She thought she was doing the right thing for me, even if she did treat it more as a duty than as a relationship. I could respect that, even if I didn't like it. I’d promised myself when I was younger that when or if I had a little girl, I would be more emotionally involved in her life than Brittany was in mine. "Is it Arianna?"

"No," I grumbled, not lying. I was raised better than that, and even if I was upset with Brittany or didn't like what she sometimes said, I wasn't going to lie, especially in front of Daddy.

"Who is it, Abby?" He asked, slicing through his steak. He dipped it in his little cup of sauce, chewing happily. Ever since his cardiac incident a few years prior, he'd been warned by his doctor to limit his red meat intake, and while he did his best, he relished opportunities like this to cut loose a little bit.

"Shawnie," I answered. Before Brittany could object, I started in on my defense. “She's really doing well, and her grades are good. We both graduate this year, and she's looking at going to grad school far away. So this may be one of the last chances the two of us have to do a social event together. Besides, the exhibition is near the bus stop, and I know that I can . . .”

"No," Brittany said, cutting me off. "Not with that girl. And certainly not after sunset. Do you know what sort of places girls like that go to?"

For the first time, my feelings drifted from annoyance toward anger. Brittany had never given Shawnie a chance for quite a few reasons. First of all, Shawnie was from the wrong part of the country, an out-of-state girl from the Sand Hill section of South Carolina. She'd grown up not just blue collar, but no collar at all, raised by her grandmother in Section Eight housing after her mother had abandoned her and her father went to jail. Second of all, Shawnie was independent, and fiercely so. She'd earned a full ride scholarship to Georgia Tech and was majoring in aeronautical engineering. It was only because she still had to take some core classes that we'd met at all, first by chance in a freshman English class, where we'd clicked despite the differences in our backgrounds, and then this year by design in European history, a core course that we'd both put off for far too long.