Page 37 of Bitter Lies
“Pricing myself…out of the market,” I finish.
Carter is staring at me with his brows furrowed, a what-the-fuck look if I’ve ever seen one.
“An admirable goal, of course.” Edward is content to focus on his meal, his tongue jovial. “I’m interested in your long-term plans, of course. How you believe these strip clubs will help expand the Vittorio reach. Which is, as you know, our reach as well.”
He wants a detailed business plan? Now? I can’t think with Isabella working me, milking me underneath the table with nothing but those sweet little piggies and?—
I gulp, balls tightening, the orgasm looming. Think of baseball. Think of dead bodies. Think of anything other than blowing my load in front of her father. My hips arch, and I grit my teeth, chest heaving while she works me. Pressing down harder.
“Well?” Edward asks when I’ve been silent for too long.
I hiss, casting a sideways warning glance at Isabella.
She only speeds up the pace, growing rougher, harder, until I’m imagining using the same force on her to bury deep inside. Each rub is a punishment beneath the table.
“People need entertainment the s-same way they need protection,” I reply. “There will always be patrons, and those patrons bring in money and connections.”
It’s as decent an answer as I can manage.
And I feel several sets of eyes on me when the friction sends me over the edge, erupting inside my pants. My cock tenses, and cum spurts into my boxers while Isabella strokes me through compilation. I square my shoulders, shaking, burying the movement in a draining gulp of wine. Only once I’m finished do I look at Isabella, who finally removes her foot from my spent cock.
Her hazel eyes meet mine, but beyond the knowing glance she sends, there and gone in a blink, she gives no indication of anything amiss.
I gaped at Isabella through dessert and somehow managed to hold myself together through more talk of business until Nicola, the matriarch of the clan, shut it all down in favor of different topics of conversation. Every bit of tiramisu is dry in my mouth. My focus centers solely on the cum drying along my dick and into my boxers until the fabric sticks to me.
I think of the power Isabella holds and how she’d known right where to strike. A blow to my ego even as pleasure skitters through my system.
Once the plates have been cleared away, she unfolds to her feet, making some excuse about wanting to walk off the decadent meal.
I shove away as well. “I’ll escort you.”
She drops her napkin onto the tabletop. “I don’t need an escort. Especially one who is so eager,” she replies. “I know my way around the house.”
Damn woman.
Every bit of desire for her shifts into a different kind, one where I’ll happily throttle her instead.
“Indulge me,” I say with a smirk.
She can’t look me in the face now. Especially not with Mia offering some kind of snide remark under her breath that has Isabella turning, sneering. Snarling, more like.
Lucia has remained silent through most of the meal, and the last thing I see is Carter’s warning glance. For me. A warning that he and I will most certainly have to speak to each other later, and no number of excuses will hold him off any longer.
I’ve given him too many throughout the day.
Isabella saunters out of the dining room, and behind us, the low drone of conversation resumes.
“I didn’t realize you’d be so quick to come, soaking yourself in your pants,” Isabella mutters the moment I’m alone. “Don’t you have any control, Ricardo?”
Fuck, I want to kiss her. Any semblance of control is barely there at this point, and what kind of an animal would I be if I finally let go of it all? I shift from foot to foot.
“I wanted to speak to you,” I growl out. Then shake my head to clear it. I have to focus, or else we’re going to get nowhere. “I have a message from Drago.”
Ah, that gets her attention.
The night is warm enough for the gardens to be a pleasure after the overheated air of the house. A cool breeze is liberating rather than chilling, and each crunch of rock underfoot is so much better than my own muted grunts.
Isabella slowly turns to face me for the first time since dinner, and there is no longer any hint of amusement in her features. “What did he say?” she asks in an undertone.