Her gasp was a little softer, a little more submissive, but still she promised like she had before, “It’s yours. It’s always been yours.”
She didn’t fight his hold. It was like she did all that just to be right where she was, pinned down and panting under him, moaning as he took her harder and harder. Every time he made her say it, until she was chanting it on reflex, giving herself to him over and over again.
Dirty.
Untamed.
Raw.
Just like Cosa Nostra, it wasn’t her thing. She shouldn’t even be playing the game with him, because it was his fucking thing. It was in his blood, not hers.
That was the reason why it all worked, because no one could play the game quite like a Sicilian, and they all ended up having to lie down and take it. Someone had to be in charge, and his people were just better at it, despite others hating how they did it.
But Brianna didn’t hate it.
She reveled in it.
She understood the Sicilians better than most, maybe better than any Irish Catholic girl from Brooklyn ever would. She stood by them even if they were a little more uncivilized than most—a little too ballsy, a little too mean if someone tried to take what was theirs.
She stood by Tino.
Loved him.
Unconditionally.
Even if he was a broken Siciliano who fucked her dirty for her first time because that was the only way he knew how to play his game. She let him until she was moaning under him, climaxing while promising him something he didn’t deserve, and he couldn’t help but follow her.
The pleasure was a whitewash of ecstasy.
A thousand times stronger than that first rush from cocaine.
It just hazed out everything. For that one fraction of a moment, Mary disappeared, all the basements disappeared, his father and the fucking belt evaporated, all the shit at school he’d quietly dealt with from assholes like Dominic Brambino, it was like it never happened.
There was just Brianna clinging to his back while he rode out the storm. She pushed his hair away from his face when the bliss started to wane, and then stroked the sweaty strands away from his forehead with long, sweeping caresses in a way he always thought was comforting. He wasn’t sure why he liked it, but he did.
He tried to let himself enjoy it, but in the back of his mind, there was a part of him that wanted to push her hand away. The caress sort of made him feel dirty, and though he liked it, he flinched when he started to come down from the high.
“Don’t,” she snapped when he rolled off her. “Tino—”
Brianna grabbed him, wrapping her legs around him from behind with quick, athletic reflexes when he would’ve sprung to his feet, because the reality crash was like a bucket of cold water got thrown on him.
He touched his dick because Brianna was pressed against his back so tightly she was impossible to get to, but he still saw her blood on his fingers. Something about that image, when he already had so much fucking blood on his hands…it destroyed him a little.
He felt like Nova in the basement after the Savios, or in the street after Romeo got arrested. The guilt was blinding, so dazzling it was a fucking miracle Tino didn’t throw up.
“Figlio di puttana,” he choked out.
“It’s okay,” Brianna whispered against his nape and then reached over and lowered his hand, because he was staring at it in frozen horror. “It’s yours, right? I can bleed for you. Let me bleed for you, baby.”
What a very fucked-up, totally brainwashed idea.
Loving something enough to bleed for it.
To die for it.
Like a fucking dog.
Brianna was more Siciliana than Tino gave her credit for.
Turned out it could be taught.
Because when Tino said, “I need a shower. We both need a shower, Bri,” she was really insulted by that.
“You wanna wash it away.” She dug her nails into his stomach, holding him there when he would’ve pulled away. “I gave that to you.” She kissed his neck, licking at that tender spot at his hairline. “I want you to appreciate it. If I bleed for you, I want you to say thank you. I don’t want you to run away. I don’t want you to wash it off like it didn’t happen.”
It was taught, ’cause Tino understood exactly why she was insulted.
“I appreciate it,” he promised, because bleeding for motherfuckers who didn’t appreciate it was horrible. “I appreciate you.” He turned in her arms and cupped her face, leaving the stain of blood there, but he kissed her rather than flinch away. “Thank you,” he whispered against her lips. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay.” She caressed his face again. “I love you.”
He nodded, because it was pretty fucking undeniable, and then promised, “I’d bleed for you too. I’d bleed gallons for you.”
“I know.” She didn’t even try to deny it. “I know you would.”