Sweet Prison: An Age Gap Mafia Romance (Perfectly Imperfect Book 10)

Two weeks later

“Can I look now?” I ask.

“Nope. Watch your step.”

There is a sound of a door opening. Massimo settles his hand on the small of my back, ushering me forward.

I don’t need my eyes to tell me that we’re somewhere inside, but there’s a strong breeze blowing at me from every direction. That confuses me a little. Based on the slight echo of my heels on the hardwood floor, though, I’m guessing that whatever room we just entered is sizable. The combined smell of paint and wood varnish hits me first, yet another scent soon battles for supremacy. It’s flowery. Fresh. Jasmine?

“Sorry, baby,” Massimo grumbles next to me. “I had the guys bring the industrial fans to clear out the stink, but it’s still a work in progress.”

Industrial fans? “Will you please tell me where we are?”

Hard, demanding lips crash against mine. I wrap my arms around his neck, spearing my fingers through the short, silky strands. They are not as spiky as they were. He’s been letting his hair grow. I’m taking it as a sign of him finally accepting that the life he led for the previous two decades is over and done. My feet leave the ground as Massimo lifts me, and I immediately cinch my legs around his waist. The high slits up the sides of my wide-legged pants fall open, the fabric draping off me, and the breeze from the fan takes no time at all to cool off my bare skin.

Massimo bites my lower lip. “Okay, you can look now.”

I open my eyes.

Frames. Enormous ornate wooden frames occupy a massive wall. Gleaming white and accented with a gold leaf finish. Above each is a ceiling-mounted brass picture light, softly illuminating the drawings under the frames’ polished glass.

A squeaky whimper escapes me when I realize what they are. Enlarged prints of the dress sketches I’ve made over the years. Oh God, there’s even the very first image I sent to him in a letter, exhibited right there, in the middle of the feature wall.

It’s not just the sketches. In front of each frame, stands a sleek and shiny white wrought iron mannequin, displaying the dress depicted in the sketch.

“Oh, Massimo,” I whisper, squeezing his neck while I take in the rest of the room.

Vintage shelves, grand cabinets, an abundance of showcase platforms. Comfy seats, decorative mirrors, gorgeous overhead lights. Off to the side, there’s a stack of boxes. I can only imagine what this man has hidden away in them. Emotions clog my throat as I look around. No one has ever done anything like this for me.

“I’m sorry if I didn’t get every color right. The seamstresses kept pestering me, emailing me photos of various fabrics… As if I can distinguish between the different shades. I mean, Skobeloff? What the fuck is that? It sounds like the name of a fancy cake.”

I half laugh, half sniffle. “It’s bluish green. Similar to teal, but with more vibrant green undertones.”

“Shit. I made you cry. I’m sorry. I’ll let them know to— YES, I REALIZE I SHOULD HAVE PICKED TURQUOISE. NOW, ZIP IT!”

“No. No, I’m fine.” Cupping his face with my palms, I draw his forehead to mine. “It’s perfect. So wonderfully perfect. But… why?”This belongs to NôvelDrama.Org.

“Because it was your dream. And because you’re one hell of a fashion designer, angel. You deserve your own boutique.” He carries me across the room, toward the opposite wall where a white satin sheet is covering… something. Shifting me in his hold, he grabs a corner and tugs the cloth away. “And brand,” he adds.

I gape at the wide plaque of white and gold cursive letters. Two words. Two words that do make me cry.

Zahara Spada

“Oh no! No, no. We’re not done.” Massimo chuckles as he lowers me to the floor. “We’re finished with the setup of the brand. Just not with the actual branding.”

I’m barely holding myself together. My vision is blurry as I watch him lower to one knee. There’s a mischievous smile curling his lips as he reaches inside his pocket and raises his hand, holding a ring out to me.

“Zahara Veronese, you are the air I breathe and the light that allows me to see. I love you more than anything, and I need the world to know it. You are already my friend. My savior. The love of my life. But now, will you please be my wife?”

“You asked me already, silly.” I sniff. “And I said yes.”

“Without the ring, it didn’t count. So this is a do-over.” He lifts the ring higher.” It’s platinum, of course. So, will you?”

“Yeah,” I choke out. “I will.”

My hand shakes as he takes it, bringing it to his mouth. That smirk is still tugging on his lips as he wraps them around my ring finger. Wetness pools between my legs as he slowly slides my finger inside his mouth. The sensation is amazing—both innocent and completely erotic. The satiny softness of his lips as they wet my skin while delicately gliding over my finger. And the sharpness of his teeth, grazing it at the same time. As he starts pulling my finger out, his slick tongue strokes the underside, while the edge of his teeth scrapes the top. A perfect combination of rough and tender. Just like him.

“There. All ready.” He kisses the pad at the tip.

I’m enthralled as he slides the ring on while taking great care to center the contoured ribbon of diamonds just right. The ceiling lights reflect off the brilliant cluster, arranged with the largest marquise in the middle, and two sets of progressively smaller gems mirroring each other on either side.

“It’s a crown.” He gently tilts my chin up with his finger. “For my queen.”

I bite my lower lip to stop myself from further crying.

“And now, angel…” Hooking his fingers in the waistband of my pants, he slides them down, along with my panties. “Now, I’ll make your regal pussy thoroughly wet, before I give it a royal fucking.”

A shriek escapes me when he lifts me onto a chaise longue upholstered in white velvet, and then he buries his face between my thighs.

The tip of his tongue circles my clit, the motion fast and ferocious. He positions my legs over his shoulders, then slides his hands under my ass. In one swift movement, he lifts me, bringing me closer to his mouth.

The strokes of his tongue transform into languid, long licks interrupted by sporadic bites as he feasts on my juices. There’s something utterly decadent in being sprawled on a vintage sofa while he kneels on the floor and eats me out. I’m certain there wasn’t a locking of the door when he first led me in here, which means anyone at all could walk in on us. The possibility of that runs rampant in my mind, exciting me beyond measure. Grabbing his hair, I revel in the tremors rocking my core.

Massimo

My God, the taste of her… It’s making me crazy. Almost as crazy as her pulling on my hair does. With fingers anchored in my strands, she tugs my face closer. I swipe my tongue between her folds, inhaling the scent of her. Pure Eden. I’m gorging in a fucking paradise. But my poor cock is stuck in hell because it’s been hours since he was inside her.

I lick and stroke, and then take little bites, teasing her delicious pussy. With every touch, she shivers and her body shakes. She’s close. So close. I’m tempted to keep torturing my angel just like this, but I don’t think I can hold off much longer.

I’m wired. Ready to explode myself. But it’s not simply sex that has me so strung out. She said yes. The word is still ringing in my head. Still has me awed that she wants to spend her life with me, the crazy fucker.

There are two of us, the ever-irritating voice in my head says.

Noted.

Mm-hmm. You wanna know what I noted? Not so long ago, you were adamant you’d never kneel before anyone. Well, you’re kneeling now, buddy.

Zahara could always bring me to my knees. For her, I’ll spend a lifetime kneeling. Now, will you shut up and let me feast on my future wife’s pussy in peace. Please.

I like the sound of it in the present sense, rather than the future. Our wife. Tomorrow would make a lovely wedding day.

“Good point,” I mumble into Zahara’s pussy.

Taking her sweet bud between my lips, I suck on it—hard—marveling over the way she shatters. Breaks apart for me with a mix of drawn-out moans and labored panting. She’s so fucking beautiful. So mine. Drinking in the sight of her, I carefully lower her legs onto the fancy sofa and glide my palm over her heated core. Still soaked, even though I’ve done my damnedest to lap up every single drop.

Aftershocks are running rampant across her body as I stand up and unfasten my belt. She watches me unzip my pants with a wicked smile dancing on her lips. Turning onto her stomach, then rising to all fours, she sends a wink over her shoulder.

“Do your worst,” she singsongs, wiggling her ass.

I snap.

Grabbing her hips, I slam into her heat in one powerful thrust, sinking balls-deep. Her passionate screams echo as she comes. I keep pounding her from behind, lost to the world and everything else except my woman.

Mine.

My palm travels up her back, feathering along her delicate spine.

Only mine.

Her pussy grips my cock so tightly that every plunge sends a shockwave through me. Every single one of my nerve endings feels exposed, raw, and on fire. My lungs contract. Heat races across my system.

My air. My love. My peace.

She trembles under my palm as her orgasm hits her. With a guttural growl building in my chest, I increase my tempo, completely losing any sense of reality. Slamming into her tight pussy over and over, I let the roar erupt as I explode into her liquid core.

My Zahara.

Still shaking from the force of my release, reluctantly, I pull out and then lean over to give her right ass cheek a quick kiss.

“Baby? You okay?” I drag my lips to her other cheek and kiss it, too. And then, playfully nip that delectable behind before easing Zahara onto the sofa. “Was I too rough?”

“Never.” Watching me with hooded eyes as I rise and tuck my dick away, she sighs. “I just might not be able to walk for a while,” she says as a satisfied smile lights up her face.

Sprawled naked on the elaborate piece of furniture I chose for her shop, my angel is nothing but pure temptation. I’ll never get enough of her. Will never sate my craving. I might be a free man set to live my life, yet I’m still a prisoner, bound by unbreakable chains. A prisoner of this magnificent woman who has captured my heart. Who has tamed my soul. And there isn’t a sweeter feeling. For the rest of my life, I am her willing slave.

Slipping my hand into one of the yet-unpacked boxes, I pull out a length of red mulberry silk delivered from China just a day ago and drape the soft material over Zahara. Can’t have my queen catching a cold, can I? Once she’s cocooned inside the luxurious, buttery fabric, I lift her into my arms.

“Do you have a number for your nutcase of a brother-in-law?” I ask as I carry her across the room.

“Yeah. What do you need from Kai?”

I stop and look at the love of my life.

“I need him to put me in contact with a friend of his.” I crush my lips to hers. “The blond guy who likes to kidnap priests.”