Unembarrassed by his nakedness, Marco led her through to the en suite bath and leaned her gently against the vanity. Standing there silently, Mina watched as he wet a cloth with warm water and wrung it out before lifting her leg and rubbing it along her skin, wiping away the most noticeable evidence of their lovemaking. She watched the muscles flex and move under his skin, his naked body a thing of beauty, and she wondered at her own lack of embarrassment as he washed the traces of his come from her thighs.
“No one else will know,” he said, his voice so low it was hard for her to catch it. “But every time I see you dance with another man, I’ll know that your pussy is still filled with my come, and every time you feel the wetness you’ll remember that no one makes you feel the way I do. No one.” A final swipe of the now cool cloth against her still swollen labia sent a new round of shudders through her and Marco smiled at her response.
“So beautiful. So responsive.” He pulled her into his arms and she melted against him, her nipples hard against his bare chest, her breathing staccato in the quiet room. “And all mine.”
There was no point in arguing. “Yes. All yours.”
Marco swept her up into his arms and carried her back to the long mirror. Efficient movements had him dressed in moments before he turned to help her into her dress. Her underwear were past salvaging and when she opened a drawer to pull out a new pair Marco stopped her.
“You won’t need them,” he said. Kneeling beside her he carefully lifted one high-heeled foot slipping her dress over it, followed by the other. A shake and twist and she was covered again, the collar hooks fixed and her hair smoothed, her dress surprisingly undamaged by their abuse of it. She looked at herself in the long mirror, sensory overload making her feel slightly dazed. Her earlier concern about her exposed back now seemed ridiculous. She was naked except for a layer of cobalt silk, her nipples hard, her pussy soaked-who was going to care about a her bare back?
She was still in a fog, allowing Marco to tend to her, when an insistent knocking jerked her back to reality.
“What’s keeping you two…?” A friendly voice accompanied the knock, the bedroom door swinging open suddenly. Giovanni Genovese took one look at the pair of them and immediately stepped back into the hall.
“I beg your pardon,” he said, eyes flitting from Marco’s stiffening shoulders to Mina’s wide eyes and kiss swollen lips. His gaze traveled further, taking her unsteady stance, and flickering over the wildly mussed sheets on the king sized bed. “I didn’t mean to intrude.”
Marco put himself between Mina and his brother’s gaze, a low rumble in his chest the only warning necessary. Giovanni raised a hand to calm him and shook his head.
“Do not blame the messenger,” he pointed to himself, “but Mamma sent me to remind you that you have guests arriving and that since she is not your wife,” his eyes flickered to Mina over Marco’s shoulder, “it is not her job to entertain your clients.”
Marco allowed his stance to relax and nodded once at his little brother. “Thank you, Gio.” He shook his head once as if to clear it. “It seems I have lost track of time. Tell Mamma I apologize for the delay and that we’ll be right down.”
Something passed between the brothers that Mina didn’t understand, but finally Giovanni nodded. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll greet your guests.” He nodded in Mina’s direction. “You take whatever time you need. Mamma can wait.” Suddenly he winked and gave the smile Mina remembered. “It will probably be good for her.”
Marco returned the smile, if a little less enthusiastically. “Yes, but I doubt it will be good for me.”
“Oh I know it won’t be good for you,” the grin widened. “But then again, you always were her favorite. She might forgive you. In a year or two.” He shut the door, his laughter fading as he headed down the hall.
“It’s me she’s going to blame,” Mina said quietly, stepping away from Marco’s protective position. “She’s never going to like me.”
“Don’t be so certain.” Marco slipped his tie around his neck and quickly knotted it, every movement elegant and efficient. “She told me yesterday that she was amazed that you’d put up with me for so long.”
Mina doubted that was the extent of the comment, but she didn’t push. She leaned forward and tried to smooth her curls into some sort of order that didn’t scream “just fucked,” and sighed.
It was going to be a long night.
Marco’s mother lied.
When Mina and Marco finally made their way into the large salon, cocktails were being served and Bianca Genovese was expertly handling the influx of guests, air-kissing some and embracing others, every inch the hostess she denied being.
She cast a gimlet eye over her elder offspring and turned away without acknowledging him, tilting her head to catch something being said to her by a handsome man who looked like he’d like to get to know her much better. She laughed and it was a rolling, sensual sound, causing Mina to look twice. That wasn’t a sound she expected from the rigid woman she’d encountered all week.
The crowd was larger than Mina had expected. Marco said it would be a few investors and some local businessmen he’d convinced to support a new resort and spa he was building in the foothills just north of the city. Golf wasn’t the passion here that it was in the States, and he’d already pared his plans down some, but this evening’s festivities were to celebrate the finalization of plans that he’d been working towards for almost a year.
Business was business the world over, but this Genovese business party put anything that Mina had ever experienced to shame. She recognized a few people milling about-Marco, and Giovanni, and their mother of course. She saw Signora Genovese’s personal secretary, Elena, standing guard behind her employer, ready to swing into action at a moment’s notice in case someone was going to die due to a lack of dictation. Marco’s secretary, a beautiful silver-haired woman named Cinzia DiPaolo, was there as well, but instead of hovering she was mingling and smiling, greeting each guest as if they were personal friends.
Hell, maybe they were personal friends.
Mina took a glass of sparkling wine from a passing waiter and tried to find a quiet corner to hide in. It wasn’t that she wanted to hide, but there was a limit to how many times she could say, “Mi dispiace, non parlo italiano” before she wanted to beat someone over the head with an English to Italian dictionary. To top it off, she’d used up most of her patience dealing with the team of movers Marco had brought in to pack the largest pieces of the collection for shipping back to Miami. She’d been prepared for their “hands on” approach to women-something she was told was a normal occurrence in Italy, especially for a blonde American woman-but she wasn’t prepared for the sly looks and the elbowing and laughter that happened every time Marco’s name came up. The last thing she wanted was an evening full of suggestive comments and knowing looks, even if she was going commando.
“It seems that every time I see you, you seem,” a familiar voice cut through the party chatter, “preoccupied.”
Giovanni stepped around a pillar and smiled.
Mina jumped, her reflex sending a spray of wine into the air. She tried to move to avoid it, but it was no use-her beautiful blue dress was now a la spumante.
“Don’t do that,” she said, searching fruitlessly for a way to clean up the mess. Giovanni laughed and waved his hand at one of the waiters and instantly there was a cloth, a person wielding it, and a new glass of wine to replace the one that had died so ignominiously.