Not Mine to Keep (The Costa Family)

Inside my bedroom, I kicked off my heels and faced my husband. He’d lost his bow tie and tux jacket before our forced dinner with Armani and his favorite assembly of bad guys—Alessandro’s family hadn’t been invited—but now the man was distracting me by working free a few buttons of his starched white shirt.

Thankfully, he stopped at only three, because if he kept going, I’d need a cold glass of something. I didn’t want to feel heat of any kind right now. I couldn’t give in to what Armani wanted, especially with Frankie and Leo parked in the hallway listening for us to “consummate.”

And if that kiss had proved anything, it was how hot things truly could be between us, especially in the privacy of a bedroom without eyes on us. Just ears.

When he produced what looked like a lighter from his pocket and began walking around the room like a man on a mission, I blurted, “What are you doing?”

When he crossed the bedroom and dropped his mouth over my ear, it was to whisper, not to give me goose bumps. Of course, my skin pebbled at his breath and proximity anyway. “Checking for cameras and listening devices. We can’t talk until I know it’s safe.”

So that little thing does all that, huh? “You talked last night without checking first.” I reminded him of his drug-induced state, and he eased back to find my face.

“Right.” He bowed his head, almost as if in shame, then went back to his Mission: Impossible–looking device.

While waiting for him, I removed the detachable skirt. I was only in the mermaid gown now, but I’d be needing help to get completely undressed.

I should’ve had more than two glasses of champagne at dinner. But I clearly hadn’t been in a celebratory mood while Armani had feasted and toasted. Now I wished I’d had the entire bottle to get through the night—well, to help me fall asleep without much effort, at least.

Alessandro disappeared into the bathroom, then returned a few moments later and wordlessly snatched my wrist, tipping his head in a request to follow. “We’re good,” he said once in the en suite bathroom. “But the idioti in the hall might hear us, so we should talk in here.”

“Armani expects us to have sex tonight,” I blurted. “But you know that, don’t you?”

He set the lighter-looking device on the vanity and reached for my forearm. “I told him I wouldn’t force you to do anything.”

“How’d he take that?” My gaze fell to his grip, and although he followed my line of sight, he didn’t unhand me.

“I think it’s in our best interest to just fake it tonight.”

“Fake it until you make it, huh?” I smiled at my dumb joke. Okay, maybe two glasses of champagne were enough. Eyes back on him, I resigned myself to my fate and asked, “How are we faking it?”

“I just don’t want Armani changing his mind about letting you come home with me, which is why I think we need to sell the sex thing,” he explained instead of answering my question of how.

“You didn’t discuss the plan to move with me first.”

“I didn’t have a chance.” He frowned and let me go, pocketing his hands. “You don’t want to stay here, do you?”

“No, but I want to go home.”

“I can better protect you in New York. I’d never convince him to let you go back to your old life. He wants you to become more like him,” he said in such a matter-of-fact tone it was like he was negotiating a business deal, and it made my stomach hurt.

I knew he was right, but it didn’t mean I had to like it. “Are you feeling better?” I deflected, not wanting to ask a man for permission to live my life—a.k.a. perform on Broadway with Braden on June 6. Maybe I’d wait for that conversation to happen. I supposed the conversation about what he’d accidentally admitted about Rocco last night could be tabled for now, too.

“I’m fine. Sorry about last night. I shouldn’t have come over.” His brow tightened, and there was clearly more he wanted to say, but I doubted he’d open up more.

“And I’m sorry you had to kill people for me.” My shoulders fell, and I faced the mirror as he came up behind me. Since he was a head taller than me, he didn’t need to sidestep me to catch my reflection.

“Maybe we should get you out of this dress?”

I arched a brow, and he closed one eye, as if regretting his choice of words.

“You know what I mean.”

“Not sure if I do. You’ve yet to tell me how we’re faking it, so the men outside believe we’re doing as Armani asked,” I reminded him, growing even more tense. I was a married woman now, and that was just . . . When his hand went to my shoulder, I spied the wedding ring there, and whispered, “That band must feel like handcuffs to you.”C0pyright © 2024 Nôv)(elDrama.Org.

“It’s . . . fine.” The grit to his tone suggested otherwise, but we were in this together whether we wanted to be or not.

If he could suck it up, I could, too. He was saving my life and my aunt’s, after all. Tonight, of all nights, he didn’t deserve my sassy mouth, even if Izzy thought he was a “fan” of it. Not a chance. “Should we get this over with, then?” I hiked a thumb over my shoulder. “Unbutton me, please?”

One palm skated over the pearl buttons that were in line with my spine, and he began undoing them with only one hand, the other resting on my shoulder.

Impressive. “So how are we convincing the men in the hall we’re doing it?”

His hand went still as he met my eyes in the mirror. “Given the fact he had you checked the other day, I have concerns he’s sick enough to—”

“Same,” I cut him off, the idea terrifying.

“I won’t let that happen. I promise.” Without answering my “how” to the faking-it question, he finished the job of unbuttoning me. I let the bodice fall forward and collapse at the waist, showing him what I had on beneath it, which wasn’t much.

A fairly see-through lace teddy. I studied myself in the mirror. Nipples hard and visible through the transparent fabric. He’d already seen my breasts twice now, and we were technically married, so what was the point in hiding?

But when I looked up at him in the reflection, he had a hand stroking his chiseled jawline, and his attention was sharp and focused on my tits.

“What’s the plan?” I whispered, hating the heat in my belly traveling south between my thighs with his eyes on me. “How are we faking it?”

“I’m going to ask you to do something that’s going to have you wanting to smack me.”

“Didn’t expect your wanting me to dominate you to be a kink of yours.” There went my mouth. I couldn’t seem to help it sometimes. I told myself it had nothing to do with the fact I was half DiMaggio.

His dark brows rose, and he spun me around to face him, then set his hands on the counter, trapping me against him. My body responded as if it were a place I needed to be—at his mercy. “I have no kinks of any kind, especially involving violence. Not in the bedroom, at least.”

So you get off on hurting people outside the bedroom, huh? I should be scared. Yet, I’m not budging. Something is wrong with me, too. “So you haven’t thought about taking a belt to my ass for my runaway mouth?” I asked, testing the waters. Seeing if he was bullshitting me about his no-kinks thing. Also, proving my point about my mouth.

“I would never hurt a woman.” Gray eyes journeyed to my breasts again before landing on my lips, and I couldn’t help but remember that kiss. It’d been more than an expert tongue schooling me on how a real man kissed a woman. “But maybe I wouldn’t be opposed to swatting a woman’s ass if she really needed it. If she’d been bad enough to deserve it.”

Oh, fuck me. Why was that so hot? And how wet could this man possibly make me? “You’re not seriously telling me you’ve never spanked a woman before?”

He cocked his head, a flicker of surprise in his eyes, and maybe he was mirroring my own look. “I can take a man’s life, yes. But I’ve never set a hand on a woman in or out of the bedroom, no.”

Why was that such an oddly sweet thing for him to say? Sure, I’m a killer, but I draw the line at spanking. “And yet you wouldn’t mind making an exception for me, would you? Swatting your wife’s ass?” I couldn’t bite my tongue, not right now. Not with how he was peering at me like he wanted to bend me over and—

“You may be bad enough to need my handprint on your ass cheek,” he said huskily, his tone a match to the bold, dark look in his eyes. Before I could summon any type of response as I contemplated if I wanted to be his bad girl, he continued, “But Callie, I need you to remember I don’t feel anything. Ever.” Lines cut across his forehead as he studied me, as if worried we were on different pages in totally different genres of books. “Sex is just tension relief for me. It will never be more.”

“And why does it seem like you’re warning me, like you did about my heart last night? Warning me not to tempt you because I’ll get hurt?” Our faking-it conversation had been derailed, and we were going in quite a different direction. Murky waters and dangerous territory. “You keep trying to save me from you, and maybe it’s you who will need saving from me.”

A cocky grin slipped across his lips, and I hated how much I wanted to kiss the edges of his mouth and taste him. Hated how much he was right—that my temptation was real, as was the fact he’d break my heart if I actually did give in to the desire I couldn’t pretend not to feel for this man.

“Tell me why I’d want to smack you.” I had to get back on track. Remind myself there were two men in the hall waiting for us to have sex, and it had to be fake, and I was pretty sure we were on the verge of it being real if we kept this hot back-and-forth going.

“I need you to get yourself off. I need you to come for me, Callie.” At his erotic words, he pushed away from the counter, allowing me the space I needed to set my hand on my breastbone without hitting him with my elbow in the process.

“Why?” I closed my eyes, drawing up an answer on my own. “Because my father’s men are pigs, and the smell of sex will help sell the idea.” And it wasn’t like semen really had a smell, so it’d be up to my body to do it. “I don’t want to smack you.” Opening my eyes, I shared, “Just everyone forcing us to do this.”

His fingers went to his shirt, and he pulled it free from his pants, then in one fast move, snapped his belt free like he’d done in my bathroom the other day. “They’ll be expecting noise, too.”

My eyes cut to the leather hanging from his hand, and maybe he didn’t have kinks, but seeing him with that belt certainly had me wondering if I did.

He looked at me, then at the belt, then dropped it as if the thing were on fire in his hand. “We can say fuck it and not do this.”

“The alternative is possibly staying here longer,” I said as he finished the job of unbuttoning his shirt. “Or worse, him holding my aunt’s life over my head.”

“It’s up to you. Tell me what you want.” He kept his shirt on, but with it open, I had a view of the hard ridges of his abdominal muscles.

“Are you staying in the bathroom while I get myself off in the bed?” Why’d I sound so breathless? “How is this going to work?” When he continued to simply fix his attention on me—that unraveling-the-mysteries-of-the-universe look—I rambled, “Do you need to be in the room making noise? Headboard banging, maybe? Should I be under the covers?”

“Under the covers would be . . . a better idea to the alternative.” The heavy lift of his chest pulled me back to the exposed wall of muscles I wanted to run my palms over.

“And the alternative?” I nearly panted out the ridiculous question. I knew the answer, but I wanted to hear him say the words.

Instead, he hissed, “You’re on very thin fucking ice.” He brought his face near mine.

Eyes up, I did my best to come across as tough and told him what he had to know already. “I don’t frighten easily.”

His smile nearly touched my mouth. We were that close. “Clearly, or you would’ve run a year ago. And surely Saturday night.” His hand went to my waist, and his other palm made its way to the nape of my neck as he made me his prisoner. “And definitely right now.”

“Yet I’m still here. But I shouldn’t be, though, right?” I whispered, eyes falling shut with his mouth there, unsure whether he might give in and kiss me.

His grip tightened at my waist as he drew me firm to his body, letting me feel how hard he was. “No,” he snapped out. “Now, finish getting undressed and get under the covers. Or I’ll carry you there myself.” He let go of me, and when I opened my eyes, he’d already left the bathroom. Probably removing himself from temptation that we were both struggling to navigate. How would we survive a whole summer with Armani’s men forcing us to shack up together?

I splashed some water on my face, hoping my waterproof eyeliner and mascara would hold up so I didn’t look like I’d been crying, then quickly freed myself from the dress. Only in the white teddy and white thigh-high stockings—probably not what he wanted to see me in—I went into the bedroom.

He was on the edge of the bed, wearing only black briefs and a thin white bandage around one arm, with his forehead resting in his palm. He walked his focus up the length of my body as I checked out his nearly naked one myself.

“Calliope.” My name was more like an exhausted breath from his mouth. “What do you want from me?”

“To say my name again.” I confessed all that was in my head while lowering my arms to my side, wanting him to look at me. To see me.

He came over, snatched my wrist, and spun me around so my back was to his chest. His hot breath at my ear sent a shiver through me. “Calliope Costa.” His hand climbed up my torso, and he palmed my breasts beneath the lingerie, the decision to refrain now a distant memory. “What else do you want?” he asked, rolling my nipple between his fingers.

“What I want or what I need?” Maybe they were one and the same?

Mouth back to my ear, clearly not wanting the guards to hear anything real between us, he said in a gravelly tone, “What you need is to be properly fucked.” His other hand went to my abdomen, and he held me tight to his hard frame. I was desperate for his palm to go between my thighs. “But you don’t want to need it. You also don’t want to get hurt.”

“Sure you aren’t speaking for yourself?” I set my hand over his and threaded our fingers together.

When he pulled his palm free from mine and let go of my breast, I knew it was less about rejection and more about not letting Armani win. And maybe not wanting anyone to get hurt. The teddy bear, as Izzy had called him, was fighting to break through.

Without looking at him, I went to the bed, peeled back the covers, then took a knee on it and arched my back. I startled at the feel of him caging me against him, his arm flying across my midsection to hold me tight. “What are you doing?”

“Losing my fucking mind, is what.” He swept my hair over one shoulder with his free hand and brought his mouth to the side of my neck. “Tell me to fuck your cunt with my hand. To help get you off. That’s all I can give you. I won’t let those men outside win by giving in to what we both need.”

Curving into his frame, I nodded, anxious to feel him.

“Say it, Calliope. Be very clear what you want me to do.”

“Please.” I wasn’t above begging. “Touch me. Everywhere.”

He groaned against my neck, and at the feel of his tongue sliding up near my ear before he lightly nibbled my lobe, I about came undone. But the moment his hand feathered over the lacy material hiding my clit, I bent forward, both hands to the bed now, pretty much ready for him to have his hand on my ass cheek.

He followed the curve of my spine and rested his free hand next to my left one, then he located the slit in the lingerie—an opening for easy access. He pushed two fingers inside me, and I cried out his name as he coated them in my arousal.

“Why are you so wet for me?”

“I think you know,” I confessed as he moved his fingers in and out, then added his thumb to my sensitive spot like he already knew how and where to find it. “And I hate you for making me feel this way.”

“Sure you do,” he remarked in a dark tone, continuing to push me just near the edge.

I rotated my hips, shimmying my ass against his hard cock, and his fingers stilled. “Stop moving like that, or I’m going to flip you over and fuck you instead.” His warning only fueled me to move more, but when he added, “And then Armani wins,” I hit the brakes.

What am I thinking? You’re right. That asshole couldn’t ever get what he wanted.

“Good girl.” He resumed strumming my clit. “Fuck, you’re tight.” I wasn’t sure if he was back to playing a role for the men in the hall or was only helping further me along, but I was too close to coming to care. “That’s it,” he said when I began rubbing against the heel of his hand, moving in time with his fingers inside me. “Come for me, Calliope.”

And that’ll do it. My moans and cries had to have been heard outside the room. No way they’d think they were fake, considering I’d lost control and cried out Alessandro’s name again. Breathing hard, every nerve ending electric, the most amazing feeling spread throughout my limbs as I fell apart on his hand. My husband’s hand.

I was mush, and I collapsed onto the bed and stared at the man in his briefs as he covered me with the comforter.

“Time for part two,” he mouthed, reminding me we would have to fake something—him getting off now. He grabbed hold of the headboard and began rhythmically beating it against the wall, never losing hold of my eyes in the process as he fake-pounded into me.

If only it were real . . .

After he completed the act with a long, fake groan and grunt, he tipped his head toward the bathroom and whispered, “Be right back.”

So he didn’t want to get off in front of me, huh? Not quite fair, but smart. If I had to watch him stroke his cock, I’d sink to my knees before him and use my mouth in a way he’d probably be much more a fan of than my sass.

At the bathroom door, he turned around and peered at me, and I could read the look in his eyes—this can never happen again.