I’m losing count of how many times I’ve let Yasmin touch me unprovoked, and I hate the way it feels.
It feels like comfort. Like a warm blanket on a cold night. Like I don’t hate it at all, which makes it a very big problem for me.
Dinner with my mother went differently than I expected, but it’s in my nature to constantly underestimate her. I knew things would be interesting, had expected the disrespectful tone of voice and the way she pricks and prods, trying to make me snap. But I hadn’t expected my reaction to the way she so callously disregarded someone I chose to spend the rest of my life with.
Forget the fact that it isn’t real, that I’m blackmailing Yasmin to even spend time with me. My mother doesn’t know that, and a normal mom— a good mom—would have had more to say than “let’s eat dinner.”
In any other situation, I’d let her get away with it. But a strange new protective energy waved its red flag in front of my face, warning me that if I didn’t get us out of there, I was going to ruin everything. Ma would deserve it, but like usual, there’s something tethering me to her even after all these years, an invisible rope that frays more with every example of disrespect, every time she brings up my childhood, acting like I don’t remember how all my scars are from her.
But it’s still there, and it’s still connected, and I don’t know how to make it snap in half.
It hurts that she couldn’t even pretend to care about me bringing home a wife. I had expected her to get angry, not bitter.
God knows why.
“You know,” Yasmin says, sitting on the family room couch in that black pencil skirt and silk blouse, slipping her heels off. “That went differently than I expected.”
I roll the glass of scotch around with my wrist as I take her in, the fireplace warming up the air and the fall leaves outside the wall of windows adding a warm feel to the space as the sun sets behind the tree line. Walking over to the couch, I sit down, placing my drink on the coffee table and grabbing the sole of her foot, running my thumbs up the arch.
She moans, her eyes fluttering, and then like she realizes what she’s doing, her hand flies to her mouth, an embarrassed look crossing her face.
I smirk.
“Can I give you some advice?” She tilts her head.
My thumb presses against her heel. “I’m sure you’ll give it whether I want it or not.”
A thoughtful look passes over her face. “If your mother’s as sick as she says she is, then you should try to work out whatever you two have going on before it’s too late.”
My hands stop their motion, dropping her foot back to the couch. “Advice not taken, thanks.”
She scoffs, crossing her arms. “She said she was dying, Julian. People do weird things when they’re facing their own mortality. Look at my father.” Her voice softens at the end, a sad look ghosting across her eyes. “You can talk to me, you know? If you’re struggling with her being sick. If anyone knows what that’s like, it’s me.”
She leans in, her arm reaching out for mine. I jerk back, and she sighs and drops her hand.
“She’s been dying for twenty years.”
Yasmin gasps. “What?”
“She’s a liar, gattina. A fake. She’ll do anything to get what she wants.”
Her gaze narrows into slits. “Wow, must run in the family then.”
She’s not wrong. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, and everything I am, the people I’ve had to hurt in order to get to where I am, are only because of the ones who raised me. I am my mother’s son. In almost every way.
I pinch the bridge of my nose, her statement sending irrational anger surging through me. “You should go to your room.” Deadly silence.
And then a shoe flies toward me, missing me by an inch. My back slams into the arm of the couch and I look at her, unamused.
“Real mature.”
“I’m so sick of you telling me what to do,” she grits out.
“There’s the little brat who’s been missing.” I cross my arms. “I was wondering when you’d stop pretending you were some well- mannered woman and let your true colors shine through.”
“Oh, well, forgive the fuck out of me,” she spits, leaning forward until she’s close enough to jab her finger into my chest. “Sue me for trying to make the best out of the cards I’ve been dealt. The cards you’ve dealt me.”
I stay stoic, looking down at her from where she’s practically on top of me, telling myself that she’s not worth my time. That she’s nothing more than a necessary and temporary annoyance. Even though the heat of her body has my cock growing hard and my hands tensing with the urge to grip her by the hips and show her just how much I could make her enjoy being told what to do.
“God forbid I try to make this shitty situation that you put me in more bearable. Do you know what it’s like?” Her voice breaks and she drops her finger, closing it into a fist and slamming it into her own chest, digging in like she can rip out the hurt herself. “My father is dying, Julian. He’s really, he—he’s dying. And all I want to do, all I can think about doing, is being with him. But instead, I’m here, getting wrapped up in you, the person I’m supposed to hate.”
She sniffs, and I clench my jaw, my hands curling into fists at my sides to keep from reaching out.
“Life is so tough, isn’t it, gattina? Such a hardship to be so spoiled.”
“And that’s the fucked-up part, isn’t it?” she cuts in. “I know. I am spoiled. I never had to learn to drive. I never had to learn to cook or how to fold my own clothes. I never once had to worry about learning a life skill or a trade because why would I ever, in a million years, need to work for a living? And that is a prison in itself. It feels like I’m stuck at the top of a bell tower, hidden away, and never let out to see the light. If you can’t see that, if you’re not capable of empathizing, then I don’t know why I’m even talking.”
I clench my jaw.
“My father tried to auction me off to the first prick who came along, because he knew I wouldn’t be able to make it on my own,” she continues. “And he’s right. And I bet you love that, don’t you? Having me here at your mercy and knowing I can’t do shit for myself.”
“Poor little rich girl,” I hiss, leaning in until our gazes lock. “You have no clue what it means to struggle, no idea what real trauma is. So sorry you’ve had to deal with your caring father while living in a twenty- thousand- square- foot mansion, handing you the world, and having him love you too much to want to leave you.”
Tears well in her eyes, making them even more beautiful. More raw, maybe.
“Truly, how can you survive it?” I ask, my voice rising with sarcasm. “Must be so hard having a stable, healthy relationship with him.”
“Don’t take it out on me because you treat your mother like shit,” she bites back. “Let me tell you something, Julian. If you don’t make amends now, if you don’t at least try, when she does die? You’ll regret it the rest of your life.” She pauses, looking at me with disgust. “But I guess it’s to be expected from a man who bleeds evil.”
“That’s a little dramatic,” I reply.
She reaches out to push against me.
I grab her wrists instead, locking her in place against my chest. “You’re the devil, Julian Faraci. And I hope you burn in hell.”
I press in close, until my torso barely ghosts across her body, rage pulsing through my body to the beat of my heart, filling up my bloodstream until I’m seeing nothing but red.
I move quickly, dragging her by the wrists until her body flies forward and drapes over my knees. She squeaks in surprise and then starts to struggle against me, but my forearm locks against the small of her back, small zips of pleasure zinging down the length of my cock as she writhes on top of my dick, making it so hard it strains against the zipper.
My other hand flips up that tight black skirt she couldn’t stop touching earlier, exposing the smooth apple of her ass cheek, prime and ready to be punished.
I bring down my hand without a second thought, the slap reverberating through the room and off the walls. My cock jerks to attention as I rub my fingers across her flesh, soothing the area.
Glancing toward her, I loosen my forearm, realizing that she isn’t fighting against me now. She’s just prone, on her stomach, her elbows sinking into the couch cushion and her breathing so heavy, I can feel it escaping from her lungs.
“It’s far past time somebody taught you how to shut that mouth of yours,” I murmur, smoothing my hand over the flesh.
“Did you just spank me?”
I bend down until my lips ghost across the shell of her ear. “If you want me to stop, tell me to stop. Otherwise, I’ll do it again, gattina. Over and over until your ass is so sore, you can’t sit for days and your sweet little pussy begs for a taste too.”
She sucks in a breath, her torso fidgeting against my lap, and my stomach tightens, enjoying her reaction. I pause, waiting to hear what she says, but the silence rings louder than ever, just the way I knew it would.
“Now, apologize.”
“Go fuck yourself,” she sneers.
Smack.
The sting radiates through my palm as my hand once again smooths over the cheek.
Her body jerks as she tries to free herself from my hold, but I don’t let her escape, instead pressing her firmly down until my dick pushes into her stomach.
“I’d rather fuck you, wife,” I murmur. “But little brats who need to learn their lessons don’t get things unless they play nice. Now.” My fingers dance over the reddened area of her ass. “Be a good girl, and do what I say.”
She twists her head to see me, fire blazing in her eyes, her pupils dilated and desire sneaking through her features. She can pretend she doesn’t like this all she wants. We both know the truth. This is what she needs.
And I’m the man who can give it to her.
“I’m not sorry,” she whispers.
My cock pulses at her disobedience.
Smack. Smack. Smack.
Three more slaps in quick succession and she sinks deeper into my hold, her grunts morphing into moans.
“Julian,” she breathes. “Please…”
My fingers dip between her thighs, running along the lace of her underwear, her pussy dripping so much it drenches the fabric. “You know what I want.”
“I’m sorry,” she finally says, grinding herself against me.
“What’s that?”
“I’m sorry,” she repeats.
I lean down and press a soft kiss to the reddened area on her ass cheek. “You’re so sexy when you behave.”
Relaxing my forearm, I expect her to move, but she doesn’t, choosing to stay in her prone position. The moment itself is vulnerable, and I move to wrap my arms around her body, dragging her into me to hold her tight against my chest.
It’s odd, to…cuddle like this. But what I did was intense, and while I know she enjoyed it, I also know it’s important to make sure she knows she did well.
That she pleased me.
We sit that way for a few minutes, and then I move her to the side, making sure she’s comfortable on the couch. Her arms reach out to bring me back. “Where are you going?”
“Don’t move.” I push her hair back from her face. “I’ll be right back.”
She hums, her eyes glazed, and I head down the hall and to the medicine cabinet, grabbing the arnica cream to make sure she doesn’t bruise.
Walking back over, I see she hasn’t moved from her position, and she twists her head toward me, smiling softly.
I stand in front of her, tapping her thigh. “Up.”
She moves without complaint, and I put her back over my lap, lightly rubbing where I spanked before opening the cream and spreading it on the area.
“When I was three,” I start, “I got a stuffed animal. A hand- me- down teddy bear from some kid who lived around the block and didn’t want it anymore. It was dirty and used and already coming apart at the seams, but it was mine.”
Yasmin pulls back slightly, her face turning toward me and her eyes growing wide at my admission.
“My father came home that night and saw me with it. I was afraid he’d take it from me, so before he could, I ran to my room and found a hiding place, beneath the slats in my tiny little bed.” My throat swells with the memory and I swallow around the pain. “I didn’t even make it back out before I heard my mother screaming and him yelling at her for treating me like a girl. For raising her son wrong.”
“Oh my god,” Yasmin whispers.
“He never took it out on me though. It was always her. She didn’t make me enough of a man. She didn’t cook dinner right. Sometimes the way she was breathing just annoyed him, I guess. It was always her fault.” I grit my teeth, my nose scrunching against the burn growing behind it. “But my mother is a vengeful woman, and she knew who was really to blame.” My eyes go unfocused, and I stare at the wall behind Yasmin, the memories so vivid it’s like I’m there. “That was the first time I remember my mother beating me. Hours after her own pleas quieted and my father had gone back out to the bars, I was lying in my bed, that stupid fucking bear cuddled tight against my chest. And she came raging in, dried blood around her nose, a shiner on her face the size of New York, and my father’s belt wrapped around her fist.” I lift up my shirt from my torso, pointing to a small scar, one of many that are hidden beneath the ink. “She liked to use the metal end. Really get her point across.” I let out a small laugh. “There were tears in her eyes though, and she promised it would only hurt for a little. But that’s the thing about abuse, I guess. The pain always lasts even after the bruises fade.”
A tear escapes from the corner of Yasmin’s eye, and I drop her wrists, reaching out to swipe it away, letting my thumb drag down her perfect face.
“When you’re a kid, you don’t really know any better. The only thing you do know is that she’s your mom, and moms are supposed to love you. To be your safe space. Not the other way around. I just wanted the best for her, even after she was the cause of so much pain.”
“Julian…”
I hush her, my fingers never stopping their motion on her skin. “So you see, I wish she would die. To free me from this guilt that lives inside me, festering like an infected wound, knowing that if maybe I had just never existed, she wouldn’t have had so much strife.”
Emotion, thick and volatile, floods through me, pouring into my chest and filling up my veins until I can’t think straight. It’s too much. Too strong. And I need to do something to make it go away.
Yasmin spins around on my lap and I let her, her face staring up at me with a new look in her glossy eyes, one I’ve never seen. I’m not sure if I like it there or not.
My fingers follow the trail of wetness on Yasmin’s face until I’m cupping her chin and lifting, dragging her into me.
“If I’m the devil, amore mio, cast stones at the one who made me.”
And then I kiss her.
