Trapped (Sinners of Boston #5)

8. Delilah

EIGHT

DELILAH

Santino fucked me on the bed.

The sheets were a tangled mess on the floor, pillows were thrown about, and the room reeked of sex. My muscles ached as though I’d scaled a rugged mountain.

Rough hands repositioned my hips. Santino stuffed a pillow underneath me. The new angle pierced me so deeply that I curled my fingers tighter into the sheets. Each thrust pushed a moan past my lips. Gritting my teeth, I focused on the banging headboard and not the gorgeous, six-foot-two man claiming me over and over.

“Come for me.”

His delicious whisper stroked my ear, and his finger landed on my clit. He teased it as he drove into me, coaxing more pleasure until I teetered on the brink. Waves of glowing heat joined the ecstasy from his thrusts, but I fought the urge to come. Every orgasm felt like surrendering a piece of myself I’d sworn to keep hidden. He owned enough of me. I wouldn’t allow him to have this too.

But he was relentless.

“Give me what I want, Delilah.”

The dark threat delivered the final spark, and I detonated. I let out a gasping cry and collapsed. Sweet relief rolled through my body.

Santino groaned. The hot release of his orgasm filled me up, joining the three other cum shots he’d left inside me. His thighs jerked as he gripped me tightly, pulling out only to collapse beside me, dragging me into his chest.

I sank into bliss. When he held me, too spent to move, I almost forgot who we were.

He nuzzled my neck, breathing hard. “You okay?”

I ran my fingers through his hair. “Tapped out.”

All night, I’d been tossed around. Devoured. Santino fucked like a madman—his brow slicked with sweat, his sides heaving. I was his toy, and when he finished with me, I felt thoroughly used. Sucked, licked, pounded, my body marked with his teeth. In return, he paid me every week with envelopes stuffed with cash. He gifted me jewelry, trips to Nantucket—anything I wanted. I’d been funneling his money into a business account for months, planning for a brick-and-mortar vintage clothing store. Retro Rose Boutique.

He lingered tonight, which was rare. Usually, Santino was out the door as soon as he composed himself. With a quick fix of his appearance, he returned to the untouchable mafioso who ruled his world with an iron fist. But this morning, he stayed, his breathing syncing with mine, and the soft rise and fall of his chest touched my back. His presence cocooned me in an unnerving comfort.

Santino traced his fingers along my side. “You’re quiet.”

“I’m thinking.”

“About?”

“How I ended up here.”

Santino leaned in, kissing my shoulder. “Just be with me.”

That was the problem. It was too much like being in Providence, trapped in a cycle of being owned by a man. I couldn’t depend on Santino forever.

“What time is it?” he murmured.

I grabbed my phone from the bedside table. “Ten-thirty.”

Santino cursed.

He uncoiled himself from me and slid off the bed. I’d seen him naked many times, yet still, a flame flickered between my legs at the sight.

I rolled out of bed and made my way to the bathroom, catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I was a mess. My hair was tangled, and his cum stuck to my thighs. I probably tasted like him, too. We’d partied hard last night. Santino knew I liked to drink, so he traded me sips of Dom Perignon for my lips wrapped around his cock. All evening, I’d gone back and forth between him and the bottle.

Santino took my hand and led me into the bathroom, turning on the shower. Once the water was hot enough, we both got in. He soaped up his hands and massaged me, then put shampoo in my hair, his fingers soothing on my scalp. My eyelids fluttered. He was so gentle. After washing the suds from my head, his lips touched my face, brief and sweet.

I tensed.

Maintaining boundaries was easier when Santino kept to the script—fuck me, pay me, leave. Anything more than that threatened the delicate balance I’d managed to maintain.

“Santino, we should talk.”

He traced small circles on my hip and shifted, drawing me closer. “No talking. Isn’t that what you said when we first started this? No talking, just feeling?”

A lump settled in my gut. “Yes.”

“No talking, principessa. I want to enjoy you.”

I held my breath, caught between leaning into his touch and pulling away. “I?—”

He kissed the sensitive skin behind my ear. “Shh. It doesn’t have to be complicated.”

But it was. Everything about us was tangled in power dynamics. How could it not be? I came to Boston to escape one prison, only to trap myself in another wrapped in silk sheets and easy money. I couldn’t allow myself to sink into this. Because whatever it was, it had strings attached that tugged at parts of me I’d closed off.

My throat tightened. “Are you trying to get me pregnant?”

He laughed, a deep, careless sound that echoed off the tiles as he rotated his head under the spray.

“ Answer me .”

He sighed, shutting off the water. “Why are you asking that?”

I stared at him. “I told you, I’m not on birth control.”

“I’m aware. Don’t worry about it.”

He sounded so confident as he stood there, swiping water out of his hair.

“Santino, I need you to take this seriously.”

“We’ll handle it if it happens.”

His confidence didn’t match the panic stabbing my chest. He handed me a towel, his movements brisk. He rubbed himself head to toe, then folded the towel and hung it on a drying rack.

My hair dripped on my shoulders as I followed him into the bedroom. He picked his clothes up and put himself together, piece by piece. Briefs. Slacks. Wrinkled white shirt. Italian leather shoes. Finally, he slapped a vintage watch on his wrist.

“Santino, you don’t want a kid with me.”

He paused slightly as he pulled on his jacket. “I’ll see you later.”

“Wait—”

He kissed my cheek. “I gotta go.”

He was at the door when I asked, “What do you expect me to do if I’m pregnant?”

He grabbed the doorknob. “I guess you’d have to marry me.”

He didn’t even look back to see how his words landed. He stepped out, closing the door behind him like the gavel in a courtroom.

Marry him?

That hung in the air, mocking me. I glared at the wall, imagining him laughing as he got into his car. He didn’t mean it. I was just the girl he fucked.

Before I escaped Dimitri, I knew I had to attach myself to a powerful man. Santino seemed like the perfect choice—dangerous, extremely jealous, and rich.

I was his mistress. That role suited me fine.

But he’d gotten too comfortable. Forgetting to use condoms. Jokes about marriage. Sweet kisses in the shower. This couldn’t continue. Our worlds didn’t mix. They couldn’t.

The knot in my stomach tightened. I had to draw a line and reclaim the control slipping away. The more I let him in, the more I risked losing myself. I couldn’t let that happen.

Not again.

I needed space from a room that smelled like him. I combed and blow-dried my hair. Pulling on my heels, I seized the envelope he’d left on the console table. The hallway blurred as I headed outside. I locked my brownstone’s door and descended the steps.

Sunshine bathed the streets in gold, highlighting the heat rising from the pavement. People rushed the sidewalk with their coffees, heads down, the world narrowing to the glow of their screens. A stroll to the Boston Common would do me good.

I took a deep breath, steadying my nerves.

A strong hand clamped down on my shoulder, the grip so tight it sent a jolt of fear through me. I spun around, my pulse quickening, and stared into the hollow eyes of a sallow-faced man in a worn jean jacket. One of Dimitri’s men.

He found me .