Shadow Rider (36 page)

“Francesca.” He breathed her name in reverence. His woman. He hoped she felt what he was trying to show her with his body. Love wasn't the right word, not when it was everything. Not when it was so intense.

She stroked his hair, her eyes drowsy. Sated. Staring into her eyes shook him because he found himself drowning in her blue gaze, experiencing the most powerful emotion he'd ever felt. She shook the foundations of his world.

He allowed himself to collapse over her, burying his face against her neck. He nuzzled her there. Kissed her. Bit down as gently as he could, feeling her body shudder and quake around his as he glided into her over and over. Slow again. Bringing them both down from that exhilarating rush.

When he finally found the strength to withdraw, he rolled her onto her side, back to him, curling his body around her.

“I have to clean up.”

“No.” He made it an order. “Tonight you sleep with me inside you.” He had a primitive desire to own her body all night. He waited for her to protest. What woman wouldn't protest? His seed would run down her thighs. Make a sticky mess. She had every right to protest. He closed his eyes and pressed his forehead into the back of her head, into the luxurious mass of dark hair. Waiting.

Francesca laughed softly, and the sound teased every one of his senses. Made him indescribably happy. He lifted his
head because he had to see her. One hand moved the cloak of hair, exposing the tilt of her mouth. That sweet, sweet curve.

“You're kind of a caveman, sometimes, Stefano. But it's sexy. Really, really sexy.”

The breathless quality to her voice brushed like fingers over his belly, making his cock grow semihard when he'd just been feeling sated. She could make him insatiable. She already had. He was used to having a strong sex drive, mostly when he came out of the shadow portals, the adrenaline rushing through his veins, but now, he thought about sex about every third second. Sex with his woman. Francesca.

“Glad you think so,
amore
. You need to go back to sleep. You have work in the morning. Unless . . . ” He paused hopefully. When she didn't take the bait, he sighed. “You could quit.”

“I'm not going to be a kept woman, Stefano.”

He was silent. He wanted to keep her. It was necessary to him. “You do know I'm filthy rich, right? My family has money. I have money. I would much rather spend it on you than on anything or anyone else.” He spoke low, trying to keep his tone even. He knew money was going to be a sore subject with her. She'd been homeless. And she had a streak of pride a mile wide.

“You bought me an entire wardrobe, honey,” she said.

Her voice was quiet. Almost gentle. He could tell she was trying to tiptoe around his pride. It wasn't that though. “It's about me needing to do things for you, Francesca. It makes me happy. You have no idea how happy. I've never had this before.”

It was difficult to make the admission, not with his emotions choking him. He was grateful he was behind her, his body locked around hers. He tightened his arm around her chest, and pushed his hips deeper into her. She was so soft. Incredibly soft. And warm. Her perfect little ass pushed back against him, and he closed his eyes against the streak of white lightning shooting through his cock to his belly.

“I'll keep my job for the time being, Stefano. It helps me
learn about all the people in the neighborhood. You grew up with them. I would like to get to know them. I can tell they matter to you—you help them out a lot. If I'm going to be your wife, then they should be able to come to me so I can take some of the burden off you.”

His heart jerked hard in his chest. The pressure was strong, an actual pain. She
was
going to be his wife. He would accept nothing less, but to have her want to get to know the people in his world just so she could help him reduced him to putty. She didn't know it—and thank God she didn't—but she had him in the palm of her hand. She had all the power in their relationship. She probably always would.

“You're killing me, woman. Go to sleep.” Because he couldn't take much more.

“Not yet.”

“Bambina,”
he said softly, sweeping the hair from her neck to over her shoulder. He pressed his lips against her bare nape. “Go to sleep. If you don't, I'll know I didn't do my job, wearing you out.” He murmured the words against her soft skin, his teeth scraping back and forth gently, the desire to take a bite out of her strong in him. “That will mean I'll start all over again, which I don't mind, but I'll get you sore. So close your beautiful eyes for me and go to sleep.”

She sighed. “I wish I could, but I keep thinking about the poor girl, Stefano. The one you told me about.”

He closed his eyes. He had no right blurting out details of his assignments no matter how disturbing or upsetting. “Francesca, I should never have told you about her. I don't know why I did. You don't need to hear things like that. Not ever.” He stroked her hair. He loved touching her. He fucking needed to touch her.

“Of course I do,” Francesca protested, snuggling deeper into her pillow.

He loved the way her bare skin slid over his. Like silk. Or satin. So sinful he wanted her all over again. His cock just kept throbbing. Demanding. He pressed deeper against her ass, finding the crease there. He used one hand to circle
his shaft, closing his eyes against the pleasure sweeping through him.

“Anything that upsets you, I want to share. I want you to be able to talk to me about your work. I might not be able to do anything but listen, but at least I can do that. The thing is, if you're reading reports on this girl, that means you're considering some way to help her.”

He met her statement with silence. She turned her head to look over her shoulder at him.
Dio.
So fucking beautiful. Her eyes. The way she looked at him as if he were the only man in the world. He buried his face in her hair, escaping that wide blue gaze.

“You're too damn smart for your own good, Francesca. We're getting into things I can't talk about until my ring is on your finger.”

She blinked at him and then turned back to lay her head on her pillow, her fingers curling into a fist beside her chin. “Your ring is on my finger,” she pointed out, her voice low.

He reached across her body to lift her left hand, his thumb sliding over the engagement ring. He loved seeing it on her finger. Feeling it there. “You have to have my wedding band here as well. That's how this works in my family,
amore
.”

Francesca was silent for a long time, and his heart pounded. She couldn't slip away. She just couldn't. Not now. He wouldn't allow it. He stayed quiet, afraid to say anything. Afraid not to.

“Stefano, I know your business isn't legal. I suspected all along, but you told me your family doesn't sell drugs or run guns and I believe you. I can't imagine you involved in prostitution or, worse, human trafficking.”

His heart continued to pound. Blood thundered in his ears. Was she making a leap of faith or about to tell him to fuck off? He held himself very still, waiting for her to shatter him.

“Your family isn't like the Saldi family, in the news suspected of all kinds of heinous crimes. Still, in spite of your banks, hotels, nightclubs and even the casinos, I'm fairly certain your family has an illegal side to some of the things you do.”

Not his
entire
family. Just the ones that would matter to her. He wanted to kiss her, cover her mouth with his. Stop her. In that moment he knew she could shatter him. Break him into a million pieces and he'd never recover. Not in this lifetime. He realized all the lore in his family was truth. Ferraro men, when they found the right woman, loved her with everything in them and they did it only once. Francesca was his once.

“To be with you, I can accept a lot of things, Stefano, but not silence. Not being kept in the dark. I know that there isn't always justice in the world. Believe me, I am living proof of that. It isn't like I'm ever going to go running to the police believing they'll help me. I did that too many times.”

She made a move, as if she might put distance between them. He wasn't having that. He refused. He tightened his arm under her breasts and tucked her into his side, pushing his cock into the cleft of her rounded cheeks, deep, claiming that part of her for his own as well. Making a statement. She subsided, but that didn't stop the tension from coiling tighter in his gut.

“This girl. The one you read about. I don't know why people come to you for help, but if you can get her out of that situation, I'm behind you 100 percent.”

She turned her head again to look at him over her shoulder. Her blue eyes were dark. Beautiful. Filled with possession and pride. For him. Fuck. She was killing him, taking him over, one slice of his soul at a time. His cock hardened until he thought he might shatter. Or maybe his heart was going to fragment into a million pieces.

“And, Stefano, I don't care how you have to do it, legal or otherwise. Just help her if you can.” A soft dictate. An acceptance.

His heart nearly exploded. He reached down and caught her hips, tugging her into position, one hand sliding between her legs. She was filled with him. Slick with him. Slick with the both of them. He lifted one of her legs and just slid home.
Buried himself deep. Stayed planted as deep as humanly possible while he held her to him. While he buried his face in the ultimate luxury of her thick dark hair. He didn't move, just stayed locked to her. Buried in her, right where he wanted to live. Home.

“Stefano?” Her voice caressed his skin. Melted into his bones. “Honey, you have to move. You can't tease me like this.”

He found himself smiling like an idiot. If his brothers saw him now they'd call him whipped, and he wouldn't care. She was exhausted, had to get up early and she had that little demand in her voice that was sexy as hell. So hot, his woman. So fucking hot. He complied and gave her exactly what she wanted. He'd give her the world every time.

*   *   *

F
rancesca woke to the first streaks of light invading the bedroom. She knew instantly she was alone and for a moment her heart thudded in protest. She buried her face in the pillow. The scent of Stefano still lingered in the room. In her. On her. She stretched and muscles protested deliciously. She liked that. She liked belonging to him. Knowing his mark was on her and that every time she took a step, she'd feel him inside her.

She sat up, pulling the sheet with her when she realized she didn't have a stitch on. Blinking, she pushed at the hair tumbling around her face and down her back. The room was immaculate. Stefano had picked up their scattered clothes. She found herself laughing as she made her way to the master bathroom. She was happy. She hadn't expected to ever be happy again. Not after losing her parents. Not after losing her sister. Not after Barry Anthon had begun his campaign to take everything from her.

The water was hot, just the way she liked it. It poured over her, soothing the soreness in her muscles. Stefano always, always ensured she found nothing but absolute pleasure in his arms, but he wasn't a gentle lover. He could be
sometimes, but it was rare. Gentle usually turned into rough. Hard. She loved rough and hard with him; anything at all he wanted to do, she was totally into. He liked to put his brand on her. She loved those marks of possession, but her body sometimes protested. Hot water took care of that, leaving her with a straight happiness vibe.

She dressed carefully in one of the many skirts Stefano had bought her. He had great taste in clothing. She was fairly certain she'd seen this particular skirt in the window of Lucia's Treasures. It was a beautiful royal blue, the material exquisite. Flowy. A handkerchief hemline. The skirt rode low on the hips and the matching top, out of the same material, was a corset with a zigzag of royal blue cord through eyelets lacing up the front. She loved the way it narrowed at her rib cage and emphasized her small waist.

She had curves—hips and breasts and, as far as she was concerned, too big of a butt—but the cut of the skirt and matching blouse was flattering. She loved the way the material felt as it swished around her legs and fell over her hips in a sexy sway. She added soft suede boots and dried her hair in a loose cloud of dark waves. At the deli she'd have to pull it back to work around the food, but she wanted to look nice when she kissed Stefano good-bye. Her sweater was lacy, an intricate pattern, soft and warm, with tiny buttons going up the front.

Giving herself one last look in the mirror, Francesca stepped out into the hall and started toward the living room. Immediately she heard a woman's voice. Low. Furious. Filled with contempt and repressed anger. Not a hot anger, but cold, like a vicious snake, coiled and ready to strike.

“Do you have
any
idea who this woman is? You should have had her investigated before you ever allowed the media to get ahold of pictures of you with her. My God, Stefano, she's been in a mental facility. She'll drag our good name through the mud, and you'll let her.”

Francesca stopped moving instantly, one hand going protectively to her throat, her legs like rubber. That cold voice
was talking about her. There was no mistaking that at all. She'd been locked up for seventy-two hours.

“They do say that the mentally unbalanced are a good lay,” the voice continued, the contempt deepening. “But I
forbid
this. Our name means something, and just because you can't keep your dick in your pants . . .”

“Eloisa, that's enough.”

Francesca flinched at the tone of Stefano's voice. He was angry. Not his usual enraged but under-control anger; this was a smoldering, scary, very low voice that indicated he was extremely dangerous.

“I'm your mother . . .”

“Don't.”
His voice was a whip, lashing out with a viciousness Francesca hadn't known him capable of. “You lost the right to call yourself my mother a long time ago. You never played that role, and now isn't the time to start. You don't know the first thing about my relationship with Francesca.”