"Are you wet enough?" He questions with hooded eyes.
I nod curtly. "Only the sound of your voice and my pussy jumps in excitement."
"Good. Turn around." He orders as both hands grip my waist, flipping me around before I can argue. "Sit on it and go...
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Most people say that the past has no effect on the future, but I strongly believe otherwise. The past, present and future are strongly connected to each other. Like the holy trinity. They're so connected in a way that one cannot thrive without the other.
It is the events of the past that perfectly creates the present and it is the events of the present that gives life to the future.
I know this because my past plagues me even until this day. My past is the reason I still live in misery, my past is the reason I've made very careless decisions and my past is the reason I've become the very depiction of evil.
My marriage into the Denaro's family would be considered one of the careless decisions I made in the past even though I was forced into it.
I'm going to swallow my pride and admit that I don't know how I managed to stay in a marriage with that good for nothing, selfish, piece of shit for so long.
I begged that fucker, begged him to make wise decisions, begged him to think it through before going after my father but his ego wouldn't let him listen.
Because of his useless ego, all my hard work had crumbled five years ago when my father went off the raider. My whole life shattered before my own eyes and I've had to live with the weight of the guilt of not being able to avenge my mother.
The very other thing that weighed and still weighs heavy in my heart is the passing of Pablo. It was my fault, if I had left when he asked me to, if I had been a good listener, then he wouldn't have had to take the hit in my place.
I always thought that the events of that day were a fragment of my subconscious. I always believed that it never happened. I had successfully convinced myself that Pablo was never shot, he never bled out, his eyes never closed and he never turned ice cold until a week ago at the charity event.
I searched for him, my Pablo, my brother but only found Dean, Maxwell and Alessio. He was nowhere to be seen but his murderer was seated there, his eyes boring into mine like the psychotic maniac he is. Realization that Pablo really died protecting me had hit me so hard that I cried throughout the drive back home.
I will not deny that Matteo still looked good, aging very beautifully and his eyes on mine stirred up emotions that I had buried. Emotions that shouldn't have a place in this world.
If it wasn't for Mark, then I wouldn't have had to attend that stupid charity ball. And now, all I can think about is Matteo. The surprise in his eyes when he saw me, the way his eyes pleaded that I forgave him, the uncertainty his hazel orbs held and the disgust I saw in them when Mark kissed me.
Those are the only thoughts I've had for a week and I loathe it.
I shouldn't be feeling this way, I don't want to feel this soft for him, I don't want the butterflies nor do I want to be weak.
Not anymore.
Not him.
I've had five years to recover from the physical, emotional and mental torture he had put me through and I'll be a fool to let him have that much power over me the second time in one lifetime.
