Page 64 of Sweet Prison
“Shut the fuck up.”
My eyelids crack open. I’m a fairly light sleeper and positive that I heard something close by. The room is dark, and it takes a moment for my eyes to adjust to the unlit space. Once I do, the figure sitting near my desk comes into focus.
Massimo.
The silver beam streaming through the opening in the curtains creates an interplay of light and shadow over his impeccably sculpted, shirtless torso. Is this a dream?
His face is tilted up toward the ceiling, however, his eyes appear to be closed and a grimace is marring his flawless features. I don’t dare move an inch, pretending that I’m still asleep, while my eyes rove up and down his rapidly rising chest. He’s gripping the armrest of the chair with his left hand so hard, I can see the outline of the corded muscles of his forearm. His right hand is somewhat lost in the shadows on his lap, but I can see it moving. There’s a telling sway of the bare skin as it glistens in the dim light.
I feel the color flood my cheeks when I realize what he’s doing. Transfixed, I watch as he pleasures himself. Right here, in my darkened room. The strange tightness between my legs grips me again, as it does each time he is near. I can’t look away. My heart rate blasts into the stratosphere. With every stroke of his hand, the flexing in my core gets stronger.
“Appalled, angel?” he rasps. His voice sounds deeper than usual, his words echo throughout the room.
I swallow, only now realizing I’m sitting nearly fully upright, my eyes locked squarely on him. Yes, I probably should be appalled to find Massimo in my bedroom, jerking his cock mere steps from my bed. But I’m not. I’m so not.
I suck in a breath and meet his gaze. “Don’t stop.”
Devilish eyes burn through me as he keeps stroking himself inside his sweatpants. Based on the sizable bulge, his dick is huge and fully erect.
He lied. He lied to me after all.
All those things he said… That he sees me as only his stepsister. His assurance that he simply needs to protect a member of his family.
He lied.
As soon as that thought slams into my mind, my heart makes a valiant attempt to break out of my ribcage. It thunders loudly in my ears, and suddenly, all air leaves the room. That devastation I felt for believing his indifference toward me? The despair that gripped me because I thought that there was no chance of him ever returning my feelings? All of that misery was unfounded. A man doesn’t come to a woman’s room to jerk off if he feels nothing toward her.
He fucking lied!
A mix of anger and elation overwhelms me. On trembling legs, I rise and cross the space between us, until I’m standing at his wide-spread knees. My mouth grows dry. My skin feels clammy. Everything in me brims with barely restrained energy.
“Liar,” I whisper. There’s no need to elaborate further because I see it in his eyes—he knows what I mean.
“Guilty as charged.”
His words ring in my head. I grit my teeth. And then, I slap him across his face. A small retaliation for the hurt he caused me. For making me believe he had no feelings for me.
Massimo doesn’t even blink. He keeps stroking his cock, slowly, and without making a sound. His body seems unnaturally tense. A sheen of perspiration glistens on his chest. Is this how a man looks when he pleasures himself? His face is half-hidden in the darkness, though I can clearly see the hard line of his clenched jaw.
That expression doesn’t suggest he’s enjoying himself. He looks like he’s… in pain.
“You said you’d fuck your way through a whorehouse when you got released,” I bite out. I hated that awful letter, and my voice nearly breaks as I push out the words. But I need to know—is this simply the reaction of a man who hasn’t had sex in years? Or something else completely? Of every male in the universe I might have thought could be turned on by me, Massimo would have been the last.
“Mm-hmm. Drove straight there.” His nostrils flare. “And couldn’t get my dick up for anyone.”
I look down at his lap. He pulls his hand away, revealing the outline of his hard-on, tenting the fabric of his pants.
I can’t seem to look away. The anger I’ve been feeling evaporates, replaced with an onslaught of different feelings hitting me right in the chest. Satisfaction from knowing that it’s me who has caused him to be so turned-on. Excitement mixed with bone-shattering nervousness that leaves my mind utterly blank. My fingers are itching to touch him, to assure myself that this is real and not just a product of my imagination, except I don’t dare. I’m afraid this is all but a dream, and I don’t want to wake up if it is. Because this is Massimo. The only man who has ever made me feel this way. The only one who ever will.
“You have nothing to say?” he growls. “Do you think me vile? A sick fuck who came into his stepsister’s room to jerk off?”
My hand is shaking as I hesitantly reach out and lightly stroke his bulge. A guttural, pain-filled moan emits from Massimo’s throat. And I whimper. Shaken by both the sound and the power I feel under my palm.
“Why couldn’t you… get hard?” I give his cock another gentle brush over his sweatpants. “Tiziano always boasts about having the most beautiful girls in Boston.”
“Because none of those women were you, Zahara.” His reply is groaned through his teeth.
A swarm of butterflies takes flight inside my stomach as I let every syllable of his growled reply sink in. For years, I’ve fantasized about him saying things like that to me. In each of those dreamed-up situations, I imagined him softly whispering those words in my ear. I thought I would prefer him to speak like that. I was wrong. This. His growled response, which shows his internal battle—a battle he’s obviously losing—is what I needed. A throb, unlike any I’ve felt, seizes my core, and I feel myself get wetter.