To Have & to Hurt by Morgan Bridges
Violetta
Whenever I think about what happened between Tristano and me last night, I can’t stop my hands from shaking and my heart from trying to escape my ribcage. He was intense in a way I’ve never seen and, as much as it excited me, I was equally nervous.
Because Tristano looked at me as though he wanted to kill me, fuck me, and marry me all at once.
It’s a lot to take in, and after spending half the night thinking through everything I’m not any closer to understanding what actually happened. Yes, he was being a jealous, possessive asshole, but there was an undercurrent of desperation I can’t ignore. And when I said I loved him? He wouldn’t let it go.
My sigh is loud in the quiet room. I still haven’t decided what to do about Tristano other than lock my door at night and avoid him as much as possible. Carina basically knows we’ve slept together so I could talk to her about the situation, but I just can’t, unless I use it as an excuse to leave. I know we’re staying in Tristano’s house for safety reasons and it wouldn’t be easy to convince anyone, including myself, to let me live somewhere else.
I might not be safer, but my heart would be.
I do love Tristano. And I’ll continue to because he’s more than some random guy who took my virginity. He’s a man who takes responsibility for his family, is fiercely loyal, and self-sacrificing for those he cares about. All the money and power he has doesn’t mean anything to me. My father has those and he’s evil incarnate.
But Tristano is like a guardian angel.
Who fucks like the devil.
I sigh again, unable to stop mentally replaying what happened between us last night. Even though I’ve only had sex a handful of times in my life, I have to admit that it was the best so far. But it can’t happen again unless I figure out what his intentions are. As before, I don’t expect him to declare his undying love and marry me, yet there are some things I do require in a relationship, even if he’s my first…boyfriend? Tristano is too mature and authoritative for such a term.
Lover and protector suit him perfectly.
Whatever he is to me, Tristano can’t treat me like a drug to get his sexual fix and then hide me away because he’s ashamed of his addiction. I know I’m not. He is still who and what I want, but he has to respect me or I’ll move on.
After watching my parent’s marriage, I’d rather be single for the rest of my life, than end up miserable like my mother.
I cautiously make my way downstairs and the entire time my stomach flutters with nerves. Seeing Tristano and acting as though nothing is going on will be extremely challenging, and I’m as prepared for that as I’m ever going to be. But I cannot, under any circumstances, end up alone with him. If I do, all the carefully constructed walls I’ve built around my heart will come tumbling down, leaving me defenseless against him.
The sounds of voices and the clinking of silverware and china reach me before I turn the corner. The informal dining area is less extravagant than the one located at the front of the mansion, but no less luxurious. A beautifully crafted, circular wooden table that seats eight is decorated with fresh blooms in crystal vases atop a linen tablecloth that’s been pressed and pleated. The side table is filled with a variety of breakfast foods and the delicious aromas from them permeate the air, giving it a welcoming atmosphere.
However, a quick sweep of the room has my heart leaping into my throat.
The places at the table have been set and the five individuals present have already claimed their spots, leaving me to sit next to Tristano. He flicks his gaze to me and there’s a challenge in it, one that has me lifting my chin and walking across the room as if he’s not there. I don’t know if he purposefully set this up, but I wouldn’t put it past him.
Carina waves at me from her chair next to Rafael and her smile is brighter than the rays of sunshine streaming through the floor-length windows. “Violetta, good morning.” She rises and then beckons me with an outstretched arm. “I’d like you to meet my friend, Emilia Silvestri.”
The introductions between myself, Emilia, and her husband, Maximus, are brief yet smooth. All the while I study the interactions and body language of the couple, noting how they act with each other and toward my sister. Emilia genuinely cares about Carina, endearing the stranger to me already. Not that she didn’t already have a place of honor in my mind. Anyone who’d sacrifice themself for my sister is someone I respect and admire without question.
And then there’s Maximus, who’s extremely devoted to his wife. Every time Emilia’s mouth lifts in a smile his gaze softens with adoration, but there’s always an air of protection about him in the way he stands next to her, as though ready to shield her with his body at a moment’s notice.
Rafael gives off the same type of energy around my sister and I wonder if this is just the way the Silvestri men are with the women they love. Because they do love them, passionately, completely, and irrevocably. That much is clear and indisputable.
Would Tristano be the same with whomever he gave his heart to?
Such a dream is nothing more than a mirage to me, leaving me wanting something that’s not reality.
After the introductions are finished, Carina takes my hand and leads me to the array of breakfast food. She mothers me, as she’s always done, and assists me in selecting my meal. Although we are only three years apart, my sister has always taken responsibility for me, even if I didn’t need it. Tristano reminds me of Carina in that way and I think it’s why I find him comforting to be around. Well, I used to. He’s taken an attitude of obligation and turned it into one of ownership.
Tristano may possess my heart, but he doesn’t own me.
No man ever will.
I lower myself into the empty seat next to him and immediately regret coming downstairs to eat. Tristano’s cologne wafts under my nose and I greedily inhale the clean scents of after-shave and spice. Then he leans over and says, “Good morning,” his deep baritone throaty and full, and his breath skimming the shell of my ear. It’s the same tone he uses whenever he’s stroking me and coaxing my body to orgasm. Immediately my skin heats with an artificial fever and I curse it for reacting to him.
I should’ve just starved myself. Who needs food anyway?
“Good morning,” I say, keeping my tone placid and cool with the hope he’ll get the hint I’m not in the mood to speak to him.
There’s no such luck.
“Did you sleep well?”
“Just fine.”
The conversation around us, mostly facilitated and carried out by Rafael, covers Tristano’s response. “I didn’t. And do you know why, ribelle?” he murmurs silkily.
Unwilling to take the bait and engage him in conversation, I reach for the wine glass filled with orange juice and take a sip. It turns out to be a mimosa, which is even better considering my nerves are frayed and I haven’t even started eating yet.
If I could request hard liquor without raising suspicion I would. Because that’s what it’d take to fortify me enough to get through this meal.
Tristano leans closer to me. “I wasn’t able to sleep because I couldn’t stop thinking about how it felt to be inside you, to drive my cock into that tight, wet pussy of yours over and over until I came so fucking hard I nearly passed out.”
I down the entire mimosa.
My face burns with embarrassment and the beginnings of arousal. My nipples tighten and my sex clenches as the images I’ve been trying to repress all morning come flooding back, a barrage of my sexual fantasies.
The sight of Tristano’s swollen cock right before he thrusts into my body.
The way he fucks me without remorse.
His face contorted in ecstasy.
My sex dampens and I shift in my seat, trying to alleviate the ache between my thighs, but to no avail. Tristano’s silver eyes sparkle with amusement, as well as lust, when I do. In return, I shoot him a glare and pick up my fork, eager to be done with this meal. When I viciously stab the herbed potatoes on my plate the side of his mouth lifts in a half-smile.
“Have you decided which day to get married?” Tristano asks, his gaze on Rafael and Carina. “Now that we’re all together I see no reason for you to delay the wedding any longer.”
The couple in question share a look and then my sister clears her throat. “I need some time to have Violetta and Emilia fitted for bridesmaids gowns. The ceremony will only consist of those in this room, but I’d still like for it to be planned to my specifications.”
Rafael rolls his eyes. “Sounds like we’re going to be waiting for a while. I could have Father Aldo here within the hour and then it’d be taken care of. That way we could move on to the consummation of the marriage, which is the part I’m really looking forward to.”
Carina’s cheeks turn rosy and she slaps his arm. “What did I tell you about saying sexual things in front of your family?”
“To say them loud and proud?” he asks with feigned confusion. “Oh no, that’s for when we’re in bed. My apologies, viziata.”
My sister groans and when our gazes meet she shakes her head with a sigh. I nod in sympathy, doing my best to convey how much I understand her frustration. If the Silvestri brothers are passionate in all things and in all ways, then this is just par for the course.
But that doesn’t make it any easier on the women.
Emilia tilts her head, a thoughtful gleam entering the green of her eyes and making them shine. “Fact: speaking dirty things heightens arousal, making it more likely that ejaculation and orgasm will be reached during coitus, which is necessary for reproduction.” She looks to Tristano with a crease between her brows. “This is what you’ve been striving towards, correct?”
“Creating a legacy, yes,” he says with a puzzled expression.
Rafael slams his hands on the table and roars with laughter. “Exactly! The ‘legacy-making’ part is all Tristano’s idea and I’m just doing my part to continue the family bloodline.”
Maximus exhales and then gets to his feet. After placing a kiss on Emilia's temple, he walks over to the side bar, pours himself a drink, and then returns to his seat. If I was brave enough I would’ve asked for a glass. It’s obvious by his behavior that this type of conversation is nothing unusual, no matter how outlandish. I grab my newly filled wine glass, earning a raised brow from Tristano, and then proceed to down it.
I can’t wait for it to be noon to have a drink, let alone 5 p.m., so mimosas it is.
The warmth in my belly spreads and my body relaxes, as much as it can with Tristano next to me. His presence always has me wrapped tightly, coiled and ready to spring. That applies to both wanting to run and wanting to come.
Thankfully, Rafael jumps to another topic, one less sexual and more appropriate for dining conversation. I finally take a bite of my food and chew happily while watching everyone else. Rafael is vastly entertaining, Maximus is closed-off but still engaging, and Emilia watches everyone with a studious expression while my sister grins. Seeing her happy is all I’ve ever wanted.
I’m still on the path of discovering myself and the things I want, but at least I can do it without feeling selfish because I don’t have to worry about Carina anymore. Although I’ll always make sure she’s doing well. I never want to be a burden to her, especially not when she has a wonderful future ahead of her. My sister having that will free me to concentrate on my life.
“And then there’s Violetta’s birthday to plan as well.”
I zip my gaze to my sister at the sound of my name. “What?”
She smiles at me. “You didn’t think I forgot, did you?”
“But…”
I stupidly glance at Tristano before I’ve had a chance to think better of it. His expression remains impassive, but there’s a glint in his gaze that has my heart racing. We’re both remembering the events of my actual birthday, that much is obvious. I can’t announce that Tristano already put together a celebration for me because it would raise questions.
Questions that I’m not willing to answer.
“Okay,” I finally manage, pasting a smile on my face.
Carina’s face brightens. “Wonderful.”
I busy myself with eating to maintain the appearance of normalcy and all the while various thoughts bounce around in my head. How can I determine what my interests are so I know what jobs to apply for? Do I need to get a master’s degree even though I recently graduated with a bachelor’s four years early? Is my degree null and void because it’s in general studies? How much longer until it’s safe for me to live on my own?
Obtaining the necessary information to answer the last question would require asking about my father and he’s not someone I want to talk about anytime soon. My hatred for him still burns hotly. My sister hinted during our conversation yesterday that the Silvestri men are planning something concerning him, which led me to believe he might not be around in the near future. Good fucking riddance.
With a sigh of frustration, I take my wine glass in hand and sip on it slowly, no longer in the mood to eat anything else. My thoughts hold so much uncertainty they’ve ruined my appetite and soured my mood.
So deep in my tumultuous thoughts, I’m startled by the feel of someone touching my leg. I instantly freeze, in lieu of screaming, and briefly drop my gaze to find Tristano’s fingers splayed across my thigh. He sweeps his thumb back and forth in a caress, while listening to the conversation and participating when necessary. I hide the shock that’s sure to be on my face by lifting my glass and pretending to drink.
If he doesn’t stop touching me, I won’t need to fake it.
I shift in my seat to scoot away from him, but he clamps his fingers so tightly the pain of it wrenches a gasp from me. Tristano gives me a pointed look and then loosens his grip, resuming the languid strokes on my thigh.
That was a warning, plain and simple.
Indecision wars within me. Rebellion is quick to rear its head, yet the consequences of acting out are more than just physical discomfort. I’m not ready for everyone to know what’s transpired between us. Not only would it make for awkward dining conversation, but I can’t really put words to it. How am I supposed to tell my future in-laws—which includes Tristano—that I love him, but not only that, I have no idea if I’m pregnant or not. I won’t disclose anything until I obtain answers first.
Tristano lays his arm on the table and leans forward. To anyone else it would seem as if he’s engaged in whatever Maximus is saying, but in actuality that position gives him more leeway to touch me without having to reach very far. He gathers the material of my sundress in a fist and proceeds to slowly raise it until my entire leg is exposed under the tablecloth.
I grab his hand with both of mine in a silent demand for him to stop, yet it does nothing to deter him. Instead he dips his fingers between my thighs and runs his fingertips over the crotch of my panties. His gaze shoots to me when he finds it damp and I pointedly ignore him, staring straight ahead and digging my nails into his skin.
Tristano’s mouth lifts into a sensual smirk, one that has me wanting to simultaneously slap him and kiss him. How can he elicit so much anger and arousal in me all at once? Regardless, he blends the two by snaking his finger under my panties to rub my clit.
I inhale sharply and try my hardest to shove his hand away, but his strength isn’t something I can compete with. And after a few languid strokes, I’m gripping his hand with mine and pressing him closer instead of away. It takes every ounce of willpower I have to keep from closing my eyes in bliss or moaning from the pleasure he’s giving me.
My hips lift of their own accord, wanting more, and now I’m digging my nails into his skin for a different reason altogether. It’s because of my growing arousal and the effort it takes to appear calm when there’s a cyclone of titillation swirling round and round in my core. I bite the inside of my cheek to prevent any sounds from escaping and I remove my hands from his, clutching the armrests of the chair to anchor myself before euphoria sends me flying.
Tristano’s voice is like liquid sex whenever he speaks and it glides over me when he answers Rafael, bringing me closer to the edge. My need for relief causes my eyes to prick with tears and my legs to shake. The cadence of my breathing no longer holds a steady rhythm and I purposely breathe in and out from my nose to lessen the erratic sound. If I were to open my mouth, more than voice would pour from me; it’d be a full symphony of rapture and release.
When he lightly pinches my clit, I jerk in my chair, gaining the attention of my sister. I give her a weak smile and then take my fork in hand, thinking to stab Tristano with it. But then he increases the pressure of his touch and the speed of his strokes and it’s all I can do to hold still. I drop my gaze to the table and push around the food on my plate to hide the sensual storm that’s gaining strength within me.
“Violetta, what do you think?”
I whip my head up and stare at Tristano with my lips parted. His gaze is bright with his licentious intent and I swallow deep to wet my dry throat.
“I think the current mayor in office is competent, but I’m not sure if there isn’t a better candidate,” he says, clearly delighted with my bewildered state. “I asked you what’s your opinion on the upcoming mayoral election.”
“I just want the best person for the position,” I say, my voice strained to my ears.
“My thoughts exactly.” His expression is full of triumph before he turns back to facing the others. “I agree, only the best should lead. Especially if they can anticipate the problems that are sure to be coming.”
Whether or not I imagined Tristano’s emphasis on that last word is irrelevant because my mind interpreted it as such and that mental trigger, plus the dangerous air of secrecy surrounding me, sends me over the edge.
Every muscle in my body tightens right before pleasure floods me, gathering in my sex and then rushing in all directions. The sensations stream through me like the blood in my veins, warm and fluid. I can’t hold back the small cry that’s nothing more than hum, but it has Tristano flicking his gaze in my direction. From my peripheral I can see his nostrils flare and his lips thin as he tries to maintain his blank expression. Knowing he’s affected by me, and that my reaction to coming impacts him so strongly, makes my orgasm all the more powerful.
He’s relentless in his strokes and when he pulls his fingers away I blow out a breath in relief, glad to have a reprieve. But it’s the calm before the storm. Tristano drives his fingers inside me and I bite my tongue so hard blood overwhelms my tastebuds. Anticipating the brutal thrust of his fingers, I’m surprised when he chooses to only massage the walls of my sex.
And he does it with the finesse of an artist, but with the force of a savage.
I orgasm again, never really having come down from the last high, and my vision blurs from the intensity of it. The pleasure surrounding me, completely taking over, renders me weak and I can only sit there as it shatters me.
Tristano leaves his fingers inside my body for a long time after I come, no doubt enjoying the way my sex continues to squeeze him after my orgasm has faded. When he finally removes his hand from between my legs, he reaches for a strawberry on his plate. I watch aghast as he rubs his damp fingertips all over the piece of fruit, coating it with the effects of my orgasm, and then bites into it. The low rumble from him after is for my ears only, too quiet for anyone else to hear.
I don’t blink, not wanting to miss the way he savors it or how he briefly closes his eyes before swallowing. My arousal skyrockets at the eroticism of that. I lay my fork down and slide my hand underneath the tablecloth, desperate to come again.
This time it’s Tristano who struggles to keep his composure.
He clears his throat more than once and fists his hands, one of them clutching a glass so tightly it could fracture and break. I want to drive him crazy like he did to me, but my orgasm is so close I don’t have the time to do more than reach over and grab his cock. It’s rock hard and twitches against my fingers as soon as they make contact.
Then I squeeze the fuck out of him when I come.
He stiffens in his seat and when he brings his hands to his armrests they’re shaking. The wood creaks under the strength of his grip and only when I retract my hand from his erection does he let go of the chair.
Now it’s my smile that’s full of mockery and triumph when I look at him.
But my humor vanishes at the unholy fire blazing in his eyes.
I might’ve started a war I can’t win.