Beast I Can’t Tame by L.K. Shaw
Chapter 28
Giovanni
I brushFrancesca’s hair off her face, my expression shifting from concern. My heart had stopped when she started crying. I’d been afraid I’d hurt her. “You never have to ask.”
Claiming her mouth with another kiss, she melts into me, welcoming me. I line my cock up with her entrance and slowly slide through the wetness. My muscles burn from the tight rein I have on my control. I murmur words of praise—of love—in Francesca’s ear. Her pussy clamps down on me, fitting like a glove. I’m about to explode, but I breathe through it. Her pleasure comes first. I want her to orgasm at least once more before I come inside her. Fuck.
“I don’t have on a condom.” I’ve never forgotten before.
Francesca worries her bottom lip and meets my gaze. “I haven’t since…” she trails off.
“I haven’t either. Not since I met you. You are the only woman I’ve wanted.”“It’s okay. It’ll be all right.”
“Are you sure?” I ask intently. She has to be positive, because there’s no going back after this.
Her answer is to push her pelvis upward and my cock notches even deeper. I’m fully seated inside her pussy, which throbs around me, those little pulses matching the beat of my heart. It’s all the incentive I need. My pelvis rocks, thrusting shallowly, before I pull out further and surge back in gaining speed. We rock together, the friction mounting.
The smell of sex permeates the air along with the sound of flesh against flesh. Francesca’s kittenish noises and my groans join in creating the most beautiful symphony. It’s perfect—she’s perfect—just like I knew it would be. Worth the heartache and the wait. Her cries grow louder. I can’t hold back much longer.
Reaching between us, I finger Francesca’s clit, rubbing it the way I’ve learned she enjoys and it only takes a minute before her breath catches and her pussy clamps down hard, milking my come that I can’t hold back any longer. I thrust one last time and lock my cock inside, holding it there while I explode inside her. Tremors course through me, and she pulls every bit of seed from me until I collapse over her in an exhausted heap.
Sweat coats our bodies. I feel complete. This is where I was always meant to be. In this woman’s arms and in her bed. I roll to the side, taking Francesca with, and pull her to me. She snuggles into my chest, burying her nose against my skin.
“That was amazing,” she whispers, her breath tickling my flesh.
“Yes, I was,” I agree with an amused chuckle.
She pinches my side with a scolding, “Hey!”, but her laughter joins mine.
It feels so good to be able to bring a smile to Francesca’s face. To feel her joy. I’ll do anything for her. Whatever she asks. Her laughter fades. Having her in my arms is more—better—than I imagined.
“Do you want kids?” she asks quietly, her breath warm.
“I don’t know,” I say after a moment, the image of that little boy and girl popping into my head again. “What if I’m a shit dad? I mean, look at my own. Couldn’t even be bothered to acknowledge my existence.”
“I’ve thought about them a lot recently. Like all the time. Wanting them. Seeing their smiles. Hearing their laughter. Watching them grow up. Then,” she pauses, her voice cracking a little, before she clears her throat. “Then the guilt creeps back in.”
“Why do you feel guilty?” I ask.
Francesca takes in a ragged breath. “Because I didn’t want the other baby.”
What other—? Oh, fuck. The second understanding hits me, she shifts as though to pull away, but I tighten my arms around her, not letting her hide from me. She stiffens for a second and then relaxes enough that she’s not rigid, but there’s still tension in her body.
“You were an eighteen-year-old girl. I can’t even begin to imagine what that was like for you. But I don’t think you have anything to feel guilty about,” I say quietly, rubbing her arm with gentle strokes.
“When I found out I was pregnant, I wanted to die. I didn’t tell anyone. Not Theresa, my shrink. Not my brother. And definitely not my mother. I’d never been so scared in my life. What would everyone say? Would they hate me? The baby?” Francesca’s voice is filled with pain. I’d give anything to take it away from her.
“I wish I could have been there for you back then.” With my very soul I wish I had been. I could have held her through the pain. Showed her how much she was loved.
“When I started bleeding, I freaked out. Called Theresa. Before she even got there, it was gone. I knew it. There was so much blood. She called 9-1-1, and they rushed me to the hospital.” She pauses and takes a deep breath. “All I could think about while I lay in that bed was how glad I was. What kind of person does that make me?”
I tip Francesca’s head up with a finger under her chin. Her eyes are watery. She blinks, and a tear drips down her cheek. “It makes you a scared young woman who went through something horrific. It makes you human. There’s nothing wrong with that.”
There isn’t anything else I can say to ease her guilt. All I can do is hold her through it. And still love her. I release my hold, and she lays her head back on my chest. We continue to lie there, quietly, while I run my hand up and down her back.
“If I was going to have kids, I’d only ever want them with you. You’re going to make an amazing mom. When you’re ready.” For Francesca, I’d be the best dad I knew how to be. We’ll learn how to be parents together. With her at my side, there’s nothing I can’t do. Even be a great father.
“I love you,” she whispers. “So much that it terrifies me.”
“I love you, too. And I’ll never let anyone hurt you. You’re safe with me.”
Francesca snuggles deeper against me. From the nightstand, my phone rings. I’m tempted to ignore it, but a call this late can’t be good news. I roll over and grab it.
“Hello?”
“Is this Giovanni Saccone?” The male on the other end asks.
“Yes. Can I help you?”
“Mr. Saccone, I’m with the Brooklyn Police. Are you related to a Beatrice Saccone?”
I bolt upright. “She’s my mother. Is everything okay?”
“I was hoping you’d be able to come to the station, please?”
“I’ll be there shortly,” I say, already out of the bed and picking my clothes up off the floor, and end the call.
Francesca sits against the headboard, the sheet pulled up and covering her breasts, her expression full of concern. “What’s wrong?”
“That was the police, calling about my mother. I’m sorry, but I need to go.”
She scrambles out of the bed, disregarding her nakedness. “I’ll come with you.”
An instant denial gets strangled in my throat. I’ve been expecting this moment since I was a kid. To get that phone call from either the cops or the hospital. He didn’t need to tell me why he wants me. My gut says Beatrice is dead. It’s always been in the back of my mind, regardless of how much I hate her. I’ve never wished her dead, though. She’s still my mother. I’m not sure I can do this alone.
Once we’re both dressed, I make my way to the police station. The ride is quiet, and Francesca holds my hand the entire way. Finally, we walk through the doors. It’s quiet and somber.
We approach the desk manned by a haggard-looking cop. “Can I help you?” he asks, his voice dragging as though it took effort to even speak.
“I’m Giovanni Saccone. I’m here about my mother, Beatrice Saccone.”
“Have a seat.”
Francesca and I sit and wait. It could be minutes or hours later, but finally a middle-aged, paunchy gentleman wearing a buttoned jacket that pulls around his waist—the kind I’d assumed would be on Jacob’s payroll—steps through a door.
“Mr. Saccone?”
Francesca and I rise and follow him to a private office where he gestures for us to sit.
“I appreciate you coming down here so late.”
“Is she dead?” I ask. “That’s all I want to know.”
“I’m sorry to be the one to tell you,” he says.
“How?”
“We won’t know until the final toxicology reports and autopsy are performed, but we suspect it was a drug overdose,” the detective announces.
I can only nod, because it doesn’t come as a surprise. You knew it would end like this. I imagine Beatrice did too. She knew the risks and took them anyway. With everything in life, I’m guessing.
“Thank you for letting me know.” I rise, as does Francesca, and I shake his hand.
The ride back to the house is just as quiet. I should say something—anything—but what is there to say? After I park, we walk inside. I head to the couch, while Francesca goes into the kitchen. She comes back in with a bottle of water. I’m not thirsty, but I take it with a smile and set it on the end table next to me.
She joins me and once again, I find myself lying on my back with my head in her lap. She strokes her fingers through my hair, and I close my eyes, taking a deep shuddering breath.
“I should probably feel something, shouldn’t I?” I ask her.
“You don’t?” There’s no judgment in her tone. Just a hint of curiosity.
“No. Well, maybe a bit of guilt,” I admit. “But that’s only because I don’t feel anything else. Not grief. Not relief. There’s nothing. It’s as though I’ve been told a stranger is dead.”
Francesca’s fingers continue to play with my hair, her nails occasionally gently scraping my scalp. It’s soothing. “It sounds like, essentially, she was close enough to being one. There’s nothing wrong with not feeling anything right now. Maybe you will next week. Or next month. Or maybe you never will.”
“Who doesn’t feel something when their mother is dead?” I ask.
“A wise person told me recently that not feeling emotions that others might expect only makes us human.”
My eyes open to peer up at her. Francesca’s expression is soft and full of understanding. I reach up and cradle her cheek, emotions nearly robbing me of breath. She’s so fucking beautiful. “I love you.”
She leans into my touch. We lay there, in the semi-darkness, until weariness and exhaustion take over. I rise from the couch, and pull her to her feet before we head to the bedroom. We slowly undress and collapse into the bed. I pull Francesca into the cradle of my body, cocooning her within my hold, needing to feel her close to me. With her at my side, I’ll be able to get through this.
Jacob will need to be notified, but it can wait. In the meantime, sleep is calling to me. I welcome the abyss, where I don’t have to think—or feel—anything.
