Read Online The Fall Of Jacob Del Garda by CC MacKenzie - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: CC MacKenzie
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fingertips pressed into his waist.
She closed her eyes.
"Look at me," he demanded.
Her eyes snapped open to his.
He’d never spoken to her in that tone.
And he saw now that again he had scared her.
Tough.
"What do you want?" she asked again.
His forehead rested on hers.
And he could feel the rigid tension gripping her slight frame.
"I want closure, querida . I want to be able to move on with my life. I want to be able to go to sleep without hearing your voice, without wanting to bury myself deep inside you, without imagining you being fucked every which way by another man. I want peace, Gabriella. And you are going to give me that peace. Tonight."
Chapter Seven
Nico stretched and yawned, then toed off his shoes and shrugged off the jacket of his tux.
He was back home.
And all appeared nice and quiet at Ludlow Hall, thank God.
Feet sinking into the thick rug of cream wool, he padded over to his dressing room to grab a coat hanger. Stepping out of his pants, he hung them up too, careful to keep the crease of the silk and wool fabric. He wasn't a vain man, but for a boy who'd lived in foul-smelling rags for the first ten years of his life, he took a simple pleasure in taking care of his designer threads. The sound of a bath being run made him smile. If his wife was preparing for bed all must be well with the twins. Thank goodness they slept through the night these days. Bronte needed her rest. Smoothing his silk tie, Armani, into a slim drawer he stripped and tossed the rest of his clothes into a laundry bin. Strolling through their huge bedroom he noticed a pair of abandoned fuck-me heels of black suede at the side of the bed and bent to pick them up.
They'd been designed by Jimmy, bought on one of their frequent trips to the city of his birth, Rome. Bronte was not a demanding wife who spent her days depleting his bank balance. In fact, compared to the women he'd known before she changed his life, his wife was particularly low maintenance.
However, the one thing she couldn't resist was shoes and since he adored her he was more than happy to feed her habit. A silk gown, the colour of gunmetal, lay draped across a low couch. She'd fought a losing battle with him over the dress, right in the middle of the exclusive boutique, informing him that, 'She had plenty of gowns she hadn't worn yet so why the hell did she need another one?' Bless her, she hated clothes shopping with a passion. And he had to admit he got a real kick out of winding her up and spoiling her and he didn't feel at all guilty about it because she'd looked amazing tonight.
Grinning at the memory of furious eyes the colour of emerald hills, and the stubborn set of her mouth and chin, he picked up the dress and wandered through to her dressing room to put it in a garment bag for dry cleaning. And then he placed her shoes in a specially designed shoe rack in her closet. Bronte liked to joke that his tendency to like order in his life was verging on OCD, but Nico simply shrugged and told her she loved him anyway. And God knew she did love him, faults and all, and how amazing was that?
A tired yawn from the bathroom had him stroll through the open door and head for the shower. His wife lay in white claw foot tub up to her neck in bubbles. Like their daughter she was a natural ash blonde and the silky hair was tied up in a messy knot on the top of her head. Her face was scrubbed clean, which made her look about sixteen and her eyes were closed. Nico's brow creased at the dark circles under those thick lashes. She was doing too much. He stepped into the shower, slapped on the tap and made quick work of soaping and rinsing.
As he tucked a thick towel of white cotton around his hips, he picked up another to dry his hair and found himself the recipient of intense scrutiny. His wife's green eyes did an incredibly slow journey from his toes, to his hair, and back again before resting on his groin. And that was all it took for him to go
She closed her eyes.
"Look at me," he demanded.
Her eyes snapped open to his.
He’d never spoken to her in that tone.
And he saw now that again he had scared her.
Tough.
"What do you want?" she asked again.
His forehead rested on hers.
And he could feel the rigid tension gripping her slight frame.
"I want closure, querida . I want to be able to move on with my life. I want to be able to go to sleep without hearing your voice, without wanting to bury myself deep inside you, without imagining you being fucked every which way by another man. I want peace, Gabriella. And you are going to give me that peace. Tonight."
Chapter Seven
Nico stretched and yawned, then toed off his shoes and shrugged off the jacket of his tux.
He was back home.
And all appeared nice and quiet at Ludlow Hall, thank God.
Feet sinking into the thick rug of cream wool, he padded over to his dressing room to grab a coat hanger. Stepping out of his pants, he hung them up too, careful to keep the crease of the silk and wool fabric. He wasn't a vain man, but for a boy who'd lived in foul-smelling rags for the first ten years of his life, he took a simple pleasure in taking care of his designer threads. The sound of a bath being run made him smile. If his wife was preparing for bed all must be well with the twins. Thank goodness they slept through the night these days. Bronte needed her rest. Smoothing his silk tie, Armani, into a slim drawer he stripped and tossed the rest of his clothes into a laundry bin. Strolling through their huge bedroom he noticed a pair of abandoned fuck-me heels of black suede at the side of the bed and bent to pick them up.
They'd been designed by Jimmy, bought on one of their frequent trips to the city of his birth, Rome. Bronte was not a demanding wife who spent her days depleting his bank balance. In fact, compared to the women he'd known before she changed his life, his wife was particularly low maintenance.
However, the one thing she couldn't resist was shoes and since he adored her he was more than happy to feed her habit. A silk gown, the colour of gunmetal, lay draped across a low couch. She'd fought a losing battle with him over the dress, right in the middle of the exclusive boutique, informing him that, 'She had plenty of gowns she hadn't worn yet so why the hell did she need another one?' Bless her, she hated clothes shopping with a passion. And he had to admit he got a real kick out of winding her up and spoiling her and he didn't feel at all guilty about it because she'd looked amazing tonight.
Grinning at the memory of furious eyes the colour of emerald hills, and the stubborn set of her mouth and chin, he picked up the dress and wandered through to her dressing room to put it in a garment bag for dry cleaning. And then he placed her shoes in a specially designed shoe rack in her closet. Bronte liked to joke that his tendency to like order in his life was verging on OCD, but Nico simply shrugged and told her she loved him anyway. And God knew she did love him, faults and all, and how amazing was that?
A tired yawn from the bathroom had him stroll through the open door and head for the shower. His wife lay in white claw foot tub up to her neck in bubbles. Like their daughter she was a natural ash blonde and the silky hair was tied up in a messy knot on the top of her head. Her face was scrubbed clean, which made her look about sixteen and her eyes were closed. Nico's brow creased at the dark circles under those thick lashes. She was doing too much. He stepped into the shower, slapped on the tap and made quick work of soaping and rinsing.
As he tucked a thick towel of white cotton around his hips, he picked up another to dry his hair and found himself the recipient of intense scrutiny. His wife's green eyes did an incredibly slow journey from his toes, to his hair, and back again before resting on his groin. And that was all it took for him to go
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