A Prayer for the Faithless ch.2
Mafia au!pazzi. Strippers, political marriages & lesbians making catastrophically bad decisions. Men & Minors dni.
WC: 9.6k for Chapter 2
Non sia fatta la volontà di Dio, ma la mia.
Not God's will be done, but mine.
CW: organized crime, mafia politics, evil geno auriemma, arranged marriage, political manipulation, cheating, surveillance, emotional abuse, coercive control, arson, attempted murder, kidnapping, graphic violence, revenge, betrayal, family dysfunction, catastrophic fire, homophobia, car theft, money laundering, lying by omission, mutual pining, jealousy, yearning, emotional repression, "we can have sex but we absolutely cannot fall in love," communication issues, blondezzi, azzi is a stripper, religious imagery/phrases, sexual content, dompaige, subazzi, daddy kink, breeding kink, strap referred to as dick, somnophilia, overstimulation, public sex, at any point in time a WNBA player you love may kill someone or be killed, Adam Silva, Cathy Englebert, Caitlin Clark, and Sophie Cunningham as the primary villains (though somehow no more evil than they are irl), Caitlin Clark and Paige Buecker's arranged marriage but don’t be scared, liberal em dash usage because I like them and chat gpt can suck my dick
With the exception of those athletes who are transphobic/homophobic/racist pos - none of these characters' moral depravity reflects the morals of the people whose names they share.
Notes: This story is a rewrite/is inspired by The Grand Trilogy by writer Caranofiction, a Twilight mafia au, but reimagined as a contemporary pazzi sapphic crime au. The original piece is set in the 1980s in Las Vegas and for those who want to read it please be warned that it does involve sexism, racism, homophobia, violence, death, and more. My story will not reflect those same themes (in the sense that in the original characters made comments that I guess were meant to reflect the attitudes of the time period, my story is set in our current time, characters are homophobic but the main characters as in Paige and Azzi and their friends are not.
Translations for any Italian used are at the end (I don't speak Italian, real Italian-heads/Italian-stans don't stone me if it's ass, I love the season of Jersey Shore where they go to Italy!!!)
Thank you for reading :)
Chapter 2: The Ecstasy of Saint Therasa, Paige's POV
It feels important to clarify that I do not under normal circumstances allow strange women to hook their fingers through my belt and parade me around in public like some obedient little puppy.
But somewhere between the cocaine, my on going reluctant stint with celibacy, and meeting what I can only understand must be a succubus sent directly from hell to expose precisely how little dignity I possess—I have clearly lost my fucking way.
Some intoxicated pucchiach cuts across Bambi’s path, so she stops short to avoid the collision, and I’m too close behind her to do the same. My chest meets her back, soft curves giving beneath the impact as her body rocks into mine. Her blonde hair sweeps across my throat and spills down the bare front of my chest, silky ends dragging over my skin while the warm, round weight of her ass presses against my hips.
She leans her head back to look up at me over her shoulder.
“You good?” she asks, the picture of innocence.
Bambi shifts to let the drunk finish stumbling past, her ass grinding back against my thigh. The friction makes her eyes go deliciously hazy, her bottom lip pushing farther into a pout that really fucking gets to me.
I have to bring my hand to close around her hip and hold her still. Not hard, just enough to keep her from absentmindedly doing that shit twice. My thumb dips into the soft curve just beneath her skirt, and fuck, I’m thinking about that same hand abandoning its post to slide up her waist and over her ribs until my fingers circle that delicate throat to keep her face tipped back toward mine. It would be so easy. It would feel so—
“Yeah.” My tongue feels clumsy and heavy in my mouth. “I’m good.”
Understatement of the fucking century. Bro, I’m wet.
My boxers are a pitiful mess and it doesn’t help that even as she continues to pull me deeper into the club my mind is stuck on the first soft bounce of her against me. It’s euphoric to let that image escalate into a full-blown fantasy. My own private movie starring her and I, joined at the crux of ourselves by my strap fucking into her.
Holding her by those toned shoulders so she can’t run from me.
Helping her take every single inch.
Ok, I need to calm down.
I snatch a drink off a passing tray, totally indifferent to the contents. I just need the burn of alcohol to stave off this desperate thirst clawing up my throat. I take a long swallow, and somewhere around the third mouthful I register that there is a lot of attention directed our way.
The club’s usual atmosphere of chaotic indulgence has narrowed around us into something more concentrated, a collective envy.
Nothing actually stops—that would be less unnerving. Dancers continue to grind in the laps of men who have gone completely stone-faced beneath them. Bartenders keep filling glasses that nobody reaches for, condensation gathers beneath untouched tumblers and creeps across the tables in wet rings. Somewhere behind me, a horse race in Switzerland explodes out of the gate, the announcer losing his fucking mind while every patron in my line of sight has turned their back on the sportsbook.
Nobody cares. They’re all too busy watching me get manhandled.
A couple bastards at the rail look especially aggrieved. The whole crew coordinated their bald spots for their outing tonight, four gleaming heads swinging in sequence like the balls of a Newton’s cradle as each man shifts to keep his beady little eyes on the woman who abandoned them to play with me.
One member of the Bald Spot Brigade catches me looking their way. His mouth pinches tight, and the look he gives me is so sour that I decide, immediately, that whatever Bambi does next, I’m going to make damn sure he sees me enjoy it.
In the meantime I flash him a big smile. Shameless and gloating.
His nostrils flare, and God, it feels better than the line I did earlier.
My hand drops to Bambi’s. I let my fingers curl around her wrist, not prying her loose, but closing the circuit. Her pulse jumps hard against the pads of my fingers. The hand tucked into my belt tightens with it, knuckles pressing into my stomach, and I feel the tiny hitch that runs through her before she smooths it out.
She shakes her head, already laughing under her breath, and cuts a quick glance back at me. Her eyes land on the shit-eating grin I’m still wearing, flick toward the miserable fuckers at the rail, and come right back with all the pieces put together.
“Stop provoking my clientele.”
Her wrist shifts inside my grip. I tighten my fingers just enough to keep her hand exactly where she put it.
That earns me another quick look over her shoulder, though this time her eyes narrow into an adorable little glare. Her brows pull together, mouth flattening like she actually expects me to be intimidated by it.
She’s so fucking cute.
I have the sudden, unreasonable urge to bite her.
I bend over her shoulder instead, my chest brushing her back as I sweep the heavy fall of blonde hair away from the nape of her neck. The strands slide through my fingers and spill over her other shoulder, leaving a warm strip of skin bare for me. I gently nuzzle my nose along the curve beneath her ear.
Her shoulders lift with a shaky exhale, before I feel her settle more fully against my chest, giving a little more of her weight over to me.
Yeah baby, come lean on me, use me.
I breathe her in. She’s all orange blossom, sugared neroli, and the salt-sweet heat of skin still warm from the stage.
“You’re the one who’s got everybody riled up, Princess,” I let her know.
Her breath is still coming out uneven, but when she looks back at me, there’s nothing rattled in her expression.
“Oh, I’m not worried.” Her thumb drags across the stretch of stomach exposed above my belt, that gentle touch stroking a wicked heat pulsating from my weak, weeping cunt.
“People say I have a talent for begging—” She lets the word sit there, lets my brain, traitorous creature that it is, generate several extremely vivid examples of said begging before she finishes, “—for forgiveness.”
She slips her wrist free and keeps walking forward. Of course I’m following without question, tethered to her by nothing more than the ghost of her touch and a sick, desperate need to feel it again.
She brings me to a velvet chair at the edge of the stage. I take the hint and move to sit down, but before I can lower myself, she steps directly into the space in front of me.
A chorus of complaints rises around us almost immediately.
“Bambi, come on!”
“Get back onstage!”
Someone actually boos.
And then, from somewhere behind me—“Just kiss already!”
Oh, I know that’s not who I think it is.
That better not be who I think it is, because that voice sounded a helluva lot like my dumbass sister Kate, who it better not be.
If the heckling bothers Bambi, it doesn’t show. She’s too busy closing the distance between us, tipping her face up like we’re all alone.
Oh.
Her eyes drop to my mouth.
Oh, fuck.
She takes another small step, and suddenly I’m acutely aware of every goddamn person watching us. Men I recognize from dinners at Geno’s house. Guys who’ve done business with my Ma and Nika. People who know exactly who I am and exactly whose fiancée I became a few hours ago.
My eyes cut across the room and land on Sue and Breanna.
I signal S-O-S in morse code with my eyes. Save me!
Breanna stares at me for a moment, grabs Sue by the hips from behind, and starts thrusting against her like a twelve-year-old boy.
Was I born to suffer fools?
Bambi moves impossibly closer, the tip of her nose brushing mine.
God, no. I was born to suffer this.
There’s a damp little shine along the bow of her upper lip and a faint sheen of sweat clinging near her hairline, and I want to lick it off. I want to find out what’s making her mouth shine and taste that too.
But, Geno.
And the absolute certainty that somebody in this room is going to tell him exactly what his newly engaged niece spent her night doing.
My head pulls back a mere fraction of an inch.
Bambi catches it. There’s a small drop in her expression, but she recovers quickly, tipping her chin up as that playful look settles back over her face.
“Coward.”
Her hands come up over my chest, sliding warm against my skin as she steps right back into the sliver of space I put between us. She brings her mouth back to me, like my little retreat changed absolutely nothing.
Holy shit.
I am a fucking coward and she’s still going to kiss me.
God is real.
Her breath ghosts over my lips, and I’m bending down to meet her, happily accepting whatever divine intervention has saved me from fumbling the hottest woman I’ve ever seen—when her palms shove hard against my chest and send me flying backwards.
My knees hit the chair and I drop into it, ass bouncing once against the velvet as the whole fucking rail erupts into laughter. whistles, and howls. Just, overly going.
I stare up at her in total disbelief.
She steps neatly between my knees with the unhurried confidence of a cat planting one paw over a mouse’s tail to keep it from bolting. One hand settles over my shoulder, warm and deceptively gentle, but when I shift beneath her, her fingers press down and keep me precisely where she’s placed me.
Her eyes narrow with obvious satisfaction.
“Since you want to play the good girl tonight,” she says, leaning closer until all that blonde hair spills forward around us, “sit still—”
My eyebrows shoot up.
“—and watch.”
Oh.
Something warm uncurls low in my stomach when she turns away from me, all golden hair and bare back and that wicked little sway in her hips as she heads for the stage.
All that pushing. The fingers in my belt. The orders. Calling me a coward and coming right back. She’s testing what she can get away with, inching across the line each time I let her, and it seems she’s decided there’s no end to it.
She’s a brat.
And I’ll happily play that game, because this shit isn’t fun without a little fight in it.
Bambi glances back at me, one eyebrow lifting as the corner of her mouth curls around a barely contained smile when she sees I’ve remained exactly as she left me.
Good girl, she mouths, grinning around a triumphant grin, which makes me chuckle.
‘Cause, yeah, Geno can go fuck himself—raw—with a chainsaw. There’s no stopping what’s coming next.
I lean back into the velvet and spread my knees wide, lifting my eyebrows in an obvious challenge. Go ahead, Princess. Play with me.
The music rolls back in around her, vibrating through the legs of my chair as she catches the pole and slips straight back into the beat.
She climbs in a few quick pulls, thighs tightening around the chrome before she tips herself horizontal, one leg extending out while the other stretches high along the pole into a brutal split. I’m watching the strain in her abs, the flash of her belly piercing, and the way that tiny bandeau fights for its life stretched tight across her tits.
The men closest to the stage are still on their feet, shouting and smacking handfuls of cash against the rail when she comes down slow, turns her back to me, and folds forward with her feet spread wide, ass high and presented.
Then she starts throwing it back.
The place fucking erupts. Bills splash across the stage, whistles tear through the music, some mindless gorilla pounds both fists against the brass rail while Bambi’s hips work through a dirty rhythm, dropping until her thighs are parallel with the floor.
I lean back in the chair, tongue pressed against the inside of my cheek.
Cazzo, she can dip low.
She rises out of it slowly and reaches behind herself for the clasp of her bandeau.
Alright. Show’s over.
I’m out of that chair with a quickness. The men around the stage are getting louder with anticipation, completely unaware that their evening is about to take quite a turn. I slip a hand inside my jacket as I cross the few steps between us and come out with a thick band of cash.
Bambi’s hands pause.
Her chest, still heaving slightly from the dance, a fine shine of sweat caught along her collarbones, and those enormous brown eyes following my every move.
They drop to the money.
The onlookers are immediately riled by the stop, their half-stiff dicks compelling them into another round of bitching and moaning.
“Come on!”
“Bambi!”
“Baby please!”
Her attention stays on the stack hanging from my fingers, eyes narrowing slightly as she tries to count out what I’m holding.
I toss it up so she can get a better look.
The bills land at her feet with a hard slap.
“Finish the fucking dance!”
That one comes from some red-faced jamoke two seats down, leaning so far over the table his beer gut is practically resting on it.
I turn my head and pin him with an ice-cold glare.
Watch your fucking tone, bitch.
His mouth hangs open for a moment until he catches the pressure behind my direct attention. He eases his big ass back into the seat.
Bambi looks down at the stack by her heels, and somebody close enough to read it says the number out loud.
“Five fucking grand?!”
Haha, yeah. Five grand.
Now these idiots finally understand what’s happening.
In desperate retaliation their hands shoot into pockets. Money clips come out. Loose twenties start waving over people’s heads. One chooch has a fistful of ones in one hand while his friend peels hundreds into the other, and—Jesus Christ—they are actually pooling their scharol’ together.
For what?
They can empty every wallet in this joint and it’ll amount to fuck all.
I look up at Bambi.
Her breathing has started to settle, but her body is still flushed from exertion, stomach pulling tight around the little jewel in her navel every time she draws a deeper breath. Her eyes look almost black now, fixed on me while the men scramble helplessly below.
They’re the kind of losers who’d buy an F40 just to creep through their gated neighborhood. Country club. Putting green. Steakhouse valet. Back home before dark. They’d buy one of the nastiest cars Ferrari ever made just to keep the revs low and the paint clean because the second those turbos really wake up, everything gets harder than their soft little hands know how to manage.
These motherfuckers would spend a fortune just to own something this beautiful and never have the nerve to find out what she can actually do.
I know what an F40 feels like once you stop babying it. Past a hundred, speed makes everything so sensitive. A little pressure on the throttle becomes a lot of car very fucking quickly. There’s no power steering, no ABS, no traction control waiting to cover for sloppy hands.
Every touch matters more.
That’s the part I love.
The way all that tension forces you to focus. Hands quiet on the wheel, feeling every tremor that comes back through it, learning how little pressure she actually needs once she’s worked up and responsive beneath you.
My eyes drag slowly over Bambi.
My hand slips back into my jacket.
When it comes out again, there are two more fat stacks of cash between my fingers.
Ten thousand dollars.
The little collections of cash around the rail suddenly look even more pathetic. A few guys throw their hands up in outright defeat. Somebody groans, “Stugats, fuck this,” while another starts bitching that I’m ruining her farewell set.
Bambi looks from the money in my hand to the five grand at her feet.
And kicks it away.
The stack goes skidding across the stage.
The reaction damn near shakes the room. Guys are clapping each other on the back, pounding the rail, hollering for another round like they’ve just won a fucking war.
Maron’, you’d think these pricks liberated Sicily.
Bambi drops onto her hands and knees. They start calling for her immediately.
“Bambi!”
“Come here, honey!”
“Right here!”
Hands reach up along the rail as she begins to crawl. Her palms press flat to the stage and her shoulders shift with each slow advance, the muscles along her arms and back tightening beneath bronze skin. Her spine settles into a deep arch that keeps her ass high behind her, hips swaying gently from side to side as one knee slides forward and then the other.
The calls get louder as she moves down the edge of the stage, guys leaning across tables and practically over one another trying to coax her their way.
She crawls past the first outstretched hand.
Then another.
And another.
She slinks to a stop in front of me, coming right to the lip of the stage above my chair. She pulls up on to her knees and holds there, one hand planted between her thighs while she looks down at my extended hand.
When she reaches for it, I let her fingertips brush the edge of the paper before drawing it back just enough to bring her eyes back to me. Look at me for a second, sweetness. I need to give her the words she earned for crawling past every open hand in this place to mine.
“Good girl,” I praise, my voice a soft break beneath the deafening crush of booming music, entitled heterosexual men, and the roar of my own heartbeat in my ears.
Bambi’s lips softly part, freeing her breath in a tiny, helpless rush. Her eyes have gone from teasing to pleading, and I feel as though I’m watching her sink beneath a warm, almost dazed need so naked in its openness it makes my chest pull tight and my cunt throb.
She reaches forward, straight past the money. Her hands settle onto my shoulders instead, and she leans past the rail with the motion. There’s no careful climb down. She simply lets gravity take over, body spilling over the edge in one warm, boneless rush. Letting herself simply drip onto me.
“Jesus—!”
The cash leaves my hand without a thought, tossed toward the floor as both my arms shoot out for her.
I catch her around the waist and haul her greedily into me, gathering all that loose, yielding weight straight into my lap.
She folds so beautifully.
Her knees come down on either side of my hips, long legs closing around me as she sinks fully into me, warm and heavy and slightly damp from the stage. There’s something almost obscene about how easily she settles there after making me chase her attention all fucking night—this wild little thing suddenly poured soft into my hands.
“Happy?” She asks with a bright smile.
“Getting there.”
It takes damn near all my self-control to loosen my grip on the soft flesh of her ass, where my fingers have left little dents, and move my hands to the arms of the chair instead.
Bambi shifts when I let her go, her thighs draw snug around mine and one arm slips behind my neck, bringing her close enough that the damp heat of her skin gathers between us.
Her eyes drop.
First to one of my hands gripping the chair. Then the other.
When she looks back up, her teeth have caught her bottom lip.
From this close, I can see the slight overbite of her front teeth, just enough to give them that sweet, bunnyish shape as they press into all that soft pink flesh.
“Why won’t you touch me?”
My gaze stays on her mouth, overwhelmed by the lush way it wraps around each word.
I lift one hand from the chair and slip my thumb beneath her trapped lip, gently pulling it out from under her teeth. I stroke over the bitten skin, soothing the raw little patch of red.
“I am touching you.”
She immediately grinds down on me. A small, deliberate roll of her hips that damn near pulls a moan out of me when the motion drags my sodden boxers across my sensitive clit.
“Don’t play dumb,” she purrs.
I reel back from her, staring for half a beat before a laugh breaks loose. I shake my head, because Madonna mia, this girl is something else, and lean right back into her space.
“Baby, if I start touching you like that, swear I’m not gonna fucking stop.”
Her lips part beneath my thumb. I press harder, toying with the flesh.
Her hips grind down again, chasing pressure with a desperation that pulls a frustrated sound from low in her throat when it isn’t enough. She shifts again almost immediately, trying to press closer, thighs tightening around me as if she could force the last inch of space out from between us.
“And I won’t care how loudly your little fan club cries about it.”
She drops her face into the side of my neck and kisses me there—one hot, impatient press of her mouth against my skin that has my fingers clamping down on the arms of the chair. I have to set my jaw before I can force my final warning out.
“Or how loudly you’ll cry about it.”
Mary Mother of Christ, what a fucking image. I let myself sink into a sloppy wet dream of my face buried between those toned thighs, eating my way right through her.
I'd ignore every mournful plea to stop exposing her in front of the audience—tie her to a chair on stage and give them a real show worth paying for.
“Fuck.” The word slips out thin and broken as one of her hands climbs from my shoulder, fingers threading deep into my hair and tightening there.
And God, she’d love it too. With teary eyes and babygirl whimpering, I know she’d pulse and drip through every second, messy cunt giving her away. I can already picture the humiliating little contradiction of it—her face burning, lashes wet, thighs trembling while her body stays shamelessly open.
She'd love showing off what a desperate little slut she can be for Daddy.
She lifts her head, dragging her mouth close to my ear, breath hot and uneven against my skin.
“Private room—now, please.”
Well since she said please...
I give up on pretending I have any fucking restraint left and wrap both arms around her, crushing her against me in a tight, vicious squeeze.
Bambi makes a surprised little sound against my neck.
I bury my face against the side of hers for half a second and just hold her, squeezing all that hot, restless tension out through my arms before I do something significantly less appropriate in the middle of Sue’s club.
“Fuck yes.”
Apparently that’s all she needed to hear.
She scrambles out of my lap so fast I bark out a laugh, one second draped all warm and languid over me and the next fighting her way upright with eager urgency. She gets both feet underneath herself and I stand with her, catching her around the waist before she can get farther than half a step.
She turns back toward me and—Jesus. She looks wrecked already.
Cheeks flushed, hair mussed around her face, eyes hungry and impatient as they flick down to my mouth, down the column of my throat. Her bottom lip is pinker where I’ve been playing with it.
My hands slide slowly from her waist over the curve of her ass, squeezing the fat flesh, enjoying the way she leans into me and I press a light kiss on her forehead, murmuring, “Baby, don’t forget your money.”
With a slow blink and a breathy laugh, she climbs back onto the stage to collect what’s hers while I bend down to snatch the rest of her money off the floor.
When I straighten, the entire fucking section is still staring at us. I look from face to face, “What are you fucking gawking for? You guys don’t got shit else to do?”
My eyes drift toward the stage just as Bambi bends to retrieve the stack she kicked away, that tiny pink skirt riding up over an ass I now know, firsthand, feels exactly as good as it looks.
Cazzo. Her body is fucking ridiculous man.
“Actually—I can't blame you.”
Then I look back at them.
“But you’re not me.”
I pull my jacket aside to expose my gun sitting tucked against my waist, letting everyone get a good fucking look. Whatever drunken entitlement was left on their faces disappears.
I hold their eyes one by one, making sure there’s no fucking confusion about what’ll happen if anybody decides Bambi leaving with me is still open for discussion.
“Fatti cazzi vostri. Move the fuck on.”
The club recovers with impressive speed.
Heads whip around. The sportsbook regains several deeply committed viewers. One man who has spent the last fifteen minutes staring at Bambi’s tits begins studying the condensation on his glass. A new dancer appears through the curtain as the music changes, and within seconds the men at the rail are loudly rediscovering their lifelong passion for somebody else’s ass.
Bambi comes back to the edge of the stage with her money, and I hold out my hand to help her down. The second her feet hit the floor, I hook an arm around her waist and pull her to walk in front of me, giving that bubble butt a quick little smack to get her movin’.
“Lead the way, Princess.”
Bambi whips the door open but barely makes it two steps inside before I catch her by the waist and pull her right back to me. She turns with a breathy little laugh that dies the second I push her into the door, both arms coming to bracket around her face. Her mouth is already falling open when I kiss her, warm and wet and eager beneath mine. A groan rattles loose from the open cavity of my chest. It really isn’t like me to be so vocal over a fucking kiss but after an entire night of teasing I finally know what she tastes like, and that shit’s worth a moan, maybe even a fucking whimper, no lie.
She tastes like honeysuckle tipped right down my throat. Not honey, nothing thick or heavy, but that clear bead of nectar you coax from the flower as a kid, pinching the green base and pulling the little string through until one perfect drop gathers at the end. Tipping your head back to let it fall onto your tongue.
She’s clean and floral and painfully sweet, so light it disappears the second I taste it and leaves me chasing the next drop. I abandon closed-mouth kisses to lick into her, greedy in the same childish way I used to strip whole honeysuckle vines bare to get enough nectar to satisfy me.
And thank fucking God she’s meeting me with the same hunger, chasing my mouth when I pull back for air, sucking at my bottom lip. Our teeth knock once. Neither of us gives a shit.
I tear myself away just to look at her.
The whole room is bathed in red light.
Red crawling over her shoulders, sinking into the hollows beneath her cheekbones, turning all that champagne-blonde hair strange and molten where it catches the light—pink at the edges, cherry-dark in the shadows. Even her mouth looks redder for it, swollen and wet for me.
When I’m tracing her face, I get stuck on her nose. Her nose, of all fucking things.
That perfect little button of it, slightly shiny at the tip, sits between those pleading eyes and that bitten mouth and I swear it’s like somebody assembled her to cause me physical pain.
Looking at her hurts.
It’s that bright, vicious ache of biting straight into ice cream with sensitive teeth, when the cold is all sting and sweetness at once. Like I wasn’t born with the right fucking teeth for something this good. Like there is no way to devour her without hurting myself a little.
My eyes keep moving because they can’t seem to get enough. Nose. Mouth. Eyes. Back to her mouth. The red light has gotten into everything now. Red hair. Red lips. Red flushed cheeks. Red, red, red, cherry fucking red until I feel half out of my mind with it.
I can’t just stand there looking anymore.
My hands leave the door and close around her, dragging her off the wood and tight against my chest.
And my breath just weeps out of me, long and shaking against the side of her face, everything I’ve been holding clenched inside myself all night pouring loose between us while I bury my face in her neck and bite down. Bambi gasps.
“Goddamn,” I moan against the tender skin there, holding her heavy against the door while my mouth drags higher. “I wish I could take you home, baby.”
I kiss a wet path beneath her ear.
“Fuck, wish I could.”
Because I can’t. Not with Geno’s eyes crawling all over this fucking city and half the club already prepared to report exactly how badly I’ve behaved.
“But I just can’t.”
Bambi goes stiff in my arms.
I lift my head.
There it is again—that little spark of mischief catching behind all that black in her eyes, something sly waking back up beneath the haze I kissed into her.
“Who says I’d let you take me anywhere?”
She says it softly, almost sweetly, which somehow makes the little blade tucked inside it cut deeper.
“You don’t know me.”
Her fingertips trail lazily down my chest.
“You don’t even know my name.”
There’s a tiny flash of bunny teeth when she tries not to smile.
“I’d love to know your name, pretty.”
I dip closer, nose brushing hers.
“Because Bambi?” My gaze drops pointedly to her mouth. “Innocent little woodland creature, you are not.”
I punctuate the statement by removing my hands from the curve of her ass to slide lower, fingertips deliberately grazing the warm insides of her thighs.
Her legs snap together on instinct, trapping my hands between them.
“Hold on,” she whimpers, “I-I'm not done berating you for assuming I’d just let you take me home and fuck me,”
Ugh, so cute. I use my hands to work her thighs apart and slide my leg between hers, wedging her open against me. I can feel her pussy hot against my thigh, and I curse the layers of our clothing that stand between me feeling the wet slick of her drooling on my bare skin.
Her teeth clamp down on that poor bottom lip again while both hands drop to my thigh, gripping hard like she needs something solid to hold onto now that I’ve put pressure exactly where she needed it.
“C’mon sweetheart, tell me your name,” I murmur, dipping down to scatter a few more kisses along her jaw, but she’s not hearing a fucking word I’m saying. She’s too busy grinding earnestly into my thigh, lost in her efforts to wring more pleasure out of the pressure between us, and honestly? Fuck the names. We can exchange that shit later.
She looks too good like this, head tumbled forward against my chest, eyes closed as she loses herself in chasing her own pleasure. I tighten my grip on her hips and drag her down harder.
Her head snaps up.
Her brows pinch sharply together and pull high at the center, wrinkling the space above her nose while the rest of her face seems to collapse around those enormous eyes. She looks fucking wounded by how good it feels, her hands flying off my leg to wrap around my neck, pulling me into a desperate kiss.
I catch her with my mouth open and wanting.
She kisses me like she’s trying to crawl inside it, all wet tongue and broken little breaths, still rocking helplessly against my thigh while her fingers twist into the hair at the nape of my neck. I get both hands around her waist and hold her there, letting her use me until the sound she whimpers into my mouth goes whiny and frustrated again.
I guide her backward until her shoulders meet the door once again. My hands slide down her sides, over the flare of her hips, lower still, and I’m looking at the whole length of her body beneath that filthy red light.
All that pink. All that brown skin turned cherry-dark in the shadows. Her stomach pulling tight with every breath, thighs still faintly trembling.
“Let me taste you?”
My voice comes out fucked—low and rough like a growl, but the last word catches and goes embarrassingly soft. It’s a plea, and we both know it.
Without pretense, I sink to my knees and push what remains of her little pink mini skirt up over her hips.
“Fuck,” she curses at the sight of my eager supplication.
“Please.” I plant a kiss where the cleft of her wet cunt presses against the drenched cotton of her panties. “Please, I need to lick your pussy right fucking now.”
She nods jerkily and hooks her fingers into the waistband of her panties, but pauses before pulling them down.
“I won’t last long,” she warns. Her thighs draw a little closer together, and I feel the nervous tension run through them beneath my hands.
I smooth my palms slowly up the backs of her legs until she relaxes, then I lift one to rest over the expanse of my shoulder.
“That’s all alright, angel.” I lean in and press a wet kiss to the inside of her raised thigh, feeling the muscle jump beneath my mouth.
“I won't stop until I’m finished, no matter how many times you do.”
And with that, I slide her panties to the side and shove my face into her gushing cunt.
The sounds that fill our little private room are obscene. They bounce around this relic of the Reagan era, with its smoked mirrors, lacquered black trim, brass bars, and of course, all that sinful red light.
I wonder how much of that red has worked its way into the pale blue of my eyes, and what color they must be now. Violet, maybe? Something bruised and feverish. I just hope she can see herself reflected in them, because the view above me is so close to heavenly I’m checking my own pulse to make sure I’m still among the living.
I’ve abandoned all of my carefully constructed standard sexual practices. My method of eating pussy is supposed to begin with several minutes of light teasing, kitten licks against my partner’s swollen clit, light kisses and cold breath blown over heated flesh. All designed to irritate the recipient past the point of any self-consciousness, until they’re begging me for more.
We’re so beyond that point.
And it’s all her fucking fault.
I mean, I’d come on a little stronger than usual. I’d given her clit a few rough laps with my tongue before remembering myself, pulling back to reset and beginning my usual flow with the most basic shit: blowing lightly on her clit.
I hadn’t expected her to shatter from something so feather-light. She’d pulled furiously at my hair, dragging my mouth closer to her soaked skin.
I hadn’t expected the deep, shaky breath she took before pleading emphatically, “Please give me more. I don’t want that to be it. I still need more.”
Her begging drew forth the memory of this one nun from high school, Sister Chiara. A mean, repressed witch of a holy woman. Whenever she thought a student was displaying greed or ungratefulness, she’d have us recite this one poem to remind us that Christ was the only thing a good Catholic girl should ever hunger for shamelessly.
Chi non saria, Gesù, preso e conquisoveder la faccia tua così vermiglia,mista col bel candor e meraviglia,umidi i bei crin d’oro intorno al viso?
Who would not be taken and conquered, Jesus, seeing your face so crimson, that beautiful whiteness mixed with wonder, your lovely golden hair damp around your face?
I’d looked up at Bambi.
The apples of her cheeks were flushed a delicious red, and the sweat at her hairline had coaxed the fine blonde strands around her temples into little damp curls.
Who would not be taken and conquered by such a sight?
Stanco, anelante, sopra il pozzo assiso,con fisse luci e con penose ciglia,a l’aura estiva refrigerio pigliail monarca immortal del Paradiso.
Weary, panting, seated upon the well, with fixed eyes and a pained brow, taking refreshment from the summer air, the immortal monarch of Paradise.
There was poetry in watching a heavenly creature brought down into the lowly human act of thirst.
Deh, corri, anima ingrata, al vivo fontech’estinguer puote ogni desire insano,e resta ebra d’amore e di dolcezza.
Run, ungrateful soul, to the living fountain that can extinguish every unhealthy desire, and remain drunk with love and sweetness.
Bambi had grown visibly frustrated with my inaction by then, a small whimper slipping out as she gave my hair one light, intentional tug.
“Sei tu il desiderio insano, o la fonte viva?” I’d mouthed against her skin, kissing my way back up the length of her thigh.
Are you the unhealthy desire, or the living fountain?
From my knees, with her above me begging for more, the distinction felt fucking useless.
So yeah, this uncharacteristically sloppy lovemaking? I put the blame on her.
I burrow into the wet warmth of her drooling pussy, tongue plunging deep into her so I can draw all that intoxicating slick into my mouth, my nose brushing against the button of her clit. She tastes so good, and she’s so generous, holding her legs open so I can eat freely, fighting against the urge to close them around my head as her second climax draws near.
I draw my mouth away from her sopping hole to attach my lips to her clit. I suck the pulsing nerve, replace my lips with my tongue and shake my head against her furiously.
“Oh shit!” She cries out.
I bring two fingers to trace along the lips of her pussy, lightly teasing her, dipping the tips of those fingers to press lightly against that pulsing pink opening, feeling her clench beneath me, neglecting to fill her where it aches.
“Fuck me,” she moans while trying to manuever her hips to sink down onto my fingers. I draw them back, flicking my eyes up to her while continuing the ministrations to her clit with my tongue. “Please baby, I feel so empty,” she whimpers.
Hm, it is a compelling argument.
But I want to keep that look in her eyes for just a little longer. She keeps looking down at me with this open, miserable expectation, like surely I can see what I’m doing to her. Surely I’m going to fix it.
And of course I’ll fix it—when I’m ready.
For now, I ignore her plea, completely removing my fingers from her pussy to wrench her legs a little wider. I hear her make a small sound of obvious irritation, a scoff and some low grumbling I can’t quite discern. Then I feel one of her hands disentangle from my scalp. She drags the slender extremity down the plane of her sweat slicked stomach, pausing for a moment before diving down into my domain, fucking two of her own fingers inside herself and throwing her head back with a wanton cry.
“Oh my God—O-oh fuck, yes! Don’t stop! Please don’t stop...please...please!”
I pull my head back, lines of saliva and her arousal stretching thin between us before they snap.
“N-no! No, I just said don’t stop, God! Fuck—fuck you!” She groans around a high-pitched whine, her hips bucking up to chase my mouth. She doesn’t stop fucking herself on those offensive fingers, continuing to defy my pace, to intrude upon my territory.
I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and rise from my knees.
Bambi blinks up at me, precious confusion threading through the needy little haze on her face.
My patience, however, has officially run out.
Somewhere along the way, this girl got a little too comfortable thinking she was the one setting the pace. Pulling my hair. Grinding into me. Begging and tugging and trying to drag exactly what she wants out of my hands before I’m ready to give it.
She wants more?
Fine.
But she’s getting it my way.
I catch her hand and pull it away from herself, bringing her fingers straight to my mouth. My lips close around them and I suck slowly, tongue dragging over the digits.
To think I was happily in the middle of fucking savoring that taste before somebody decided to be a needy little slut who couldn’t keep her hands to herself.
But that’s ok. I have something for you, baby.
“Turn around,” I murmur, voice gone rough as I step back and give her room.
Bambi hesitates.
Her eyes flick over my face, wide and uncertain now, like she’s trying to figure out exactly what I have planned for her.
I hold her gaze.
“Hands on the door,” I tell her firmly. “Spread your legs for me.”
She turns slowly.
And fuck me.
The little pink skirt is bunched uselessly around her hips, completely exposing her crooked panties. One side’s tugged higher than the other from everything we’ve already done, leaving the lush curve of her ass practically bare.
Her shoulders draw back slightly as she braces herself, and the movement makes every line of her body sharpen under the red light. Then she spreads her feet.
Just like I told her.
For somebody who spent half the night testing how much shit she could get away with, she looks awfully fucking pretty following directions.
I step in behind her and fold over her back, covering her with my body until my chest presses between her shoulder blades and my arms cage hers against the door. She gives the smallest shake when I settle against her, a fine tremor running through all that warm skin beneath me.
I lower my mouth to her ear.
“You’re a rotten, mean little thing, you know that?”
My lips brush the shell of it as I speak. One hand leaves the door and slides slowly down her side, following that impossible waist until my palm settles over her hip and holds her there.
“All I wanted was to enjoy you.” I press a kiss beneath her ear. “Take my time. Learn what you like. Build you up nice and slow.”
My hand dips to press between her thighs.
“Especially after you came from practically fucking nothing.”
She shivers beneath me.
“But you’re greedy, aren’t you?” I murmur. “Couldn’t just be good and let me take care of you. Had to pull my hair. Had to rush me. Had to keep pushing until you got exactly what you wanted.”
Her ass pushes back into me, grinding against my neglected clit. I slide my hand from her hip around the front of her waist and pull her tighter against me, moaning from the sweet pressure of her against where I need it.
I turn my face until my mouth is almost touching her cheek.
“You were talking just fine a second ago, baby. What happened?”
Her fingers flex against the door.
I let the silence sit just long enough to make her squirm beneath me, then kiss her temple.
“That’s okay, sweetness. You don’t have to answer me.”
I push her ruined underwear to the side once more, thrust two fingers into the tight snatch of her cunt, and she finally, blessedly, breaks into a desperate keen, head falling back against my shoulder.
“I’m gonna get you right regardless.”
Her breath catches.
“And when I’m done doing it my way, I’m gonna lay you out and eat you until I’m fucking finished.”
“O-ok I get it, just please, please fuck m—” Her words are cut off by a choked gasp as my fingers begin to pound into her. Her hips push back instinctively with the pressure, that perfect ass grinding into me again and again and we’re both getting loud with it, her broken little cries complementing my rough moans.
One of her hands leaves the door and reaches blindly behind her.
Her fingers find my belt.
At first she only grabs it, fist closing around the leather so she can yank me tighter against her, using it like a handle to grind her ass on my clit. Then her hand shifts and I feel her fumbling for the buckle.
Her fingers work clumsily from the wrong angle, catching the leather, losing it, finding the buckle again. The more it refuses to cooperate, the more frantic she gets until she lets out this sharp cry of pure frustration and starts outright fighting with the fucking thing.
I look down at her hand struggling at my waist and laugh under my breath.
“You wanna feel how wet I am for you, Princess?” I ask, curling my fingers right into her gummy G-spot, relishing the way her pussy clenches around me. “Wanna get your greedy little hands down my—shit—down my ruined boxers?”
Christ, I can’t believe how ridiculously close I am to cumming from some over-the-clothes dry humping. This shit’s fucking insane.
“I want to make you feel good,” she whimpers, breath catching around the words as her fingers keep worrying at my belt. “I wanna taste you, I wanna feel what I do to you.”
“Yeah? Come here,” I command, using the hand that isn’t actively trying to get her off to turn her face so I can kiss her deeply. “You’re too fucking cute,” I mumble against her mouth. “Gonna look so good on your knees for me with my pussy in your mouth.”
“God please, please,” she begs, her mouth still seeking my own, her hips still fucking back into my clit. She’s wrenched my belt loose, so now her ass is grinding even more directly onto me, and I’m close. I’m so close. I need to make her cum.
“Shit-shit-shit-shit, I’m gonna cum—please let me cum—can I cum? I need to—fuck!”
Perfect fucking timing.
“Yeah, cum on my fingers Angel, give me that shit...S-shit—baby I’m close too, gonna cum in my boxers from that perfect ass grinding on me...fuck! Yes—yes!”
Our mutual release fills the room with a filthy concoction of unrestrained moaning, the slick squelch of my fingers fucking her through her it, and the door shaking with each desperate forward thrust of my hips into her.
“Ok-ok no more,” she weeps, her hand flying to grip my own, a vain attempt to stop the continued motion of my fingers.
“What did I tell you baby?” I get back down on my knees behind her, drawing my fingers from her cunt only to roughly yank her panties down her legs. I bring my hands to grip the cheeks of her voluptuous ass, and lean forward, licking over her trembling flesh.
“Voglio assaggiarti tutta,” I speak the words into her pussy, and she moans like she understands.
“But I can’t take anymore,” she whimpers, but she presses her hands flat against the door like a good girl, grounding herself so she can continue to take it all. I can’t wait to reward her for that shit, gonna grind my pussy over her hungry mouth and make her tongue the letters t-h-a-n-k y-o-u into my clit.
Unfortunately, my plans are temporarily halted by the tentative squeak of a voice on the other side of the door.
“Um...order from DoorDash?”
A shy knock follows.
Bambi whips her head down toward me, brows shooting up as her mouth falls open in genuine disbelief. Her expression screams, How the fuck did you order DoorDash when your hands have been glued to my ass for the last hour?
I shrug my shoulders and keep eating her out from behind. Eventually he’ll figure out that nobody is going to open up that fucking door.
Another knock.
“Hello?”
Bambi lets out a choked moan in response, slapping her hand over her mouth and squeaking with embarrassment.
“You don’t have to be quiet, baby,” I whisper, looking at her with a half-lidded, pussy drunk expression. I spread her cheeks apart with both hands and knead the flesh, taking in how wet and pink her cunt is for me. I need another taste. I lean back in to lap at her hungrily.
“Let him hear you, sweetheart,” I murmur, low and amused. “Maybe then he’ll realize I’m fucking busy and leave us alone.”
I release one cheek to slip a finger into her, the sound so deliciously lewd I actually moan, loud and unashamed, at the sight, sound, and sensation of digging into her. When her legs start shaking, I add two more fingers, stretching her around me deliciously.
“Fuck—Angel, you’re taking my fingers so well.”
The knocking starts again.
“Um...Paige? I have your DoorDash order? Please take it?”
Bambi rips her hand from her mouth and lifts her head from where it was resting against the door.
“Paige is busy. So please fuck off!”
She just said my fucking name.
Soft and breathless and pissed off on my behalf, Paige dragged through that sweet mouth like it belongs there. I swear I feel every syllable separately.
Paige.
Yeah. Fuck. I need to hear her say that again.
She flips around so her back is against the door, catches me before I can properly recover, and drags my mouth back to her pussy, grinding down on my face.
“Yes Paige, please, just like that baby,” she whimpers, abandoning any effort to mask the sounds of her pleasure.
She’s so fucking hot.
I can’t believe she’s real.
Then, muffled through the wood, “Bruh, I need the PIN or I won’t get paid.”
The guy knocks again, and whatever thin strand of civilized behavior I’ve been hanging onto finally snaps. I catch Bambi around the waist and pull her behind me before wrenching the door open. The poor bastard on the other side visibly recoils.
Fair.
I must look rabid. Hair fucked six ways to Sunday, belt undone, pants hanging low, mouth swollen and covered in slick, chest heaving, eyes burning under that demonic red light spilling out behind me. One hand is braced against the doorframe like I’m keeping myself from lunging and snapping his throat.
He holds the bag out between us like an offering to an angry god.
“PIN?”
From down the hall, an amused voice calls, “4457.”
I slowly turn my head.
Sue, Breanna, and Kate are posted up against the wall, totally unashamed of their cock-blocking meddling.
“Sue, are you fucking serious?!” I shout.
Kate gives the DoorDasher an enthusiastic thumbs-up. “You did great following our extremely specific delivery instructions!”
“I could fucking kill all three of you.”
I snatch the DashMart bag out of the poor guy’s hands, fling it blindly behind me toward Bambi, and slam the door hard enough to shake the frame.
Silence.
I stand there breathing through my nose.
When I finally turn around, Bambi has already excavated the contents of the bag.
A thick black strap, somehow and very suspiciously already fitted into a harness, dangles from one finger.
Through the the door, I can hear my family fucking losing it.
Heat climbs straight up my neck into my ears.
Fantastic. Which means my face is absolutely bright red, despite the fact that less than two minutes ago I was on my knees with my face buried between this woman’s thighs like the living fountain had personally opened beneath me.
“I-I didn’t order that!”
Oh, fuck off. I can’t believe I’m stuttering over this stupid stunt.
Bambi’s eyes brighten immediately.
I reach for the strap.
She sidesteps me.
That bratty little smile comes sliding back into place, all her earlier softness and trembling obedience tucked away.
“So this is what makes you stutter?”
“Give me that.”
She holds it farther away.
“I wanted to hear you stutter for the first time from between your legs.” Her voice drops into a sweet little purr that makes my face get hotter.
“I’m not fucking shy about sex.” I make another grab for it. She dodges me again. “Or straps. Or anything like that. Sue is just a fucking idiot, so I’m stuttering because I'm embarrassed to be related to her ass.”
Bambi freezes.
“You’re related to Sue?”
“Unfortunately.”
Her eyes narrow slightly as she really looks at me. Something clicks. “Wait.” She points at me with the strap. “You’re that Paige?”
My mouth pulls into a grin before I can help it. “You’ve heard of me?” There’s something stupidly satisfying about that. For half a second, anyway.
“As in Paige Luciana?”
I blink.
“As in Diana ‘The Bull’ Luciana’s daughter?”
The smile dies slowly on my face.
Because when somebody recognizes my last name, there are really only so many roads that lead them there, and none of them involve my fucking doctorate. Drugs. Bodies. Guns. The assorted extracurriculars my family has spent generations making synonymous with Luciana.
“Yeah,” I say, considerably less pleased now. “In the flesh.”
“Shit.”
Bambi looks down at the strap still dangling from her hand, then back at me. A short, disbelieving laugh slips out.
“Okay. So this never happened.”
My brows pull together.
“What?”
She sets the strap on the nearest table.
“This.” She gestures once between us. “Us.”
“What do you mean?”
But she’s already moving, crossing the room to collect the little pile of her things. Her phone disappears into her bag. Then her cash. She slips her feet back into her heels and checks around the couch like she might have dropped something.
I just stand there watching her.
“Bambi.”
“I have to go.”
“Because I’m a Luciana?”
Her hands still for a beat.
There.
Then she keeps packing.
“Look, I know my family’s reputation is a little—” I gesture uselessly. “—freaky. But I swear to God I’d never hurt you or force you into anything. I want you to know that.”
Bambi lets out a quiet, humorless laugh.
“I don’t know anything about your family hurting people or whatever the fuck you’re talking about.”
Then she looks at me, holding my eyes just a little too steadily.
“And I don’t care to know.”
Right.
She recognized Luciana. Knew my Ma’s nickname. Put together exactly who I was in about ten seconds flat.
This girl knows enough about us to know she shouldn’t know about us.
Noted.
“Okay, you don’t want to talk about my family.” I pause, a small smile slipping out despite myself. “What does that have to do with us fucking?”
Bambi pulls her bag onto her shoulder and walks back toward me. I don’t move. I’m still standing there with my belt hanging open, trying to figure out how things went from her begging me to fuck her to this never happened.
She stops close, and the sweetness of her perfume drifts over me again. Orange blossom and neroli drowned in burnt sugar, vanilla, and warm musk.
It’s so beyond pathetic and weird to think this about a stranger, but I don’t want this to be the last time I smell her.
She takes my face between her hands, thumbs brushing gently over the tops of my cheeks.
“Ugh, you’re so insanely hot.” Her eyes move over my face. “But something tells me we should call it here.”
My mouth twitches despite myself.
“Though, I would’ve loved crawling between your legs and returning the favor after cumming in your mouth again.”
Christ the fucking Redeemer.
“Still.” Her smile comes back, bright and fucking devastating. “No regrets.”
“That is an absolutely psychotic thing to say while rejecting somebody.”
She laughs.
Then she kisses me. Soft and warm and unfairly sweet, one hand sliding around the back of my neck while my entire stupid body goes after her before my brain has even caught up.
By the time I think to grab her and hold on, she’s already pulling away.
Those bunny teeth catch her bottom lip.
“Bye, Paige.”
And then she’s gone.
The door clicks shut behind her.
I stand there alone beneath all that filthy Reagan-red light. My pants are still half undone. Strap sitting on the table. My mouth tastes like honeysuckle. I never got the chance to say her actual name.
And I never got to see her tits.
I stare at the closed door.
I fucking hate my life.
More Notes (mostly about the Italian):
Originally this chapter was outlined to get us fully out of the club, and into a horrificaly tense brunch scene where Caitlin Clark Silver is introduced along with our first interactions with Diana, Penny, and Cam (plus more Nika), but I got carried away with the smut (sorry). I've never written smut before so please forgive me if it is eggregiously long, still figuring out my footing with writing it well and effectively.
Also we will get some Azzi POV soon, just trying to establish the story from Paige's perspective first and then we'll bring in the Princess. There will probably be one more chapter of Paige POV and then Azzi will take over for a little while.
Idk if this is really something anyone's noticed, but the only reason I haven't used pictures of Azzi in the little sections in between the text is because she's brunette and obviously the character Azzi here is blonde for now (that's not going to last the entire time). Once she's brunette, I'll incorperate more photos of Azzi into the little picture sections.
The poem quoted in Paige’s recollection of Sister Chiara is “Cristo al pozzo” (“Christ at the Well”), Rime 238, by Francesca Turini Bufalini (1544–1641). The excerpts begin “Chi non saria, Gesù, preso e conquiso…” and depict an exhausted, thirsty Christ seated at the well as an object of devotional desire—the imagery Paige irreverently redirects toward Bambi.
pucchiach’ — bitch / cunt / broad. Vulgar Southern Italian/Italian-American slang; literally derives from a term for female genitalia. Paige uses it as an insult.
cazzo — dick / cock literally; idiomatically, fuck / fucking hell / damn.
chooch — idiot / jackass / schmuck. Italian-American slang.
scharol’ — money / cash. Italian-American slang derived from scarola (“escarole”), used figuratively for money.
stugats / stugots — literally derived from ’stu cazzo (“this dick”); idiomatically, fuck it / fuck this / bullshit.
maron’ — damn / Jesus / good God. Italian-American exclamation derived from Madonna.
Madonna mia — literally, my Madonna / my Lady; my God / good Lord.
fatti cazzi vostri — mind your own fucking business. More literally, “mind your own dicks/business.”
Voglio assaggiarti tutta. — I want to taste all of you / I want to taste every bit of you.
Sei tu il desiderio insano, o la fonte viva? — Are you the unhealthy desire, or the living fountain?
Thank you for reading xoxo <3