A/N: Um. Highly NSFW. 😏 Enjoy.

***

"Famiglia"

"Oh, Nero..."

Rosalyn's fingers curl into my hair and yank harshly at the top of my head as I deliver another brutal, heavy thrust, her legs wrapped tightly around my waist.

Fanculo. She's panting and I'm balls deep inside her and then there's a loud knock on the front door.

"Ignore it," she chokes, grinding her hips into mine insistently.

Who the fuck is knocking on a Saturday morning? I reach down to suck a dusky nipple into my mouth and she lets out a throaty gasp.

There's another knock.

"What the—oh, fucking hell, dolcezza. What time is it?"

I glance at the clock beside our bed and the red numbers say it's just past ten-thirty. Oh fuck.

"Please, Nero..." She digs her fingers into my ass but I curse out loud, shaking my head and tearing my lips away from her smooth skin.

"Shit, Rosalyn, it's your brother." I pull her arms away and pry her legs off of me, groaning when I slide out of her. Her muscles clench around me like she's trying to hold me hostage. Merda.

"What?" She's covered in sweat and my cazzo is still hard and coated in her wet arousal.

I growl, swearing softly and running a flustered hand through my hair. "We were supposed to go boxing. Dio cane..."

Before I know what's happening, she wraps her naked body with a swath of sheets from our bed and marches angrily out of the bedroom is a huff of frustrated breath.

"Rosalyn," I warn hoarsely. Porca troia. Oh hell...

I hear the front door swing open. She cuts off whatever Daniel was about to say with "Daniel." Her petulant voice is raw from shouting my name. "Go away for five more minutes so I can have a damn orgasm."

And then she slams the door in his face.

She stomps back into our room looking as hot and irritated as hell.

"Merda. He is going to murder me, carina," I tell her, but she doesn't seem to care.

She walks up to me and wraps her arms around my neck, presses her naked body close to mine. My cock strains against her stomach.

She collapses back on the bed and tugs me after her, spreads her thighs apart and wastes no time, using one of her small hands to guide me back into her. We both curse obscenely into the warm air around us, fucking each other and forgetting about how I'm not going be alive in a couple hours.

Five minutes and two climaxes later, she's happy and satisfied. She drapes herself with our linens and limps away to open the door.

I fucking hope my sborro isn't dripping down her legs.

"Are you serious, Ros?" I hear him mutter, sounding mortified. The poor sfigato is probably beat red. "Could you go, um, put some clothes on?"

She giggles and I can't help it when the soft sound makes me smile.

"Ah, no," I hear him say. "Do not try to kiss me with that mouth of yours. Ugh...You smell like sex. Jesus Christ."

"There's coffee and muffins in the kitchen," she offers, amused and unbothered. "Give Nero a minute. He's..." She trails off with another giggle.

Daniel swears a bunch under his breath.

"Also," she laughs teasingly, "It wasn't his fault that we... um... got distracted. Don't be angry at him."

He grumbles something, unimpressed, and I lumber into the bathroom to take a quick shower.

Less than a minute later, the bathroom door opens and Rosalyn walks in, suppressing a mischievous smile. I watch through the glass door of the shower as the sheet falls away and she meets my eyes.

This woman...

My fiancée is horny as fuck.

When she slides open the glass and joins me under the stream of steaming water, she lathers some soap onto her hands and begins rubbing and kneading the muscles of my shoulders and chest. Minchia, that feels really damn good.

"I am so dead, dolcezza," I mumble, my eyes floating shut as she runs her hands over me, sifts shampoo into my hair with her fingers.

Nipping at my earlobe she whispers, "I know you can handle him."

She whimpers when I give her tits a gentle squeeze. I swipe soap over each dark, raised nipple and she moans.

And then as if I wasn't already in enough trouble, she wraps her hand around my cazzo and breathes, "Let me make it up to you with un pompino."

Santo cazzo Madre di Dio. And she sinks onto her knees and proceeds to give me one of her mind-boggling pompini that make me forget everything but her name, every single time.

•§•

When Ros trudges innocently into the kitchen right after me, both of us freshly showered, the look of utter horror on Daniel's face makes me feel like a total ass.

I can't look him in the eye, knowing I let his sister suck me off in the shower while he waited for me, probably drinking his coffee and trying not the think about it.

There's a special place in hell for cazzoni like me. Mio Dio.

When we get into the ring, I let Daniel get in a couple extra punches for the sake of civility. He's more than happy to give me a good workout today, and I'm fine receiving a bit of a pounding.

For a guy who, a couple months ago, hadn't picked up a set of gloves since university, he has improved drastically and I know it's because he enjoys trying to beat the living shit out of me.

He's got a good arm and fast reflexes but I've been doing this since junior-high and my cousins are violent pezzi di merda.

I usually go easy on him, and I'm pretty sure he knows it.

•§•

Minchia. When I finally take Rosalyn to meet mia zia, I wasn't expecting Luca and Gabriel to be there too.

I've been in touch with my cousins only a little since the mafia fell apart. Apparently they've been doing decently well.

Once mia zia found out they had put all that crap pretty much behind them, she welcomed them back into her household and I think they've all been getting along. As well as they ever have, that is.

Both are my age. My dad and each of his two brothers had one son, and the three of us grew up together.

They're a couple pezzi di merda and they remind me a little too much of a part of my life I've tried to forget.

But at the same time, they're family. And now I think they expect me to invite them to my wedding.

"Nero!" Mia zia pinches my face painfully and reaches her short, plump arms to pull me into a smothering hug. "Finalmente mi hai fatto visita." She gives me a small, faint slap on my cheek with her soft palm. "È passato troppo tempo," she complains.

She turns her attention to Rosalyn, who gives her a warm, shy smile. Every time I look at cara mia, my chest feels full from how much I feel towards her. I give her shoulder a gentle squeeze. "Zia, this is Rosalyn, la mia fidanzata."

My aunt fusses over her, hugs her and gives her lavish compliments while Gabriel and Luca make crude gestures at me, and then, like a proper Italian, she insists on feeding us enough food for a small army.

But not before my cousins get the chance to harass Rosalyn like the obnoxious bastardi they are.

After some introductions, Luca gives her one of his most charming smiles that usually always gets him a score at a bar. "So what is a girl like you doing with this asshole?" he teases.

I shoot him a murderous look but he doesn't give a shit.

"What can I say?" she shrugs dryly, not even batting an eyelash at Luca's sparkling grin. "He's an amazing guy and I'm ridiculously in love with him."

She leans into me and I kiss the top of her head and they make some comments in Italian about how pussy-whipped I am, but I couldn't care less.

When Natalia shows up a couple moments later, she snaps some creative Italian insults at them and mia zia threatens them with a wooden spoon to start behaving themselves. I'm irritated but fuzzy in a way that's only possible with family.

When my aunt eventually places a second slice of tiramisu in front of Rosalyn, she whispers into my ear, "I've eaten so much that I think you'll have to carry me out of here."

"You should see us on Easter," I mumble, and we both laugh, our stomachs filled to bursting.

We eventually escape after countless promises to visit again soon. Luca and Gabriel insist on getting together for a couple drinks to catch up. As soon as I reluctantly agree, I know I'm going to regret it.

•§•

Reading is one of the big things that Rosalyn and I have in common.

She loves books and so do I. She still makes fun of me every now and then for my supposedly uncharacteristic choice for my degree, but I roll my eyes at her and threaten to tickle the life out of her and she shuts up, if just for the moment. (Threatening her with rough sex is more of an encouragement than a deterrent, I've learned.)

The truth is that I've loved fiction since I was a child. It was an easy escape for whatever confusing or violent things I couldn't understand when I was growing up.

My mom was a high-school English teacher. My only memories of her are sitting between her knees while she read Mark Twain to me, when I was still too young to understand much of it. Roald Dahl, Enid Blyton, E.B White.

Now, though, my new memories of literature involve me sitting in a large armchair in our living room, Rosalyn stretched out on my lap with her back against the armrest and her head in my shoulder, in our pajamas with a soft blanket tossed over us.

We usually read different things. She's a sucker for anything Romantic or Victorian but I prefer contemporary. Sometimes, she asks me to read out loud to her from whichever book I'm working through.

Of course, like tonight, she sometimes catches me at part of a novel that shouldn't be read aloud. I read to her from Michael Ondaatje's The English Patient. His writing is powerful and his language is oddly erotic for a book full of remnants of war.

" '... For her there was a line back to her ancestors that was tactile, whereas he had erased the path he had emerged from. He was amazed she had loved him in spite of such qualities of anonymity in himself.'"

Her breathing is steady and I can feel the rise and fall of her gentle exhales in time with my own.

" 'She was on her back, positioned the way the mediaeval dead lie. I approached her naked as I would have done in our South Cairo room, wanting to undress her, still wanting to love her.' "

Her breath catches a little, knowing where this is going. My finger traces small, distracted circles at the top of her arm as I continue. " 'What is terrible in what I did? Don't we forgive everything of a lover? We forgive selfishness, desire, guile. As long as we have the motive for it.' "

Hell, even my voice becomes a little gruffer as my gaze skims across the words. "'You can make love to a woman with a broken arm, or a woman with fever. She once sucked blood from a cut in my hand as I had tasted and swallowed her menstrual blood.' "

I feel her soft lips brush in a gentle caress against my neck.

" 'There are some European words you can never translate into another language. Félhomály. The dusk of graves. With the connotation of intimacy there between the dead and the living.' "

"He writes beautifully," she mumbles against the hollow of my throat.

I close the book and toss it onto the coffee table, wrapping my arms around her waist. The blanket shifts with her as she moves slowly to straddle my hips.

She leans in, her breath ticking my nose and her hair falling against my cheeks. I use a hand to brush the strands away from her face, sliding a thumb along the line of her jaw.

When she leans in to kiss me, her lips are warm and slow and tender. I hold the back of her head and she makes love to my mouth with hers, her tongue wet and soft as it strokes and twists with mine.

My hands find the hem of her shorts, slipping beneath and gently, faintly tugging at them with a crooked finger.

She slides off me only long enough for us to remove the clothing covering the places where we join together before she settles herself back on my lap, peeling my shirt off my shoulders just as delicately as I do hers.

When her bare body is flush against mine, she kisses me again and I let my calloused palms roam leisurely across her soft skin. She moves her hips slowly back and forth, kissing me and running her small hands across my body until I'm hard for her and she's wet for me.

I guide her over me, she positions herself above my hardness and then sinks down onto me so she takes me in with a measured, controlled slowness, inch by inch until I fill her to the end.

She sighs against my mouth and my hands tighten around her hips when we feel each other in the closest, wholest way possible.

We don't rush. She rocks against me and I move in heavy circles beneath her and we hold each other, grip each other and she whispers soft confessions of her undying love into my lips, I mumble in Italian against the dip in her neck about how much I love her, how much I need her and want her and desire her.

"Il mio cuore batte solo per te," I say, just as she whimpers, "I love you."

"Ho un debole per te." I roll my thumbs softly across the aching tips of her breasts and she arches into me, gasping out my name. "Non posso vivere senza di te."

We climb and climb and climb together, our small, breathless noises filling the air around us until neither of us can take the excruciating pleasure of it anymore. "Sei tutto per me," I mutter into her neck when she cries out my name and clenches, hot and quivering around me. I cum inside her, swearing quietly into the crook of her shoulder and holding her so close that neither of us can properly breathe.

"Oh," she moans against my lips, falling limply against my chest. "I never knew it was possible to love someone so much," she rasps, clutching my face to hers and staring into my eyes, into my soul, with her sparkling, warm, haunting hazel eyes.

"I love you more than I will ever be able to show you." My words rumble into her forehead and she plants another chaste kiss to my lips.

We hold onto each other until she nearly falls asleep against my beating heart with me still inside of her.

***

A/N:

Aww. My heart is very full.

Thoughts? Feelings?

XOXO Ami

Michael Ondaatje is a Canadian mastermind.