Arranged Mafia Marriage

Karma

My role… My stupid role, as it turns out, is to play the part of his bride. Why the hell does he have to marry me, though? If I ask him again, he’ll pull that line of the fact that my father owes him, blah, blah, blah. But surely, that’s not the only reason he’s marrying me? There has to be something more, something else, some other reason why he’s going through with his wedding. It can’t be because he finds me attractive, right? Though he does… I mean, he must, considering how he can’t seem to keep his hands off of me every time we are together. And yet, he also pulls back before he can complete what he started. Like, at the fabric shop. It’s as if there’s an internal war he’s waging with himself every time he sees me. He wants me, but he hates himself for wanting me…

And well, the feeling’s mutual. I hate myself for how my body responds to him. For how I understand those dark desires inside of him. Everything that I have tried to lock up inside of myself, from the time I had first been aware of the edginess inside of me, seems to respond to his presence. It’s as if I can’t keep my innermost feelings hidden around him anymore. His corruption attracts the filth I’d thought I had buried deep inside of myself; which I had never dared to acknowledge, to be fair, before him.

That coarseness inside of me which had spurred me on to stitch the kind of wedding dress in which I had always hoped to be married. I run my fingers down the black silk dress that I crafted in just forty-eight hours. It’s amazing what you can accomplish when you cannot access the internet or talk to any of your friends and family.

On our way back from the shopping trip, Michael had informed me that we were getting married in three days. He had told me that he would have a dress delivered to me if I didn’t promise to stitch my own dress. He had seemed uncertain I’d have the time to do it myself, but I had assured him I could work quickly. After all, I already knew the design I wanted. Then, I had reminded him of all the fabric he had purchased for me and that it would be wrong to let that go waste. I had asked him for a sewing machine, and to my surprise, he had told me it was already on its way.

How strange that he hadn’t refused me. If anything, he seemed more than happy to indulge me on this. Like he had in taking me to the fabric shop. He knows I am a designer, but has he guessed just how much I need to create? It’s a passion so deeply embedded in my cells it’s as vital as breathing. As intrinsic as that filth that resides in the core of me. Something I, in fact, channeled when I designed and stitched and gave shape to fabric.

Creating a dress, somehow, eases that heaviness that resides within me. Almost as much as getting myself off does. Well, okay, not quite, but the sensation is similar. It’s like I am channeling all of those forbidden desires inside of me and giving shape to something concrete, something I can wear and feel and touch, something that, on some level, feels as real as the shadows that crawl inside of me.

I haven’t made it out of the room in the last few days, pausing only long enough to eat. That’s how it is for me. Once the muse takes over, I can’t stop for anything. All I have to do is get out of the way and let the creativity pour through me.

So, I’d measured and pinned and cut and sewn, and adjusted, and hand-stitched the final embellishments. I’d tried on the dress earlier and known it was almost there… Almost… Something was missing. A last adornment, a final trimming… Something to just push it over the edge.

My brain feels too tired, my fingers begin to cramp from the amount of time I had held the needle between them. Not to mention, the headache that has been building up behind my eyes. Shit. I need a break. I stare at my reflection in the mirror and my knees threaten to buckle. I yawn so loudly that my jaw cracks. The cool night air blowing in through the open window makes me shiver. I peel the dress off, carefully lay it over a chair. Then, clad only in my panties, I crawl into bed and under the covers to close my eyes.

The next thing I know, something infiltrates my consciousness. I come awake, but don’t open my eyes. There’s someone in the room; I am sure of it. Someone who’s not moving, but standing over me, watching me. The hair on my forearms rises. My heart begins to thud.

Ever since Michael brought me here, I’ve been unable to shake the sensation of being watched. I assume he has eyes on the room, that he’s watching me… Hell, of course, he is.Material © NôvelDrama.Org.

I’m not naive enough to think he’d, for one second, take his attention off of his asset. But this is different. This is not the eye of a camera on me. This is someone watching me, in real time.

My left leg cramps. I want to shake it out, but resist the effort. I draw in a breath, force myself to stay silent. A gust of wind blows in from the open window. I smell the brine of the sea, before it fades away, leaving behind that unmistakable masculine scent of testosterone, musky like leather with a hint of woodsmoke, that fills my senses. My belly trembles and my thighs clench. Moisture laces my core and I know then, it is him. Fucking Michael. He’s in my room. What the hell is he doing, creeping around here in the middle of the night… Or is it early morning?

Fucking stalker. I regulate my breathing, force myself to stay still. Force my muscles to unwind, one by one, as he remains motionless. The minutes stretch. My pulse rate ratchets up, as it always does when he’s anywhere close to me.

He stands there watching me, not moving, not saying anything. Gah, what the hell is he up to? His breathing seems to deepen. I sense him shift closer, the heat of his body sears my arm, and I know he is leaning over me. I sense the warmth of his breath on my cheek, then the hair on my forehead rises. I sense him sniff at my throat…