S*X Contract With Invalid Mafia Boss

Chapter 18

Christine’s POV

I woke up with a smile tugging at my lips. It had been a long time since I’d felt this good. My dream lingered in my mind, and oh, what a dream it was. I had kicked Luca, beaten him senseless until he begged for mercy, tears streaming down his face as he promised to treat me kindly from that day forward. And then I was crowned queen.

Queen Christine. A grin spread across my face. If only it were real.

Stretching lazily, I rolled onto my side and froze. Something—or someone—was beside me.

Panic surged through me, my chest tightening as I turned my head slowly, only to realize I was clutching someone’s hand. Not just someone. *Luca’s hand.

The moment my gaze fell on him, my heart sank. He lay on the bed beside me, sleeping so peacefully it was almost infuriating. His face, smooth and relaxed, betrayed none of the ruthlessness I associated with him.

For a fleeting moment, I thought about my dream. I wanted to punch him, smack him, kick him out of my bed. But this wasn’t the dream world where I was queen. This was reality, and Luca Ferrante wasn’t someone I could challenge without severe consequences.

My eyes wandered over his face, his lips slightly parted, and his messy bed hair made him look almost... human. He could have been an angel if I didn’t know any better.

Then my gaze drifted lower, and my cheeks burned. Oh no. His shorts did nothing to hide the prominent bulge beneath them. My heart raced, and I quickly averted my eyes, but not before a traitorous thought crossed my mind: *He’s attractive.*

I hated it. I hated that he could look so innocent when he was the cause of all my anxiety, my pain, my captivity. But there was something about the way he slept so soundly, as though nothing in the world could bother him.

A strand of hair fell onto his face, and before I could stop myself, I leaned forward to brush it away. My fingertips hovered near his skin when he stirred.

“Are you done staring?” His voice was groggy, deep, and maddeningly sexy.

I froze, realizing I was still resting on his hand. “I need to move my hand before it becomes paralyzed,” he added, his tone laced with sarcasm.

For a moment, I didn’t let go. The warmth radiating from his hand was oddly comforting, and the absurdity of it hit me like a slap. *Why don’t I want to let go?*

A small, rebellious voice in the back of my mind whispered, Maybe you don’t hate him as much as you think.*

But the memory of his cold demeanor, his possessiveness, and his indifference came rushing back. My lips curled into a smirk as an idea formed.

“And why should I let go of your hand?” I asked, my voice low and teasing.

Before he could answer, I leaned in and kissed him. His eyes widened in shock, and the look on his face was priceless.

It wasn’t the desperate, bruising kind of kiss he usually took from me. This was different—soft, deliberate, and entirely under my control.

His shock was palpable, his body going rigid beneath me. I grinned against his lips, savoring the moment.

Gotcha. I felt a rush of satisfaction. He had taken so much from me, but this moment? This was mine.

I then pulled back just enough to meet his gaze, noting the way his pupils dilated. Then, with a wicked smile, I brought my free hand down to his boxers, brushing against the hard length straining beneath them.

Trailing my free hand down, I rested it on his bulge. “Your d**k seems pretty happy for the attention,” I teased, watching the flicker of surprise in his expression.

Confidence surged through me. For the first time in months, I felt like I was in control. Straddling his hips, I ignored his weak attempts to pull away as I stroked him through his shorts.

“You really need a hand here,” I said with a smirk, tugging off his boxers. His grunt of frustration turned into a low moan as I fundled with his balls.

What followed was a blur of heat and dominance, but for once, it was mine. I stroked him slowly, relishing the way his breath hitched and his hands stayed obediently by his sides—one too numb to move, the other gripping the sheets

The power shifted, and I reveled in it. He didn’t touch me, his hands either pinned beneath him or gripping the bed. It was all me. I brought my mouth to him, teasing him with my tongue before taking him fully.

His groans echoed in the room, and I felt invincible. Every sound he made was a victory, every twitch of his body a reminder that I was in control.

When he came, his release was messy—on my face, my hair, and down my throat. I didn’t care.

I was grinning like a cat who’d caught the canary while he lay there, dazed and spent, his chest heaving as he tried to regain controI straightened up, feeling triumphant as his head lolled back, his eyes half-closed in bliss.

As his body surrendered to my touch, a part of me reveled in the victory. But another part whispered: Was I truly winning? Or was I just playing his game?

Without a word, I got off the bed. I wouldn't let my doubts get the better part of me today and headed to the bathroom. The hot water washed away the remnants of the encounter, but not the satisfaction I felt. For the first time since I’d been brought here, I felt alive.

Wrapping a towel around me, I stepped out of the bathroom, only to find the bed empty. The only signs of his presence were the creased sheets and the mess he’d left behind. I smiled, feeling a strange sense of victory as I cleaned up and prepared for my online art class.

Later that morning, I settled into my makeshift studio, ready for another session with my art teacher, Ethan Price. His friendly, easy-going demeanor had become a lifeline for me, his guidance pulling me out of the darkness one brushstroke at a time.

Good morning, Christine! You’re glowing today,” Ethan’s cheerful voice pulled me back to reality.

“Am I?” I asked, forcing a smile.

“You are. Did something good happen?” he teased.

I thought about lying, but instead, I shrugged. “I guess you could say I had a good dream and a productive morning.”

“Well, keep that energy." He said and I wondered if he would still cheer me on if he knew that me being in control in med and having Luca's c*m all over my face and hair like a crown was the reason why I was this happy.

Today, we’re tackling human portraits.” He said, he seemed genuinely happy for my like he always was. Despite knowing him in less than a month Ethan has become the closest I've had to a friend and he connects with me in ways I need without him even knowing it. I smiled back and thanked him as we went into the details of the class.

As Ethan launched into the lesson, I found myself genuinely listening. He explained how to capture emotion, how to let the imperfections of a face tell a story.

“Art isn’t about perfection,” he said. “It’s about connection. When you draw someone, you’re showing how you see them, how they make you feel. It’sabout connection. When you draw someone, you’re showing how you see them, how they make you feel. It’s personal, even if you don’t realize it.”

His words struck a chord. Personal? Connection? I wasn’t sure I wanted to connect to anyone, let alone Luca. But when Ethan instructed us to draw the first face that came to mind, my hand moved on its own.

For the next hour, I sketched furiously, Luca’s sleeping face etched into my memory. His hair, his jawline, the way his lips parted slightly as he breathed—it was all there. I didn’t want to admit it, but I’d noticed every detail.

When the call resumed, I hesitated before showing my work.

“Wow,” he said, whistling appreciatively. “Who’s this handsome Vamp?" He whistled, "Your boyfriend?” he asked expectantly and as much as I wanted to tell him our relationship, I definitely couldn't explain to my arts teacher that I was a kept woman so I just smiled with the heat burning up my cheeks and shook my head quickly. “No. Just… someone I know.”

“Well, whoever he is, you captured him beautifully. You’ve got real talent, Christine.” You’ve captured so much emotion here. It’s incredible.”

His praise should have made me proud, but it left me unsettled. Was there emotion in my drawing? Did it mean something?

Ethan continued, his tone light. “Art reflects the artist’s heart."

“This is incredible, Christine. The detail, the emotion—it’s like I can feel the person through the canvas. You’re finding your voice. Keep going.”

The call ended, but his words lingered.My heart? My voice? I wasn’t sure what I was finding, but it scared me.

The studio was my sanctuary, a place where Luca’s presence couldn’t suffocate me. As I closed the laptop, Ethan’s encouraging words echoed in my mind. His warmth, his energy—it was like a balm for my weary soul. For the first time in a long while, I felt... lighter.