Total pages in book: 105
Estimated words: 97656 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 391(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97656 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 391(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
I’m quiet in the elevator, quieter still when we reach the garage. Nervous in a way I haven’t been since I was a kid sleeping with a knife under my pillow. My hand brushes the small of her back as I open the passenger door for her. She slides in, her t-shirt riding up just enough to show a sliver of skin at her waist. I have to look away before I do something stupid.
It is just the low purr of the engine and the city sliding past the windows in streaks of light and shadows as I drive. I don’t want to bring up Mario again. At least, not yet, but dammit, the question burns in my chest. Did he hurt her? Did he touch her again? I grip the wheel tighter, knuckles white. In the end, I decide it doesn’t matter what she says. I’ll deal with him regardless. No one puts hands on her. Ever.
“He’ll never hurt you again,” I tell her, and my voice is low and rough. I keep my eyes on the road, but I feel her turn toward me. “So you don’t have to be scared.”
She’s quiet for a long moment, and the only sound is the soft click of the turn signal when I change lanes.
“He didn’t hurt me,” she says carefully. “It was just Mario being Mario.”
Her words sting more than they should. She’s defending him. Even after everything, she’s still trying to soften it. My jaw tightens. I hate that she still feels she has to protect him.
She notices. Of course she does. She always notices everything.
“I don’t want you to hurt him. I know it will only cause trouble for you. He has his band of loyal supporters too. I used to think Salvatore was invincible, but he was not. I just don’t want you to…”
Her voice trails off, but it’s enough. I feel the corner of my mouth lift with a happy smile. She wasn’t protecting Mario. She was thinking about me. Worrying about me. That alone does something dangerous to my chest.
“Viola, our entire business model is based on stepping on toes.”
She smiles at that, a small, hesitant smile. Our eyes meet for a second when I glance over. Fuck. She is so beautiful it knocks the air out of me. The late sunlight catches her green eyes, making it luminous, and turns her blonde hair into spun gold. This is what I imagined angels looked like when I was a kid.
I want her.
Not just her body — though Christ, I want that too — but all of her.
The guarded woman who’s starting to let me in. The one who cried in my arms with fear, and still tried to protect me from the consequences. Suddenly all I want to do is kiss her. Pull the car over, lean across the console, taste the salt of her earlier tears and the sweetness that’s just her. My body reacts hard and fast. Heat pools low, and my cock thickens against my thigh. I’m so turned on it’s painful.
To calm myself, I force myself to focus on driving. I breathe slowly and deeply, counting the blocks until we reach the store. But the lust for her refuses to leave. It just simmers under my skin, hot and impatient, waiting for the moment I can finally have her again.
Chapter Thirty-Six
VIOLA
That look. God, that look. I didn’t expect it to hit me this hard. Suddenly, every breath I take carries the scent of him. My thighs press together on the leather seat, trying to ease the sudden, insistent ache that’s building in my belly. I’ve never thought of myself as sexual. Never the kind of woman who gets wet just from sitting next to a man. But right now, all I can think about is riding him. Sliding my hand over the hard muscle of his thigh, feeling the strength of his gorgeous, thick, hard cock inside me, stretching me until I scream his name.
Fucking. That’s what I’m thinking about. Crude, raw fucking. Nothing soft. Nothing romantic. That’s good, because the softer version is more dangerous. The softer version makes me want to crawl into his lap right here in the middle of traffic and beg him to love me.
I stare out the window, trying to focus on the buildings and taillights, but my eyes keep drifting back to his hands. The way his fingers wrap around the wheel, veins standing out, knuckles flexing every time he shifts lanes. I remember those fingers curling inside me, stroking that spot that made me see stars. My breath catches. The car suddenly feels too warm, too small. I almost reach for the window to roll it down, but I stop myself. If I do that, he’ll know. He’ll see how badly I’m unraveling.
Thankfully, before I can embarrass myself completely, we pull into the parking lot of a grocery store. The sun is low in the sky as Ricci parks smoothly, kills the engine, and turns to me. His eyes catch mine for a second, and I feel that pull again — sharp, electric, almost terrifying in its intensity.