Page 38 of The Wrong Mafia Bride
"What you're offering," she repeats, and her voice is shaking now—with anger or something else, I cannot tell. "You're offering to share me like I'm a toy you can pass around whenever?—"
"Stop putting words in my mouth." I plant my hands on the wall on either side of her head, caging her in, forcing her to look at me. This close, I can count her individual eyelashes, can see the way her chest is heaving with each breath, can feel the heat radiating off her body. "That is not what this is. That is not what we do."
"Then what do you do?" she challenges, and I can see her trying to hold onto her anger, trying to use it as armor against whatever else she is feeling.
"We take care of what is ours," I say simply, letting my gaze drop deliberately to her mouth before meeting her eyes again. "Together. All three of us focused on making sure our woman is satisfied, protected, worshipped the way she deserves."
She swallows hard, and I watch her throat move, watch the way her tongue darts out to wet her lips. The small movement makes my cock twitch in my running shorts, and I have to fight the urge to press my hips forward, to let her feel exactly what she does to me.
"I'm not yours."
"Aren't you?" I lean in closer, until my mouth is near her ear, until I can feel her breath coming faster against my neck. She smells even better this close—something that makes me want to bury my face in her throat and breathe her in until I am drowning in it. "Then why haven't you run yet? Why are you still standing here arguing with me instead of making a break for the gate?"
"Because you're blocking me."
"I'm not touching you, Bella. You could run right now if you wanted to." I pull back just enough to meet her eyes, and I see the way they have gone dark, the way her pupils have blown wide. "So why don't you?"
Silence.
She opens her mouth, closes it, opens it again. Nothing comes out. But I can see her chest rising and falling rapidly, can see the way she is pressing her thighs together harder now, can practically feel the tension vibrating off her skin.
"Do you not feel anything between us?" I ask quietly, and I let some of the carefully maintained control slip from my voice, let her hear the real question underneath. "When I look at you. When I touch you. When I'm close like this. Do you feel nothing?"
She looks away, jaw tight, and I can see her fighting with herself, fighting to maintain the walls she has built. But her body is betraying her—the rapid pulse in her throat, the flush creeping up her neck, the way she is barely breathing like she is afraid any movement will break whatever fragile control she is clinging to.
"Rosalina," I say her name softly. "Look at me."
She does, reluctantly, and the conflict in her eyes is so raw it actually makes my chest tighten. But underneath the conflict is heat—pure, undeniable heat that makes my blood run hotter.
"Do you feel anything?" I ask again.
"Yes," she whispers finally, and the admission sounds like it costs her something. "But it doesn't matter."
"Why not?"
"Because I'm Dante's wife."
"And Dante knows," I tell her, watching her face carefully, watching the way her lips part slightly, the way her breathing gets even more shallow. "Dante wants this. He would not fight you on it. He would encourage it."
She shakes her head, but the movement is weak. "That's insane."
"Maybe. But it is true." I tilt my head slightly, letting my gaze travel down her body slowly, deliberately, taking in every curve, every line, the way those leggings cling to her hips and thighs like a second skin. When I meet her eyes again, I see the way she has been watching me watch her, and there is hunger there now, barely hidden. "Do you feel something when you look at Luca?"
Her eyes widen slightly—surprise that I would ask, or surprise that the answer is yes, I cannot tell.
"I—" She stops, biting her lip in a way that makes me want to bite it for her. "Kind of."
"Kind of," I repeat, and I cannot help the small smile that tugs at my mouth.
"He's attractive," she says defensively, like admitting it is some kind of crime. The flush on her cheeks deepens. "But it doesn't matter. None of it matters because I am married to Dante and this whole thing is?—"
"It does matter," I cut her off, taking another step closer until there is barely an inch between us, until I can feel her body heat mixing with mine. "It matters because you could have all of this. You could explore whatever this is between us—between you and me, you and Luca, you and Dante. You could stop fighting and start feeling and actually let yourself have something good."
"Good," she echoes, and there is something almost desperate in her voice now. Her hands come up to rest against my chest—not pushing, just there, fingers splayed over my shirt. I can feel the tremor in them. "You think being passed between three men is good?"
"I think being worshipped by three men who would kill for you is pretty fucking good, yeah." I cover one of her hands with mine, pressing it harder against my chest so she can feel my heart racing. "I think having three men who know exactly how to touch you, exactly how to make you fall apart, exactly how to put you back together—I think that's better than good."
She stares at me, and I can see her trying to process that, trying to fit it into whatever narrative she has built in her head about what this is. But her hand is warm against my chest, and she is not pulling away.
