Page 10 of Fake Dating the Mafia Boss
Then he stops.
He goes still over me, a different stillness from before, sudden and total. I feel the change in him a beat before I understand it, the heat snapping off him like a thrown switch. He pulls back. He looks down at me, and something shutters behind his eyes, some door slamming I don’t have a key to.
“This is a mistake,” he says.
Then he’s gone. Off me, up, on his feet beside the bed, dragging a hand down his face, turning away, yanking his shirt straight over the body I just had my hands all over. The cold air rushes into all the places he was.
I lie there. Half-dressed. Wrecked. My heart slamming, my skin still lit up, my brain about four seconds behind, scrambling to catch up to the fact that the man who just had me coming apart is walking toward my door like the building is on fire.
The humiliation hits first. The fury comes right behind it, hot enough to dry the wet at the corners of my eyes before it can fall. I will not cry. I will absolutely not cry in front of this man twice in one week. I’ve spent years being the girl who keeps it together, the one who doesn’t fall apart, who watches everybody else’s drama from a safe dry distance with a drink in her hand.
Two encounters with this man and I’m a puddle on a mattress with my shirt across the room. I hate him. I hate him more than I’ve hated anyone, which is a problem, because hate andwhatever just happened on this bed are running down the exact same wire in me.
“Wow,” I say to his back. My voice comes out steadier than I am. “Okay.”
He doesn’t answer. He’s at the door. His hand closes on the knob.
Then it stops there.
He doesn’t open it. He stands with his back to me, his hand on the knob, his whole big frame gone rigid, his head dropping forward. I watch his shoulders rise and fall with a breath that looks like it costs him something. A long second. Another. I don’t say anything. I don’t breathe. I just watch the back of this man fight a war I can see the shape of but not the inside of, his knuckles white on the cheap brass, the muscles of his back tight under the shirt.
For one whole second I think he’s going to do it. Open the door, take the stairs, leave me here ruined in a tangle of my own sheets.
Then his hand comes off the knob.
Sevastian turns around.
Whatever was behind his eyes when he pulled away, it’s gone now. What’s there instead is the look he had in the desert right before the gun came up, total, decided, fixed on me like nothing else in the room exists, and I don’t get the chance to do anything with that, because he crosses the room in three strides. His mouth is back on mine. This time there’s no held breath, no circling, no careful. This time it’s a decision he has already made, and he makes it with both hands.
“Changed your mind,” I get out, somewhere in it.
“Shut up,” he says, rough, against my mouth, already kissing me again. I laugh into it. Then his hands get serious and I stop laughing.
He takes his time now. That’s the devastating part. After the interruption, after the cold, he comes back slow, like he’s decided that if he’s doing this he’s doing all of it. He peels the rest of my clothes off me like he’s got the whole night to use, spreading my legs wide so he can look at my dripping wet pussy.
His mouth retraces every place it left, sucking my tits, tongue flicking my nipples, then lower, licking slow and filthy through my folds, tasting how wet I am for him. His hands learn me, fingers circling my clit until I’m begging, until I stop tracking what I’m saying back, stop tracking anything but the heat building low, tight, unbearable.
When he finally gives me what I’ve been clawing toward, he notches the thick head of his cock against my entrance, pushes in slow and deep, stretching my pussy around his hard length. I come apart so hard I see white at the edges, my nails raking down his back, my pussy clenching and fluttering around him, his name in my mouth, a name I shouldn’t know well enough to say like that.
He follows me with a sound torn out of his chest, his cock pulsing as he fills my pussy with his cum, his face dropping into my neck, the whole shaking weight of him coming down on me.
For a while neither of us moves.
The wall is down. I don’t know how else to say it. For one reckless hour the scariest man in Nevada is just a heartbeatagainst my skin, slick, spent, human, his hand moving slow up the curve of my side like he forgot to make it stop.
“Your ceiling has a water stain shaped like Texas,” he says, in the voice other men use for compliments.
“That’s Brenda. She came with the apartment.”
I feel the laugh before I hear it, a low underground thing beneath my ear, there and gone. The man himself, laughing at my water damage. Nobody would ever believe me. I barely believe me.
I should be afraid. I keep waiting to be afraid. Instead I’m boneless, warm, stupidly safe in the worst possible arms, and I let my eyes close.
I fall asleep on a stranger’s scarred chest. That’s the last thing I know.
I wake to gray light and cold sheets.
He’s gone. Of course he’s gone. The other side of the bed is empty, the dent of him already cooling. I lie there a second piecing together which parts were real. All of them, says the ache in my body. All of them, says the tender spot on my hip where the door dug in.
