Page 9 of Fake Dating the Mafia Boss
I round on him. I’ve had enough.
“Okay. No.You don’t get to just decide things.” My voice climbs and I let it. Three nights of fear has to go somewhere, so it goes here, at the one man dumb enough to follow me indoors. “You don’t get to kill somebody in front of me, then show up at myjob, throw money around, tell the whole room I’m your property, then walk me up to my apartment like this is a date. What is this? What do you actually want from me?”
“You know what I want.”
“Say it.”
He looks at me for a long second. Then he tells me, low and even, exactly what he wants, in words filthy enough that the floor tilts under me.
“You can’t say that to me,” I manage.
“You asked.”
“There are words you’re not supposed to use on a first whatever-this-is.”
“Tell me which ones.” He takes a step. “I’ll use them slower.”
“I have a gun-to-my-head situation with you. You’re standing in my apartment talking about my body like it’s already yours.”
“Tell me to leave.” He takes a step toward me. I take one back, my shoulders hitting the door I just came through. “Look me in the face. Tell me you want me to walk out of here, I’ll go. You’ll never see me come up these stairs again.”
I open my mouth.
Nothing comes out. Because the true thing, the thing I hate with my whole entire body, is that I don’t want him to go. I’ve spent three days terrified, furious, unable to stop seeing his face. Now his face is here, six inches from mine, his hand coming up to rest flat on the door beside my head, every nerve I have screaming the wrong word.
“That’s what I thought,” he says.
He kisses me.
It is not gentle, thank God, because gentle would have given me time to think. This gives me nothing. His mouth comes down on mine, hot and demanding, three nights of held breath breaking at once, his tongue pushing deep as his hand slides off the door into my hair, fisting there, tipping my head back so he can take more.
I make a sound I’d be ashamed of any other day, a low, needy moan that goes straight to my wet pussy. My hands, which I last saw shaking, fist in the front of his shirt and pull. That’s the whole argument lost right there. I’m dragging him in, my body already aching for his cock.
“There she is,” he says against my mouth, like he found something he was looking for.
His mouth tastes like water from somewhere cold. Under my fists the wool of his jacket is soft enough to make me angry. Cedar somewhere. Gun oil. Him.
I get his jacket off his shoulders. I don’t decide to. My fingers just do it, shoving the expensive fabric down his arms until it drops. His hands are already at the canvas jacket I stole back off Crystal, peeling it down, his mouth at my jaw now, my throat, teeth grazing the spot under my ear that makes my knees stop participating and my pussy clench.
He’s everywhere at once and it still isn’t enough. I get my hands under his shirt, feel the heat of him, the hard plane of his stomach, the ridge of a scar I don’t ask about, and lower, the thick, hard outline of his erection straining against his pants. He hisses something in Russian when my nails drag over his skin.
“Bed,” I tell him, because the door is digging into my spine. I have apparently made some decisions.
He lifts me. Just picks me up like I weigh nothing, my legs going around him out of pure instinct, my wet heat grinding against the hard bulge in his pants. He carries me the four steps to the bed that takes up half my apartment, and we go down onto it in a tangle, him over me, the good weight of him pressing me into the mattress.
I get his belt open, my fingers brushing the hot length of his cock as I free it. He gets my shirt off, his big hands cupping my tits, thumbs circling my nipples until they tighten and ache. His mouth follows his hands down my body, sucking one nipple into his mouth, teeth grazing, and I arch up into it, shameless, gone, some version of me I’ve kept in a drawer for years suddenly loose in the room.
He talks the whole time, low, rough, obscene. “I’m going to fuck this tight little pussy until you forget your own name. I’ve been hard for you since I watched you on your knees in the sand, wanted to bend you over right there and bury my cock in you.” The worst part is that I give it right back. “Yes, fuck my pussy, I want your cock so bad, please.” Things I didn’t know were in my mouth.
“That mouth,” he says against my throat, dark, delighted. “That mouth is going to get you in trouble.”
“It already did. You’re in my apartment.” He goes still for half a second when I do, then groans like I hurt him in the best way.
“Christ,” he says. “You’re going to be a problem.”
“You’re just figuring that out.”
I’m down to almost nothing under him now, breathless, aching, his hand sliding up my thigh to cup my wet pussy, two fingers teasing my entrance. I have never in my life wanted anything the way I want the next sixty seconds.
