Page 9 of Wicked Mafia Mistake
She reaches into her clutch and pulls out a scrap of baby blue silk, dangling it from one finger.
Panties. The same shade as her eyes, delicate enough to fit in the palm of my hand, swinging between us like a dare.
"Proof," she says, but the tremble in her voice doesn't match the boldness of the move.
She blushes a flustered pink that has me nearly falling to one knee right here and now. I would beg to know her name, her life’s dreams, to know the feel of her warm body pinned under mine. But I have to take it easy. The last thing I want to do is scare her.
But fuck. Every ounce of blood in my body heads south. I take the silk from her finger. It’s still warm. I close my fist around it and the softness of the fabric against my calloused palm nearly undoes what's left of my self-control.
I close the distance between us with two steps. Her scent hits me first. Clean skin and a warm floral underneath, rich, familiar in a way I can't place. It goes straight to my senses and wraps around my cock.
I slide my hand around the back of her neck. Her skin is warm and soft beneath my palm and the fine hairs at her nape rise against my fingers. She tips her head back to look up at me and her hair falls away from her face. The top of her head barely reaches the middle of my chest. Her blue eyes are enormous from this close, and her lips part on a shaky exhale. Every hair on my arms stands. My stomach tightens. The want hits so hard and so fast I have to lock my jaw against it.
I want to see every freckle, every detail, every inch of the face staring up at me. I reach for the dimmer on the wall.
Her hand catches my wrist. Small fingers wrap around it, firm despite the trembling. "Leave it." Her voice is quiet. Almost a whisper. "Please."
I let my hand drop and bring it back to her jaw instead, tracing my thumb along the curve of her cheekbone in the low light. If the dark is what she needs to be brave, I'll give her the dark.
She's shaking. Full-body tremors she's fighting to control and losing. I feel them through my palm on her neck, through her fingers still wrapped around my wrist. Her jaw clenches, her shoulders pull back, her spine straightens. She's building herself up from the inside while everything on the surface trembles.
Terrified. And here anyway. But why is she scared?
I lean my forehead against hers and let her feel the energy between us. “You’re safe here. No one will hurt you.” I keep my voice low and steady.
“I’m sorry. It’s just it’s…”
“You don’t owe me an explanation. But I do owe you assurances that while you are in my presence, no one will harm you.”
Something shifts deep in my chest. Not desire, although that's burning through me hot enough to scorch.
It's a deeper feeling. Can’t figure it out, but it feels like a pull toward protecting this woman that makes no sense for someone I met three minutes ago. My body responds like I've done this before. Like I already know what her fear looks like and my hands already know how to answer it.
Then again, wouldn’t I do that for any scared woman? But I have never looked at a trembling woman and felt my body lurch forward with this bone-deep need to stand between her and whatever put that fear in those blue eyes.
I can't explain it. I guess I don't need to.
I reach for her hands. Slow, giving her room to pull back. When she doesn’t, my fingers find hers and I ease the knot apart, gentle, the way I handle contract details too fragile to force. Her fingers are small inside my palms. Cold and delicate against the rough calluses I've built on the heavy bag. I run my thumb across her knuckles, slow, and her breath catches. The sound of it, that tiny hitch, sends a jolt of heat straight down my spine.
"You're shaking."
"I know." A strand of blonde catches on her lower lip. "I'm also not leaving. So we should probably figure out what happens next."
Her fingers tighten around mine. Squeeze. And the pressure of her small hands gripping mine like I'm an anchor wraps aroundmy heart and offers a warmth that fifteen years of whiskey never managed.
I watch her face shift. The tension around her eyes softens. Her jaw unclenches. Her shoulders drop a fraction of an inch. I feel the exact moment she decides to trust me because her fingers stop trembling inside my grip.
I lead her deeper into my penthouse. Her hip brushes my thigh as we move through the hall, brief and warm through fabric, and my gut clenches. She smells like innocence and a floral warmth that is as honest as the woman wearing it. I breathe her in before I can stop myself. The want floods through me again. Raw. A full-body pull toward this woman that makes the disciplined, controlled part of my brain shut its mouth for the first time in years.
I guide her to the island, my hand still resting at the small of her back. The warmth of her seeps through the thin fabric and into my palm. I don't move it until I have to, and when I finally pull away her body sways toward mine for half a second before she catches herself.
I pour whiskey into the waiting glass. Our fingers brush when she takes it and the contact lights up every nerve from my hand to my shoulder. She feels it too. Her breath hitches and her blue eyes dart to my mouth before she pulls them back to the glass.
She wraps both hands around the whiskey and brings it to her lips. Takes a slow sip. Her eyes close for a beat and the tension in her shoulders loosens as the warmth spreads through her. When her lashes lift, her gaze finds mine and stays.
I lean against the island across from her. Close enough that her knee grazes my thigh. She doesn't pull away. Her eyes travel overmy rolled sleeves, the veins in my forearms, the open collar of my shirt. The slow path of her gaze feels like a physical touch. Heat trails everywhere she looks.
"You're staring," I murmur.
