Page 11 of Wicked Mafia Mistake
"Breathe." His lips brush my jaw. "I've got you."
I breathe. But it takes a helluva lot of effort.
He pulls the dress over my head in one fluid motion. Cool air hits my bare skin and I shiver, standing in front of him in nothing but my red T-strap heels and the stubborn bravery that got me through the door. No bra. No panties. I am completely naked in front of a man for the first time in my life and the urge to cover myself with my hands is so strong my fists clench at my sides.
"Oh, fuck me," I whisper under my breath. Not an invitation. A status report. I am standing in nothing but vintage heels in front of a man who could ruin my life with a single phone call to my father, and the fact that I'm not running tells me everything I need to know about how far gone I really am.
His eyes move over me. Slow. Deliberate. His gaze tracks every curve, every freckle, every flaw with a focus that makes my skin burn. His jaw flexes. A muscle jumps in his cheek. His nostrils flare on a sharp inhale and the sound he makes, low in his throat, is not a word. Raw and male and involuntary. My nipples tighten under the weight of his stare and heat floods my chest and neck in a blush I can feel all the way to my ears.
"Dio." He says it under his breath. His hands reach for me and stop. Curl into fists at his sides. Holding himself back.
No man has ever looked at me like this. Not Marco and definitely not Maximus. Not a single one of the beautiful disasters I've collected over the years like broken souvenirs. None of them made it this far because I never trusted any of them enough to let them. And here I am, bare and trembling in front of a manwhose name I can't say, and I trust him more than every man I've ever dated combined.
Because he earned it eleven years ago in a hallway I don't talk about. I'm giving my first time to the only man whose hands I trust with what every other man tried to take. If that makes me stupid or reckless or pathetically romantic, I'll take all three and ask for seconds.
That should terrify me. It does terrify me. But not enough to leave.
My fingers find his buttons. They're shaking again. I fumble the first one and a breathless laugh escapes. "Sorry. Motor skills are offline."
He takes my hands. Brings my fingers to his lips and presses a kiss against my trembling knuckles, his eyes holding mine, warm and steady. Then he lets go and unbuttons the shirt himself, pulling it free from his slacks and shrugging out of it.
"Holy shit." The words fall out of my mouth before I can catch them.
Moonlight catches every carved edge. Broad shoulders. Defined chest. A dark trail of hair narrowing below his navel. And the red viper tattoo winding from his left shoulder across his chest and down his arms, the scales vivid and detailed, shifting with the movement of his muscles. I track the serpent's body with my eyes, following it down his right arm to where the tail curls at his wrist.
Years of watching this man in tailored suits at dinner tables and fundraisers and not once did I imagine what was underneath the three-piece armor. Shame on me for underestimating what a man who fights on heavy bags and runs a criminal empire lookslike without his shirt on. I will never recover from this visual. Not ever.
"You can touch it." He catches me staring. "You can touch anything you want."
I press my palm flat against his chest. His skin is hot. Almost fevered. The beat of his heart pushes against my hand, strong and steady, and the contrast between his calm pulse and my jackrabbit heartbeat is ridiculous. I slide my hand over the tattoo, tracing the viper's body, feeling the ridges of muscle beneath ink and warm skin. He exhales through his nose and his stomach contracts under my trailing fingers.
I reach down and fumble with the ankle straps of my heels. My fingers are clumsy, shaking too hard to work the tiny buckles, and he watches me struggle for two seconds before dropping to one knee in front of me. His warm hands close around my ankle and he unfastens the first strap with steady fingers, slides the heel off my foot and sets it on the floor beside the bed. He does the same with the other, his thumb grazing the arch of my foot, and the tenderness of the gesture clenches tight around my heart. He presses a kiss to the inside of my ankle before he stands.
The prince on his knees for the girl who showed up in red heels instead of glass slippers. Cinderella in reverse. I could cry if I wasn't busy trying to remember how to breathe.
He guides me back onto the bed. I settle against dark sheets that carry his scent, and the warmth of the fabric against my bare back makes my body melt into the mattress. He follows me down, bracing himself on one arm, the heat of his body hovering above me without pressing down. His free hand traces a path from my collarbone to my hip, fingertips dragging over my skinslowly enough that every ridge of his touch registers against my senses.
My body locks. Every muscle goes rigid in a single breath. His fingers are on my bare hip and for one terrible heartbeat my body throws me back to that floor. Fifteen. Pinned. Fighting. The panic fires through my nervous system bright and fast and vicious.
Then it dies. Because these fingers aren't grabbing. These fingers are tracing. I know these hands. My body knows them from a different moment, a different kind of touch, and the girl on that floor trusted these hands before she trusted anything else in the world. I exhale and the sound shakes on the way out but I let my muscles unclench one by one.
He pauses. Reads the shift. Doesn't ask. Just slows his touch and waits until my breathing steadies, his thumb drawing one patient circle against my hip bone.
My body arches into his touch. Every nerve ending is lit up, desperate, aching. His mouth drops to my neck. His lips graze the hollow of my throat and his tongue tastes the pulse point where my heart is hammering against my skin. The scrape of his beard burns a trail down my neck and across my collarbone and the rough texture against soft skin makes me gasp.
"You taste incredible." He murmurs it against me, and his breath rolls warm over my chest. His mouth travels lower. Between my breasts. His lips close around one nipple and the sensation is so sharp, so immediate, my back lifts off the bed and a sound tears out of me that I have never heard from my own throat.
"That's it." His voice is dark and approving against my skin. "Let me hear you."
Well, that won't be a problem. I have zero control over the sounds coming out of me right now and honestly I've stopped trying.
His mouth moves lower. Down my stomach, lips dragging across the sensitive skin below my navel, breath hot and deliberate. Every muscle in my body tenses because I know where he's going. I inhale deeply and hold it until my lungs burn. I want it so badly my thighs ache with need and I can feel how wet I am, hot and aching.
He settles between my legs. His broad shoulders push my thighs apart and his hands grip my hips, holding me still. His beard scrapes against my inner thighs, rough and electric, and I jolt. His breath hits me first, warm and close, and I squeeze my eyes shut and dig my teeth into my bottom lip.
The first press of his mouth against me is so gentle, so achingly tender, that tears prick the backs of my eyes.
He takes his time. His tongue strokes flat and slow, learning every reaction, adjusting pressure when my hips buck, easing off when my breathing gets too ragged, then building again. The pleasure layers, one on top of another, tightening and coiling deep in my core. My fingers grip the sheets. My head presses back into the pillow and my mouth falls open on a silent cry. My bare feet dig into the mattress, toes curling into the sheets, and I don't care about anything except the pressure building inside me.
