Page 28 of Knocked Up by My Dad's Mafia Boss

“You’re driving me crazy,” I say in a low tone.

“There are no cameras inside the living room,” she says calmly, easily, like she’s telling me the weather.

My mouth goes dry. “What does that have to do with anything?”

She shrugs. “Just a comment. Papa has them set up in the foyer, outside, but he thinks we need our privacy inside. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“I guess so.”

Samantha moves on the couch so swiftly that my hands are on her hips as soon as she starts to straddle me. “Samantha. Don’t.”

“Don’t what?” She slowly wraps her arms around my neck and leans down to press her forehead against mine. I blow out a harsh breath.

“Don’t.” I say again, more firmly, and pick her up by her hips, physically moving her off me before my dick can stand at attention.

She huffs. “You’re no fun.”

“Watch the show.” My cheeks are burning as I try to focus on the narrative.

We watch for a few minutes longer and then Samantha whines. “I’m hungry. What are we having for lunch?”

“Ella’s making something. Be patient.”

She sits up slightly, still too close to me. “Can we order pizza for dinner?”

I chuckle. “You really are like a kid sometimes.”

She shrugs. “What can I say? I like pizza.”

“With extra tomatoes.”

“Extraextratomatoes,” she pipes up, grinning.

Ella brings out our lunch—grilled cheese and a chunky tomato basil soup. We eat in relative silence, her giggling at something on the show every once in a while.

It feels nice, being with her like this. Normal. If I can stop thinking with my dick, maybe the next two weeks won’t be so bad.

She disappears into her room for a few hours, and I’m finally able to breathe, reading another paperback while she does… whatever she’s doing. Probably talking to her heathen friends. Sofia. And Reese.

God, I hate Reese. With his long limbs and easy grin. I know he wants Samantha. I can practically smell it on him.

I can’t even expressly blame him. He’s a redblooded American male, and she… well, she’s built like that. I can still hate him, though, for being close to her. Being young enough, uncomplicated enough.

“Who’s winning?” she asks, appearing at the top of the stairs.

I glance over at her and then back at the television, like her pretty face doesn’t make my heart skip a beat. “Felicia.”

“NotFelicia,” she gasps, hurrying down the stairs to watch.

I can’t help smiling at her. We order pizza and she eats three large slices before starting to doze off on my shoulder as the reality tv show marathon goes on. Her head bobs against my shoulder and I shift to get up, scooping her up in my arms. She rests her head on my shoulder again, wrapping her thick legs around me. I grunt softly as I carry her up the stairs.

“Don’t you dare say I’m heavy.”

“Light as a feather.”

“I wanted to see the end.”

“There’s two hours til the end. You’ll never make it.” I deposit her on the floor in front of her room and she pouts up at me, her hair slightly mussed from sleep. She’s fucking beautiful, and looking down into her amber-brown eyes I can almost forget who she is.