Page 22 of My Wedding Mafia Style

Not simply overwhelmed. Not simply dazzled by the yacht or my family or the expensive lighting she keeps pretending not to notice. Lucy sees more than she should. She looks at the spaces between words and asks about them.

For a woman who started this evening lying badly, she is inconveniently good at finding truth.

“For both of us,” I say.

The breeze moves between us. The corner of my mouth lifts. Her gaze drops to it just for a couple of seconds. I see it. Everything in me stills.

The first time she kissed me, she had an audience, a motive, and a man across the room she wanted to wound.I understood it quickly enough. Let it happen. Took control where I could. Enjoyed it more than I should have.

This is different. No Derek. No performance. Only Lucy standing in front of me with the wind in her hair and my name still lingering between us.

I step closer. She does not move back.

“Lucy.”

Her breath catches slightly. “Yes?”

“I’m going to kiss you.”

Her eyes widen. “Is that a question?”

“No.”

“Right. Of course it isn’t.”

“But you can say no.”

The words matter. I need her to know that. For a moment, she looks at me in a way that strips the humor from the air. Not completely. It never disappears with her. But something solid and real rises beneath it.

“I know,” she says.

And then she lifts her face. That is all the answer I need.

I touch her carefully at first, one hand at her waist, the other rising to her cheek. Her skin is warm beneath my palm. Her lashes lower. The yacht moves beneath us, slow and steady, but all I feel is the small inhale she takes before my mouth meets hers.

The first kiss was fire set to prove a point. This one is quieter. Deeper. More sensual.

She melts into me with a soft sound that cuts through every controlled part of me. I pull her closer, no longer pretending the touch is necessary for balance. Her hands slide to my chest, fingers curling into my jacket, and for a moment I forget the water, the yacht, the family below us, the business waiting for me, all of it.

There is only her. The taste of champagne on her mouth. The warmth of her body against mine. The absurd, impossible certainty that I have known her longer than I have.

Her lips part under mine, and the kiss changes. Not enough to rush. Enough to admit to both of us that we’re not pretending anymore. My hand finds the small of her back, anchoring her as I taste the second she opens to me.

She’s not shy now. She returns the kiss with a reckless curiosity that matches my own. Her tongue touches mine, and this time she claims her own space in it—shifting just enough to let me know she’s chosen every inch of this moment.

When we break apart, she stays close, forehead touching mine. Her breath is uneven. So is mine. Something possessive and sharp moves through me.

Mine.

The thought is immediate.

Primitive, unhelpful right now. But far too satisfying to ignore.

I shift, turning her slightly so her back is to the rail and my body shelters hers from the wind. She rises onto her toes, chasing the kiss, and I nearly lose what remains of my restraint. Nearly.

A small voice from the stairs says, “Oh, absolutely not.”

Lucy jerks in my arms. I lift my head slowly.