Page 104 of Obsessed by My Ex's Mafia Uncle

I nod, not trusting myself to speak.

His other hand comes up, brushing lightly against my temple before he leans in, pressing a kiss to my forehead. It lingers a second longer than it should.

“We will figure it out.” He presses another kiss.

This time, my eyes close before I can stop them, my body going still in a way that has nothing to do with panic this time.

Another kiss to the side of my forehead. Then dragging to my temple. Then sliding down to my cheek.

Each one slower than the last, like he’s not rushing toward anything, just… moving.

Until he isn’t. Until there’s nowhere else for it to go but… My lips.

The contact is light at first. Almost testing. More like a question neither of us asks out loud but we both have the answers to.

My mouth parts, and I breathe him in, catching on the freshness of his breath.

That’s all it takes.

The kiss deepens, his hand clipping at my shoulder, the other sliding to the back of my neck, holding me there as the space between us disappears completely.

And just like that, everything else fades.

The argument, the fear, the questions waiting on the other side of this. All of it pushed aside by something hotter. Hungrier. Something that doesn’t wait to be resolved before it takes what it wants.

And it is good. This is where I go when there’s nowhere else to go.

Tongues on tongue, messy, consuming. Arousal stirring in my loins, rising fast, too fast, my body clenching around it like it doesn’t know what to do with how much it wants.

Everything feels too sensitive, a tender ache that borders on pain.

My nipples harden, begging… no, demanding to be touched, bitten, squeezed. My sex throbs, swollen, wet, aching to be filled, to be taken, to be invaded.

He groans into my mouth, the sound rough, dragged from somewhere deep as I press into him, feeling the hard, unyielding press of his cock against me.

One second we’re standing, the next we’re moving, hands everywhere and nowhere at once, trying to hold and to pull closer.

My fingers catch his jacket first, fumble, miss the buttons, then find it again.

He lets out a breath that almost sounds like a laugh against my mouth, rough, like even this, this mess of hands and urgency gets to him.

“Hold on…” he drawls, not pulling away, but enough to tug it off himself, the fabric dragging against my arms as it slips free and drops somewhere behind us.

I’m back to being busy with his shirt, my fingers slipping against buttons that don’t want to cooperate, my patience already gone.

“Christine…”

“I got it…” I breathe back, not even sure I know what I’m doing.

At last, the last button gives.

My hands slide in, meeting warm skin, and the contact hits like a live current, snapping through my palms, racing up my arms, spilling into my bloodstream until it gathers in my core, pulsing right where I feel him most.

His hands find my waist then, pulling me into him so abruptly I lose my footing for a second.

We both do.

There’s a half-step, a stumble, and then the bed catches us.