Page 21 of The Mobster’s Mistress

“Problem?”

“You keep doing that, and this is going to be humiliatingly brief.”

I laugh. He pulls back and thrusts into me harder. The laugh breaks apart.

“Oh.”

“There’s that word again.”

“Shut up.”

He does it again. Harder. I wrap both legs around him. That destroys whatever control he had left. The next thrust pushes me deeper into the mattress, and I meet him instead of lying there politely while he does all the work. His eyes darken.

“That’s it.”

“You sound surprised.”

“I’m fucking delighted.”

His hand grips my thigh while he moves faster. There’s nothing tentative left now. No first-date manners. No expensive restaurant version of Lorenzo Moretti. Just Enzo. Sweat beginning at his temples. Jaw tight. Dark eyes fixed on me while he fucks me hard enough that the headboard knocks against the wall.

“You feel so fucking good.”

I moan.

“Enzo.”

“Say it again.”

I open my eyes.

“What?”

“My name.”

Oh, hell.

“Enzo.”

His thrust gets harder.

“That’s my girl.”

Something about those three words hits me straight between the ribs and the legs at the same time.

“You’re awfully possessive for a second date.”

His mouth crashes into mine.

“For tonight, you’re mine.”

I should argue. I should point out that no man has ownership rights after dinner, dessert, and one spectacular orgasm. Instead, I dig my nails into his back.

“Then prove it.”

That does it. Enzo grabs my hip and rolls us. Suddenly, I’m on top. I brace both hands against his chest.

“Well, that backfired.”