The ruination of The Donati Famiglia will not be because of Seamus.
It will be because of his daughter.
And no one, not even my famiglia will be able to stop the man I’ll become once I have a taste of her.
Which is why I must put distance between us. Sever this tether and remind her of who she is. Of who I am.
But the lines have never been more blurred.
And it begs the question, how long can I resist the inevitability of us?
CHAPTER 27
Imogen
Iwake with my hand between my thighs. The slickness of my arousal coats my fingers. A fine sheen of sweat blankets my skin. My body is wound tight, desperate to release the tension.
The way he moaned my name in pure erotic bliss plays in a torturous loop in my mind.
His scent surrounds me. And as I roll over to his side of the bed where he vacated only moments ago I can still feel the warmth of his body.
My clit pulses, begging to be touched by his fingers.
I should deny myself the pleasure. I shouldn’t give in to this twisted urge. But I’ve never been this madly aroused before. And maybe if I just itch this scratch I will be rid of it.
Closing my eyes I imagine his face as I slowly circle my clit. The bundle of nerves cries for me to go faster, rougher, but I refrain. I want the anticipation to build. And I also want this feeling to last.
My other hand comes to encase my throat. It doesn’t hold the same weight nor the strength of his but it heightens my pleasure.
As I apply pressure I circle my clit faster. My toes curl and everything within me tightens. Faster and rougher I go until Ifeel myself begin to slip into sweet bliss. I squeeze my throat and imagine his eyes staring directly in mine.
On a breathless cry of his name I come the hardest I ever have.
I stay in post coital bliss for what feels like hours but I know only minutes have passed by.
When I sober reality hits me harder than bricks.
I just touched myself, gave myself the greatest pleasure I have ever felt, to the image of my captor.
Shame should be swirling in my stomach to the point where it makes me sick. But it doesn’t. I don’t even taste regret. If anything, I want to chase that wonderful feeling again. Except I want him to give it to me.
I’ve gone mad. Truly, deeply, and completely mad.
Because it doesn’t make a lick of sense.
We couldn’t be any more different. But there’s something there. An invisible string that keeps him and I bound to one another. And I’m tired of pretending like it doesn’t exist.
I can no longer resist him.
A cold front has moved in and I’ve been suffering the brutal brunt end of it.
Any time I try to get close I’m left with frostbite.
Even now as he cooks breakfast not once has his eyes peeked my way. It’s maddening and frustrating. But worst of all? It wounds me far deeper than it should.
Because despite the man whose reputation is known for being cold and unfeeling he has never presented himself as such to me.
I grew to his very own brand of warmness. Akin to a flower I found myself even blossoming under his praise and kindness.
