“I just want to see your space,” I finish, before pressing a hard kiss against her lips.
“And maybe feel your tight pussy wrapped around my cock. Make up for lost time.”
My hand closes around the back of her neck and I kiss her with abandon.
Chapter 53
Milo
I follow her up the stairs, keeping my distance, even though every instinct in me wants to close it.
I can’t take my eyes off her, so much so that I barely register where we are going.
It hardly matters.
I have the layout of this house memorised.
She opens the door and steps aside, allowing me in. I enter and close it behind me just as she flicks on the light.
Her room is large, immaculate, exactly what I expected. She is a mafia princess, I am a Bratva heir. We were both born into excess.
There’s a super king size bed with bedside tables on either side. Two doors sit opposite each other, one clearly an en-suite, the other a walk in wardrobe.
The vanity is littered with makeup, brushes, and girl things I don’t understand.
Her vanilla scent fills the room and hits me hard. Like the addict I am, I drag it into my lungs and let it fuck me up.
My cock has been rock hard since our kiss in the kitchen.
She stands there in loose pyjama trousers and a cropped top that bares her stomach and toned abs, with a teasing hint of cleavage visible above the fabric. I want to bury my face in her chest and never come up for air.
The room itself feels strange though. It lacks her real imprint. It’s nothing like her academy dorm, with its colourful cushions and art covering every available surface.
More than that, I have the distinct impression she’s spent most of her life hiding parts of herself in this house, presenting only a controlled, cold front.
Footsteps pass outside the door, most likely guards on patrol.
I don’t care. If her father finds me here, all the better. It’s a conversation that’s been overdue for way too long.
Let the world find out.
Octavia Bellanti is mine.
She looks me over, a knowing smile touching her lips.
I narrow my eyes, already aware she’s planning something.
Painfully slowly, she hooks her fingers into the waistband of her trousers and eases them down over her hips. They slide to the floor at her feet, and she steps out of them without breaking eye contact.
She is wearing nothing but a thin white thong.
My jaw tightens.
She turns her back to me, lifts her top over her head, and lets it fall to the floor. I watch as her hands reach behind her to unclasp her bra. She slips it off one arm, then the other, holding it away from her body for a moment before letting it drop.
Her hand trails up the length of her leg, over her hip, along her spine, as if she is acquainting herself with her own skin.
Then she turns.
