When he turns back to me, I’m watching him with a different kind of hunger now—slower, sharper.
I bite my lip, suppressing a laugh. “Aw. Did the big bad mobster get caught?”
His jaw tightens. “You think this is funny?”
I shrug, completely unbothered. “I think it’s fucking hilarious.”
He’s in front of me in an instant, fingers closing around my chin, tilting my face up. His grip isn’t gentle.
It’s possessive.
Punishing.
“You just love fucking with me, don’t you?”
My breath hitches, but I don’t look away. I lick my lips again, slow and deliberate. “Every second.”
He crushes his mouth against mine, swallowing whatever smart-ass remark I had ready. I melt into him immediately, nails digging into his shoulders, while pulling him closer like I want to feel every inch of him again.
Eventually, we get dressed.
That’s when I see it—the way his hand lingers at his side, fingers pressing too carefully. A dark stain blooms faintly beneath the bandage.
My amusement drains away. “Are you in pain?” I reach for him without thinking.
He catches my wrist.
And for the first time—
He doesn’t shove me away. “I’ll live.”
I lean in anyway, pressing a soft kiss to his jaw. Quiet. Gentle. Rare. His body is wound tight beneath my fingers, tension humming under the surface.
I can feel the war inside him.
Pride versus pain. Control versus instinct. The need to retreat battling the need to stay.
For just a second, he lets himself lean into me. His breath shudders. His grip loosens. Like he wants this. Like he wants to let himself have it.
Then it’s gone.
The mask slides back into place.
But I felt it.
That slip.
That need.
“I’m just saying,” I add lightly, because I refuse to let the moment go untouched, “if you die, you better put me in your will. At least leave me the penthouse.”
He exhales sharply, then a quiet chuckle slips out as he shakes his head. “You’re fucking impossible.”
“You love it.”
He doesn’t answer.
But he doesn’t deny it either.
