See how the Morelli liked their desirable match.
They must like it a whole hell of a lot, because the waitstaff wheeled in a five-foot-tall wedding cake.
Next to me, Gabreilla groaned. “It’s even worse in person.”
I shot her a look. “You don’t like the cake?”
“It’s too much,” she muttered. “And it’s the wrong flavor.”
My little wife didn’t like the cake. Something tightened in my chest.
Interesting.
It would be easy to fix this for her. What was more, I wanted to fix it.
I slid my gun from the holster on my hip. If there was one thing to both assert my authority over the gaggle of mobstersand solve my wife’s disapproval of the wedding cake, it was a device action.
Gabriella caught the motion.
She dove onto my lap.
She…touchedme.
Willingly.
There was no fear or hesitation. She scrambled over my legs, elbow digging into my thighs and breasts skimming against my abdomen.
The scent of sun-ripened peaches hit me again.
Gabriella struggled for my hands, not caring that a few curious glances darted in our direction. Her delicious body squirmed as she tried to pin my wrists. Hot breath feathered over my jaw as she reared up.
Fire blazed amber in those brown eyes.
My blood simmered with arousal.
“What are you doing?” she hissed, holding my hands in place.
Because I let her.
Because not having her this close wasn’t an option.
I shrugged. “I hate cake. And if that one offends you—”
“No!” she wailed softly. “Absolutely not, Liam. I forbid it!”
Those words coupled with her lithe, lean body spread over me were stronger than any shot of whiskey. I fucking burned.
“You will not—I repeat, you willnot—shoot the damn wedding cake!” she continued, oblivious to the raging hardon in my pants.
Releasing the gun, I let her pull my hands back. She looked down to ensure I wasn’t brandishing my firearm.
But then, Gabriella froze.
She seemed to just realize howclosewe were. How she was draped over my body. That we were touching, if only our hands.
Her body jerked, and she tried to scramble back into her seat.
I wasn’t having that.
