Page 40 of Knocked Up by My Dad's Mafia Boss

He waves a hand. “Told you, your father brings it out in me.”

I snicker. “I’m going to have to thank him. You’re a sweet drunk.”

“Am I?” He tries to sit up, fails, and groans as he plops back down. “C’mere,tesoro.”

I bite my lip.

Papa will be out all night, so as long as I leave early in the morning…. I put my purse down on the nightstand and crawl into bed with him.

Dante sighs happily, pulling me close to his chest and kissing all over my face. I giggle, loving the affection and attention.

“I should get you drunk more often.”

“Not tequila,” he pleads. “The room is spinning.”

“Just close your eyes.”

“Don’t want to,” he says, pouting slightly. “Wanna see you.”

God.He looks so boyish like this, so… vulnerable. Open in a way he never is.

“You can see me in the morning.”

“I’ll be hungover,” he complains.

“Yeah, you will. You see me all the time, though.”

“Not like this. Not since Elio got back.” His fingers trace my curves, up my hip and the line of my waist, marking me shiver. Goosebumps pop up along my skin.

I look at him, biting my lip, and wonder how far I can push him when he’s like this.

He just stares back at me, his blue eyes still so bright despite how glassy they are. “I don’t know if I should stay tonight.”

His hand tightens on my hip, not quite bruising, but it still makes me draw in a sharp breath. “Too bad. You’re not going anywhere.”

I laugh but he keeps staring at me with a blank expression, his hand not moving from my hip. I try to wiggle out of his grasp, but to no avail. He’s too strong.

“What if?—”

“Elio will be out all night. Trust me,” he drawls.

I wrinkle my nose. “Ew. I don’t want to think about my dad getting laid.”

He barks out a laugh. “How else do you think you were made?”

“Still!” I smack at his chest and he catches my wrist in his hand. He slowly brings my hand to his mouth, kissing along my knuckles. It makes my heart skip several beats. “You’re being so…” I trail off, unsure how to continue.

“So what?” he murmurs, taking my hand and rubbing it against his face. His five o’clock shadow feels prickly on my palm.

“Different.”

It’s all I can manage. I’m gobsmacked by how he’s acting, how open and loose he is with his affection when normally I have to fight for it.

“Fucking tequila. Makes me honest,” he admits.

I draw in a sharp breath. “Honest?”

“Yeah.”