Page 47 of The Ruin I Chose

“You kissed him.”

His voice was low. Controlled. But the heat beneath it was volcanic. The way he said it wasn’t anger—it was a claim laced with hurt, like I had bruised something he didn’t know he was offering.

“Oh, so the big bad mafia man is jealous?” I folded my arms. Daring him to admit it.

“Didn’t know you could feel that much.”

I wanted to poke the bear to see if he’d snap. Because I needed him to. He didn’t answer. Just looked down, exhaled, then slid towards me. His hand reached for my neck. My body leaned into it before my mind even caught up—like it already knew him. He tilted my chin up, eyes locked on mine. Heat shot straight between my legs, instant and humiliating.

“I don’t share,” he murmured, his lips grazing mine like a warning.

His breath was fire against my lips. I wanted to melt into it. To let him mark me. To let him remind me exactly who I belonged to—if only for tonight.

My breath caught. My mouth parted. And then he kissed me—fierce, unapologetic. His hands moved from my neck, tracing the curve of my breast to my waist, pulling me closer. My jacket slipped off. Heat bloomed between us, fast and unrelenting.

He pushed away, leaving me breathless and burning. He raked his fingers through his hair. I’d never seen him look more undone.

More dangerous. Sexier.

I could see him trying to control his urge to take me. The veins on his arms stood out. His neck, taut and exposed—inviting a bite.

I pushed him back against the seat, fingers fumbling with his belt. I needed this—needed to taste him, to feel him unravel on my tongue. Needed proof he wanted me as fiercely as I wanted him. I needed something real. Something that wasn’t pain or memory.

He was already hard. Already mine. And I wanted to show him that I understood possession. That I could give it back. That I wasn’t afraid of him, or his past.

It was the heat of hunger. I pulled his jeans down as he sprang to life. Before he could speak, I wrapped my lips around him. I heard a guttural moan as my tongue went up and down his shaft. I wanted to taste his fury. To swallow every ounce of his jealousy and turn it into pleasure. I wanted to own his pleasure, to make it mine. Because giving him this—his sounds, his surrender—felt like the only kind of closeness I could control.

My mouth moved with purpose—slow, then fast, teasing him until he forgot every name but mine. I reached down and caressed his sack. He closed his eyes, head resting against the seat—letting me consume his tension, mouthing:

“Fuck. Roxanne.”

He ran his fingers through my hair as I flicked my tongue over his tip, grazing him lightly with my teeth. He reached for the back of my head, urging me to move faster. I knew he was close when he started to twitch in my mouth.

“Rox… I’m close,” he gasped.

I didn’t stop—kept going until he hit the back of my throat, filling me with his desire. I barely had to swallow as it slid down my throat.

He looked at me, wrecked. And something in me pulsed—pride, desire, and something frighteningly close to tenderness. His olive eyes gone dark, his body slack, his breath uneven. And I smiled. Because I’d undone him.

Then, he grabbed me and kissed me hard. Our breaths tangled, bodies pressed as he slipped off my dress, letting it pool at my waist.

The way he looked at me, the way he touched me like I was the only thing that mattered. I leaned in, lips brushing his ear.

“Just so you know,” I whispered, “you’re not sharing.”

His breath hitched—a barely-there sound, but I felt it, a pulse of heat against my skin.

“Next time you see Isabella, tell her to go fuck herself.”

He was stunned, I knew. Then he smiled, slow and wicked.

“I did.”

He pulled me onto his lap and ripped my underwear, kissed my neck, then trailed down to my breast. His hand guided me down, and then he was inside me—sudden, deep, inevitable—stealing the breath right out of my chest.

The rhythm of the car matched the rhythm of my hips. Urgent. Unforgiving. Like we were trying to outrun the goodbye. Like we were trying to fuck the silence away.

Every thrust was a plea. Every moan, a confession. He whispered something in Sicilian—Mi mancherai. Non andare, cuore mio.