Page 66 of Revenge on the Mafia

“Not by pissing me off.”

His gaze bit into me. I returned it tenfold. He didn’t give in. Neither did I. We stood there for a lifetime. Under his offended eyes. I wasn’t winning this battle. That was evident in the strength of his stare. “So, tell me. I’ve always been slow to learn. How do I earn a reward?” My voice was coated with a sweetness thick enough to kill.

He shook his head softly. “By being a good fucking wife, Anna.” He stalked off to the window. Set his glass on the sill and stared outside. If he wanted to treat me like a whore and reward sex with a treat, I wanted to hear the words from him. That would make it all right. I pushed that thought down fast.

He was counting again. I fell asleep to mathematics. He obviously used it to concentrate. The contrast was as broad as it could be. For every tick of his finger, I imagined a number running in his head. I imagined something diminutive. One, ten, or a twenty. He probably thought in calculations. Whatever it was, it must have worked because when he crossed to the armchair and sank into it, he was a different breed entirely. Calm. Collected. Almost distant. “Come here.”

Still, the words were a command. My eyes narrowed. There was a trap behind them. I hovered between wanting to find out and running to the basement and locking myself up. He waited patiently while I decided. I already knew a locked door wouldn’t keep him away. Facing him would be better than being chased by him. Even though he looked like he didn’t care either way.

I took two steps and stalled. Maybe I’d have a better chance if I ran. Somewhere between the two steps I’d taken, his indifference had melted into want. The hunger in his eyes terrified me. My dress covered me from bust to knee. It was satin, tight, and a snug fit. But somehow his gaze bored through the fabric, and I knew he could see everything. His gaze pulled. I walked. Four feet away from him, I stopped. No sane person came within reach of a hungry beast. This one looked starved. He thrust his leg out, hooked it behind my ankle, and tugged. I stumbled, grasping for air to hold me up. Wrapping his hand around the back of my knee, he yanked me closer. My naked knee hit his pant-clad one. Before I could think or even take a step back, his palm rode the back of my thigh, seeking and finding the slit in the back of the dress. A sharp, jagged sound split the silence as the fabric came apart in his hand.

I fought to get out of his hold. He yanked me forward and pushed me onto his lap. A gasp of frustration filled me. He gripped my throat and swallowed my gasp with his mouth.

Lust and passion touched my lips. It melted my resistance into liquid heat. Against my wishes, my hands climbed up his biceps, wrapped around his neck, and my nails dug into his heated skin.

His tongue delved into my mouth. He did it with such authority, as if he’d dreamed of kissing me for a lifetime. He ravished my mouth. Licked, sucked, and when I settled into the pattern, bit gruffly. Then he traced it with his tongue, soothing the bite before repeating the torture back-to-back. He tasted like the insanity of a drug. One that was made to make your mind go fuzzy and your body melt into a hot mess.

Kissing Niccolò Martello was a high that I feared was addictive.

Teak and cedar in the air. The heat of his arms caging me. He was big, and I was fragile, yet I was safe. With one hand, he cupped my ass, gripping it so tight that he would leave his imprint. While his other ran leisurely up my thigh. Rough palm collecting satin, rolling it up. A lust-filled groan reverberated in his chest. His hand stilled for a beat before falling into a rhythm. A pattern on my inner thigh. He’d found my moles. He was tracing them with his eyes closed. The thought that he just might have memorized it made me whimper with need.

He released my lips. Followed the shape of my jaw from one end to the other with his mouth. My head fell back. He followed the movement and dipped his tongue into the hollow behind my ear. Somehow it felt like he’d dipped his tongue to my clit. Lust rushed through my veins, bubbling into a hot mess inside my body. My hips rocked with need. Underneath me was a hardness I wanted to feel inside me.

He hissed in my ear. Gripped my hip. Stilled me. His hand moved up. Curled around my thong. For a beat, he ran his thumb over it, feeling the fabric, testing it out. Then he ripped it apart, and the lace gave way under the danger of his fingers. His palm covered me. His thumb an unbearable breath away from my clit. My hips fought to move. He kept them imprisoned. A groan of frustration rattled in my chest. A dark chuckle heated my neck. “Now you know what it feels like.” The sound of his voice, dark, rough, so different, slid down and pooled into a throbbing heat in my clit.

He nipped my neck up and down, then followed to do the same with my collarbone and the top of my breasts.

“Por favor,” I whimpered. He was driving me insane.

Pulling his hand off my hip, he yanked my top down. My breasts fell free. Plump and aching, my nipples sharp points of need. He swallowed one in his palm. Feeling them up, squeezing and kneading it. His rough touch brought sticky heat to coat my thighs. Then he pulled at my nipple and pinched it tight. My breath stuttered. My eyes fell on his hand, covering my breast. It was so insanely hot that I worried I couldn’t handle it. Pressure built in my clit and a drip of sweat pooled down my back. A whimper of need ran through me. All my blood collected at the bite of his fingers. Then he absolved them, and stars lit my vision. It was an out-of-body experience if I’d ever experienced one. When I came back to Earth, heaving and gasping, his stunned stare was on me.

“You came.” His words were a mixture of wonder and amusement.

“Shut up.”

He didn’t. “You came with just—”

I hated the smug expression on his face. “Stop talking.” I tried to pull away to lift off him. He gripped my hip. Thumb moving.

I clutched his hand. “Don’t.”

“Why not?”

He wanted me to tell him. I gritted my teeth. He moved. One flick on my clit. I gasped. A line tracing it. I rocked my hips. Then his finger dipped below. “Fuck,” he hissed. “So fucking wet.” I moaned, half embarrassed and half out of my mind. He slipped a finger in. I clutched his hand to stop him. His gaze was hot. Dark. Then he slipped another digit in. My insides trembled. If I was going down, he was coming with me. My hands went to his belt.

“No,” he groaned.

I ignored it. Fumbled with his belt. Somehow, I managed to unbuckle it and get to his zip. But he had gone stiff. Hand clamped around mine. His other still inside me.

“No,” he said more firmly.

I stared at him, battle-ready. His gaze turned furious. When he pulled his fingers out, they came out with a pop that made me pray for a sinkhole to take me down. But I still held on to my stare. His hands fell off my body. As if he needed the distance, he leaned away from me, resting against the back of the chair. He aimed a look of disapproval at the ceiling. He was doing the thing with the numbers. Taking advantage of his distraction, I swiped a finger down his length. It earned me a sharp hiss and a stinging slap on my ass. I bit my inner cheek to swallow the gasp. I didn’t even grasp why he wouldn’t let me touch him. He was so hard that it had to be painful. Either I was getting off him and taking care of myself, or he’d do it while falling apart himself. I preferred the latter. The thought of it alone made my thighs clench with need.

He dragged his eyes back to me. His jaw ground and slipped down past my face. Breasts out and swollen. Satin and silk wrapped around my midriff. Flushed, naked skin around it.

“Fuck.”

His hand fell off mine.