Page 10 of The Mobster’s Nurse

But she leans into me. Seems to melt. Sighs.

There it is.

I slide my hands over her shoulders, down her shirt, to her breasts.

"What are you … ah … doing?" she whispers, barely suppressing a moan. "What are we doing?"

I say nothing. Just massage those thick, gorgeous handfuls. As I begin to palm them, she shifts in the seat.

She's not pulling away. She's pressing closer. I notice every degree of difference.

"You tell me what you know," I snarl. "And I'll make your perfect, curvy body shake."

I massage them firmer, pushing them together. Feeling their full, heavy weight through the fabric.

"I … don't know any …" Her voice hitches.

I should stop. Every functioning part of my brain tells me to stop, to sit back down behind the desk, to be the professional my father needs me to be right now.

But I pause. Take stock. Her hands are in her own lap, loose, not pushing against me. Her neck is still tilted toward my mouth. Her breathing has gone ragged in a way that has nothing to do with fear. I know what frightened feels like in a body. This isn't it.

She's here. She's present. She's choosing this, the same way I am.

"Tell me to stop," I say against her neck. "Mean it this time."

She doesn't. She doesn’t have to. I'll know. She's not subtle, her tells are clear. I've been watching her very closely. I'll know. And the second I know, I'll stop.

She gasps. Presses her hands against mine through the fabric of her shirt. Pinning my hands tighter. Not letting me remove them.

My hands slip inevitably under her bra. When I feel her peaks already perky and hard for me, a river of warm pre-cum pulses out of my tip. I kneel behind her, never taking my hands off her two handfuls. I continue kissing and gently nibbling her neck, and her moans don’t stop. I roll her nipples between my thumbs and forefingers, obsessed with how they respond to me.

"You need …" I kiss. "To tell …" I nibble. "Me, the truth."

"Luca," she whimpers. I'm so glad she's using my name. “Oh, God, please."

"Please, what?" I growl. "Please stop? Or please don't stop?"

Her answer is another tangled moan. But I'm watching. I'm always watching. Her hands have found my forearms now, her fingers curl into my skin — not pulling away, gripping. Her hips shift forward in the chair, chasing contact. Her head drops back against my shoulder, giving me more of her neck, offering it. These are not the signals of a woman who wants me to stop. I know what that looks like. I would stop. This is something else entirely. This is a woman coming undone on her own terms, and I am the lucky bastard she's chosen to come undone with.

Her answer is a moan. And I understand it perfectly.

"I could spend a hundred fucking years obsessing over these tits," I breathe against her skin. "Playing with your perfect, responsive nipples. Listening to your moans. You taste perfect …"

She squeals when I pinch her nipples harder. I love the sound. Because even in that sharp intake of breath, I can hear the pleasure underneath it. Her body is a conversation I am learning to speak fluently.

My boxer shorts are sticky, soaked through with pre-cum.

Something changes. I feel it before she says anything. The grip on my forearms loosens. Her body, which has been moving toward me, stills. The quality of her breathing shifts — less ragged, more jagged. A different kind of tension bleeds in. I immediately recognize that kind.

I freeze. Wait.

"Stop," she says.

I stop. Step back.

Then, louder, more certain: "I mean it."

"Okay," I say. Just that. Okay.