Page 11 of The Mobster’s Nurse

I hold my hands up, palms out. A concession I've never made to anyone. Not once in my life. And yet here I am, hands in the air for a veterinarian from California with green eyes and a feisty, stubborn streak that makes my chest and my maleness ache.

She spins around. Cheeks ablaze. Eyes full of everything she won't say out loud.

She stares at me like she’s anticipated a fight, but I’m backing away. She seems surprised by the lack of a confrontation option. I see her eyes recalibrating — and instead found me standing with open hands.

Good, I think. She’s learning something new about me.

She pushes her chair out and leaps to her feet. Spins to face me. Her cheeks are red. Eyes on fire with conflict and lust and outrage. All tangled together. She buttons up her shirt with hands that aren't quite steady.

"If I knew something, I'd tell you, Mr. Moretti," she hisses. "Do you know why? Because I know who you are,” she pauses, fiddling with a stubborn button. “I know what you are."

I smirk. "So, this is the game, is it?"

"I am not playing a game⁠—"

"Oh, so you're going to pretend you weren't thirty seconds from drenching your panties just from me playing with your perfect tits? That's the game, eh?"

I know how that sounds. I don't care. What I won't do is let her walk out of here, convincing herself that none of it was real. That she was some passive victim of my charm, my name, my reputation, or my intimidation. She wasn't. She was right there with me, every single second —even if owning that makes her furious.

She walks toward the door. When I step into her path, she folds her arms. Even when she's angry, the savage in me can't stop my gaze from flitting to her breasts. To the way they press together.

"Are you going to keep me here?” She looks squarely at me, tilts her head a microfraction. Firms her jaw. “By force?" She raises one eyebrow. "Mr. Moretti?"

She gulps big breaths, almost sighs. Does she want me to? Almost daring me as much as asking me.

She did something similar earlier today in the corridor. She's doing it now. This isn't a real question. This is Ellie Cruz daring me with her eyes while her mouth objects. Or pretends to.

“The carrot and the stick, Ellie.”

I grab her hips and pull her flush against me. My lips crush into hers. Our groins collide.

She doesn't fight it for several long seconds. She sinks into it, even, moaning and cautiously grabbing the front of my shirt.

Our tongues tangle. I taste her, and it just makes me want to taste her more. She tastes like something I haven't had a name for until now.

Then she pushes against me. Her lips, red and raw. She looks so fuckable, I feel like I'm breaking. And some insane part of me wants to drop to one knee and propose to this stranger.

Is this fate? Is this insanity?

Both, probably.

"Well?" she snaps. “I don’t want or need either.”

I step aside. Not instinctively. Because she asks — and that's all the reason I need. And ever will.

"Okay, but … remember, we have eyes everywhere. And I will get to the bottom of this, Ellie."

"I'll be here tomorrow," she says evenly. "My regular shift, if you need me.”

She glares at me from the door, framing herself like armor. Like if she stands straight enough, none of this will have meant anything to her.

It has, though. I see it in the way she won't quite meet my eyes. In the flush that hasn't left her throat. The almost imperceptible aliveness in her stance.

Finally, she turns and leaves.

The room feels different without her in it. Smaller, somehow. Less interesting.

I want to hold her. To apologize for being so wild. Maybe too wild.