Page 25 of Brutal Crown

My hand reaches out to slide over the hard lines of his chest. I want to trace and caress every inch of him, let my fingers memorize what my pride won’t let me ask for. But I stop at his heart, where I feel it pounding under my palm, wild and erratic, like mine.

His tongue swipes into my mouth, and I moan into his. He lets out a guttural groan, and I feel his hardness pressing against my stomach. His hand snakes beneath my nightgown, skimming up my bare thigh. His fingers ghost over my inner leg, pausing just where I start to ache the most.

A whimper escapes me.

Then he growls—deep and raw—and lifts me in one swift motion. My legs wrap around his waist, his body solid between mine and the wall. I can feel everything. The heat. The need. The danger.

Too fast. Too reckless. Not safe.

But I don’t stop him.

His hand slides between my legs, fingers grazing the soaked fabric of my panties.

He groans again, louder this time. “Fuck, Lia…”

Then he crushes me harder into the wall, like he wants to fuse us together, like letting go would kill him. His thigh slides between mine, and I grind against it shamelessly, lost in the friction, in the desperate rhythm of our bodies.

His hands grip my hips like he’s holding on for dear life. His mouth trails down my neck, his tongue dragging over my collarbone before he bites, just hard enough to make my knees buckle if I weren’t already in his arms.

“I’ve imagined this,” he rasps between kisses. “Over and over. Every goddamn night. And none of it—noneof it—comes close to this.”

I’m breathless. Dizzy. Drunk on him.

Drenched in want.

But somewhere deep inside me—fragile, trembling—a voice whispers.

Stop.

Not now. Not like this.

Not when I still don’t know if I’m just another thing he’ll leave broken in the morning.

With the little willpower left in me, I push at his chest, breaking the kiss. I’m breathless. Trembling from the desire and withdrawal. He stops, and I almost kiss him again at the look of pure desire on his flushed face.

“Don’t kiss me if you’re going to pretend I don’t exist tomorrow.”

He says nothing. Just stares at me.

And that silence—his silence—tells me everything.

His eyes are darker now, almost pitch black. He knows I’m right.

When he backs away, I feel my heart splitting into two. Then he’s gone, and I’m left alone again, lips tingling, the last piece of my heart I was clinging onto gone with him.

8

FRANCESCO

Islam the bedroom door behind me harder than I mean to.

For a second, I stand in the center of the quiet room, staring at the dark wood panels and neatly folded clothes my personal help laid out for me on the sofa. My hands curl into fists.

I shouldn’t have gone to her room. Shouldn’t have kissed her.

And it’s not because I regret it. I’ll never regret it. It’s because the taste of her is still on my tongue, and it will be for a long time.

My mother’s words from many years ago filter back into my ears. I was twelve, maybe thirteen. I was desperate to learn more about the mafia, about the ways of our family. My father told me the things he thought were important. Obedience. Wisdom. Loyalty.