Page 91 of Brutal Heir

“Are you going to tell me?”

“It’s probably best if I don’t.”

She looks as if she’s going to argue, insist I tell her the truth. And maybe I should. She deserves to know what she’s getting into with me. Just when I make up my mind to explain, her mouth opens.

“Fine, then are you done throwing your own pity party?” A devious smirk curls her lips and just like that the anger begins to wane.

“On the contrary, I was hoping you’d join in.” I erase the distance between us in two long strides, eating up the sight of her in those skimpy pjs that drive me absolutely wild.

Her breath hitches when I reach her, and instead of taking her in my arms like I’d planned, I find myself pausing. Waiting. What if last night had been a fluke? What if she blames it on—on what, I don’t know. We hadn’t even been drinking. But what if she realizes what a mistake it was and how unworthy I am of her…

The doubts creep in, one by one, tearing at my insides until I’m no longer the king of the Velvet Vault. Instead, I’m that scarred, broken, shell of a man that woke up in the hospital in Milano.

So I just stand there, frozen, like acoglione.

Her fiery gaze lifts to mine, one brow arching in a questioning glance. “Well, are you going to kiss me, Rossi, or just stand there?”

My heart kicks at my ribs in a desperate attempt to get my stupid mouth to open.

“Because if I have one more night to think on all the reasons why getting involved with you is a terrible idea, this might never happen.”

My heart doesn’t just kick this time, it punches through my ribcage and lands right at her bare feet.

Rory Delaney. Standing in front of me in a tank top that hugs her curves like it was made just to torment me, shorts that might as well be painted on, and eyes that are daring me to make a move.

All thoughts of the Velvet Vault, Sienna, the theft, and La Spada Nera fly right out of my mind.

I inch closer so that our mouths are a heartbeat away. “You sure you’re ready for this, Red?” I rasp, my voice low and beyond wrecked.

Her chin tilts up, defiant. “I’m still here, aren’t I?”

That’s all I need.

I seal my mouth to hers, swallowing her gasp as I back her toward the bed, devouring her lips like a starved man. My hands are on her hips, then her waist, then up under her top, palming soft skin I’ve only dreamed about. A soft gasp purses her lips as I find her breast.Cazzo, no bra. Heat spills south as I toy with her nipple, and I can feel myself thickening. She pulls me closer so that our bodies are flush, fingers diving into my hair, tugging with that same boldness I’ve come to crave from her.

Her palm slides down between us, petite hand curling around my cock over my boxers. Then those sparkling emerald orbs lift to mine, wicked heat sparking. “You’re not exactly lacking in the massive erection department.”

I hiss out a curse or maybe it’s a prayer. BecauseDioknows I’m not a good man, so what did I do to deserve this woman?

When we reach the edge of the bed, it’s a flurry of movement, a tangle of limbs and tongues, of clothes torn off, and ragged breaths. She stands before me a perfect porcelain canvas dabbled in freckles, my tiny tyrant, my wildling, my little leprechaun. Allmine.

“Dio, you’re breathtaking, Rory, like you were made just for me, and I’ll spend the rest of my life trying to deserve you.”

Merda, I hadn’t meant for that last part to slip out. Too much?

Her heated gaze rakes over me, and it takes all my restraint not to squirm, not to cover my scars beneath that piercing scrutiny. She’s seen me naked time and again, but never like this.

I wait for the hesitation, for her to race out of the room at the raw declaration, at the map of scars that mar my body. Instead, she only draws closer, rising on her tiptoes to frame my face with those small, powerful hands.

“You already deserve me, Rossi. Or else I wouldn’t be giving myself to you.”

With a ridiculous smile, I ease her onto the mattress and crawl over her. My gaze chases to the tattoo along her ribcage, and I pause. It has to mean something. Something big. I only hope that one day she’ll tell me. As I trace the lines of the frilly script, her legs part for me without hesitation, like I already belong there. She doesn’t seem afraid. Not of my scars. Not of what I am. Not even of what this could become.

And for one breathtaking moment, she’s all I see, all I am. It’s not about the scars or the wreckage. I see myself the way she does. Just a man. Hers.

With my arms caging her in, I kiss down her jaw, then her throat. As I lick across her soft skin, she trembles, but not with fear, with anticipation. Need.

I drag my mouth back to hers, slower now, savoring every second, every sound she makes. “You terrify me,” I whisper against her lips.