Page 13 of Italian Mafia Boss's Virgin Lover

And though there is terror, there is something else too. An insidious seed, growing deep within me. When he’s near, my pulse loses its rhythm. I forget what I’m thinking and who I am. I become just a girl—a woman—and him just a man.

Somewhere, beneath my anger and my fear and my sorrow, there is a black, twisted thread of lust.

Santo’s hand snaps free of mine. It lands firmly on my waist, and he shoves me back, so I bump against the table. “Ready?” he growls, voice low, eyes shadowed. “For what, pray tell, Dani?”

My heart is in my throat. But I taste that this is a dare, a test. One I can’t fail. “For you.” I hold my breath, force myself to speak the word, even though it’s archaic, even though he’s told me I don’t have to. “Master.”

And with shaking hands, I take his, and bring them slowly to my chest. His eyes narrow, my body answering the weight of his hot palms against my breasts. I suddenly, vehemently, wrongly wish there was no fabric between us, that we were skin to skin.

That he would dare and demand more of me, and leave me no choice but to obey.

Am I terrible woman?

But he does nothing. He leaves the power in my hands. Silently, he challenges me to go further. To prove I am what I say I am, that we want the same things.

I steady my hands to the best of my ability, unfixing the tie at my throat. I loosen it inch by inch, pulling the twin threads and opening the collar of the dress. Santo’s eyes rake down my bare throat, my clavicle, alighting on the modest curve of my breasts. His fingers move now, brushing aside the thin cotton, dragging it lower, lower, until my breath is hitched and the place between my thighs throbbing.

But no further.Kiss him, orders the desperate voice in the back of my mind.Do more than kiss him, another, darker voice answers.

If I think, my terror will overcome me. So I don’t.

I lean forward, standing as high as I can on my toes to reach him. Our mouths meet softly, my arms sliding around his neck. I bend him toward me, but he gives little, doing the barest to return the kiss.

More,I command myself.Prove it to him.

My mind melts, and I let my body, my traitorous body, take over. I slide my hands into his thick, silken curls, sliding back onto the table and pulling him toward me, so he’s positioned between my legs. As I part his lips with mine, as I slide my tongue into his hot mouth and against his, his body responds.

Strong, suddenly impatient hands yank the skirt of my dress to my hips. He presses himself against me, and I gasp at the stiffness between his legs. Want pulses through me, hard and primal, and I yank his jacket off, fumbling for the hem of his shirt, suddenly desperate to see him, every inch of him, despite my fear.

What can he do to me?I wonder, as I strip his black, snug shirt over his head.Is there anything I wouldn’twanthim to do to me?

I take in his body, his flawless, Greek-god body, with parted lips and a raging heart. He’s taller than I realized, and broader too. Every inch of him is lean, corded muscle: powerful chest, bulging biceps and shoulders, rippling, ridged abs.

I drag reverent, loose fingertips down his front, not stopping when I reach the hem of his pants. My fingers glide over the stiffness there, my body, barely knowing what it wants, only knowing it wants all of him, and all of him now.

I don’t know this man, I remind myself, but the voices in my head are growing quieter and further away. There’s a hunger awakening inside of me, a desperate, flagrant want that overcomes any sense of patience or self. I forget who I am, who I was before I learned what I had to do, before I arrived here in Italy. I forget that none of this is really real, that all it is is a dare.

He grunts as I slide my hand inside his trousers. A gasp goes through me when I reach his stiffness, and I grasp tightly. Santo’s hand rises to my chest. He’s close, his body eclipsing mine. Rough fingers graze my clavicle, wrapping possessively around my throat. I grip him harder, thrilled at the way his breath hisses into his mouth.

Is this what he wants?I wonder at the tautness of his handsome jaw as I work my hand up and down his considerable length.Does this bring him pleasure?

His fist around my neck tightens slightly, and a thrill vibrates through me. “I’m not afraid of you,” I whisper, lips grazing his ear. “I’m not afraid of what you want to do to me.” My heart pounds, dangerous and gleeful. I’ve never felt as powerful as I do now. Why? Is it him? The position I’m in?

The paradoxical freedom of being his prisoner?

Santo thrusts me back, lying me flat on the table, hand still locked around my throat. His eyes are black wildfire, his jaw taut and brow furrowed. The challenge is so alive in his face, igniting every inch of me. His free hand slides along my outer thigh, leaving a line of fire as he rakes the hem of my dress higher still.

I feel my lips part, feel a quiver go through me. But I don’t protest as his rough hand slides between my legs. I spread them wider, welcoming the stroke of his fingers. I bite my cheek to keep from making a sound, grasping his powerful forearm, his fist still enclosed around my throat.

Santo, beautiful and fierce, says nothing as he slides my panties aside. He watches me as though tempting a reaction, waiting for something. And then his finger slides inside of me.

I can’t swallow the moan that rises to my lips. It’s a startled sound, one that lays my pleasure bare. His eyes glitter as he begins a rhythm, as I lock my legs around his waist and draw him closer. My veins are static, my body buzzing with pleasure as he fucks me with his hand.

But it’s not enough. I want more. Suddenly, blindingly, I want all of him.

When I reach for his belt, his hand around my neck tightens. He pins me like a butterfly to a corkboard, fingers working between my thighs. I don’t fight. I can’t. I’m too close to something, my world narrowing to him, a point, my pleasure building, catching my breath in my lungs.

“Santo,” I manage, his name a desperate, almost frightened moan in my mouth. “Santo—” And then I can’t speak anymore, because the building pleasure breaks open inside of me, coursing hot and delicious and dangerous as wildfire. I arch my back, hips bouncing against his strong fingers, my voice echoing off the walls.