Page 9 of Ruined Vows (Borrelli Mafia #5)

BIANCA

NO GLOATING?

T he air between us crackles, thick with tension. I’m damp with sweat and something unspoken I refuse to name.

He doesn’t even break a sweat. My hands are still clammy, and the nape of my neck is slick.

Like other places that I refuse to dwell on, it’s there nonetheless.

Then there is the chemistry between us—the undeniable attraction that sends a spark. It crackles at the sight of danger. And Vukan knows it because the bastard wears that knowledge like a crown.

His smirk is slow, practiced, and built to unravel. I loathe how well it works on me, even when I know he’s trying to seduce me.

He’s a wolf, but his clothing is anything but sheepish.

My heart is racing, and it’s not from adrenaline.

“You're staring,” he says, stepping closer. His voice is low and lazy like smoke curling around my spine. The sexual tension is like no other.

How am I going to remain celibate through ten dates ?

“I’m assessing a threat,” I shoot back, rolling my shoulders even though the tension doesn't ease.

“Mm,” he hums, circling me like a predator with all the time in the world. "Is that what we’re calling it now? You ogling me like a starving woman, and I’m the feast?"

“Don’t flatter yourself. I’ve had better cuts of meat,” I snark.

“Have you?” His eyes dip to my mouth, which shouldn't do anything to me, but it does . “You keep looking like that, I might start thinking you’re hungry—insatiable, even.”

“Try me.” The words slip before I can stop them, my voice cool and even as my pulse trips over itself like a marching band.

His smile widens, sharp and knowing. “Dangerous offer, ljubavi.”

It’s an endearment. Damn him. He’s making this personal, very personal. But I’m not his darling, and I don’t love him. I only love my family. Men are childish and unreliable. My first role model was my father, and he was cold, calculating, and heartless.

No one can penetrate the fortress around my heart. I’ve had two decades of abuse—the damage still lingers.

I step in, close enough that our breaths could tango. “Don’t call me that.”

“Why not? It fits.” He lifts a hand, brushing a knuckle down the line of my jaw, and it’s intimate. I don’t move. I should , but I don’t. But I can’t break the hold he has on me. “You’re gorgeous when you’re angry.”

"I'm prettier when I'm in control," I murmur, leaning in just enough for my lips to brush his cheek. Then, in a whisper: "And you're not the one holding all the cards." Slowly, I drag my tongue across my lower lip, deliberate and teasing.

Two can play this game.

His breath stutters—barely—but I feel it. Just enough to count as a win .

His hand snaps to my waist, not rough, but firm enough to make it clear he's done playing. “Careful, Bianca. Keep pushing, and you might find out what happens when I stop being nice,” he growls.

I smirk, teeth flashing. “Oh, I am counting on it.”

His hand is still on my waist, anchoring me there like he has the right. Like I’m something he can touch without consequence. And maybe the worst part is—I let him. Just for a second. To see what he'll do with it.

“You keep touching me like that,” I murmur, “and I might start thinking you want to be manhandled.”

His eyes flash—dark, dangerous, delicious. "Is that an offer or a threat?"

“Depends.” I drag a finger down his chest, just enough pressure to make him look. “Can you handle being pinned, Vukan?”

A low, rumbling laugh vibrates through him, hot against my skin. “I’d say the same to you.”

OMG. Suddenly, the thought of being pinned by him and those muscular forearms, his chest, the scent of him wafting over me, is too much. I shake my head, as if that will put out the fire in my pussy.

Damn him. He knows how to make me come undone.

I don’t give him the satisfaction of knowing he made his point, and look away. We’re nose to nose now, and if one of us breathes wrong, we’re either going to tear each other’s clothes off or each other’s throats out. And God help me, either option sounds like a welcome release.

I’m so horny I don’t recognize myself. No man has ever gotten to me like this.

“Are you always this mouthy with your enemies?" he asks, his thumb grazing under the edge of my belt—a deliberate taunt.

“Only the ones who think they’re irresistible.” My voice is sharp, like a razor, but it’s dipped in honey .

“And am I?”

That’s when I do it. I lean in—close enough that our lips brush, a pretense of a kiss, and he goes utterly still, like prey sensing a trap.

“You wish you were,” I whisper, then shove him back.

He stumbles a step. It’s a small, almost unnoticeable, but his rhythm is off. His composure cracks for half a second, and it’s beautiful. I’ve struck a nerve. Good.

His eyes darken, but his smirk returns, laced with something feral. "You’re going to regret that."

“I doubt that,” I say.

“You’ll be mine, ljubavi,” he calls. “And when you agree to be mine, you’ll never look at another man ever again.”

“You wish,” I purr, jabbing him again. “This marriage isn’t happening.”

“We’ll see about that. I always get what I want.”

“Well, be careful what you wish for. I’m no one’s toy.”

“I don’t want a toy. I want an equal,” he murmurs, and with that, he strips me of my fight.

He’s in my head. Damn him .

“You ready to call this?” He asks, but he knows he’s won.

I nod.

Fuck me. I still have nine more dates. He’s not even sweating, and he has the stamina of an ox.

Fuck.

We head to the locker room, which saves me because I need to regroup. I have to endure another car ride alone with the sexiest man alive.

When I join him at the exit door, he doesn’t gloat, and he doesn’t blink. He just stands there like he already knows how this ends.

He’s golden. Fucking gold. Because he commands attention without seeking it.

I’m at a loss for words. He steals my breath, along with my resolve. He has a way of doing that to me. And he knows precisely what he’s doing.

This was a disaster.

Ten days to ruin, and it looks like I’ll be the victim in the game of my choosing.

I hate the fact that I have to get in his car. What the hell was I thinking?

That I’d be able to kick his ass?

Pfft.

Like that would make him less charming. I don’t talk as we walk out of the gym. He doesn’t either.

My body screams for him to touch it. And now, we’ll be in the car together again. How will I ever keep him at bay?

He’s in control of himself. And by extension, he controlled me. He’s patient. I’m not. His presence has me flustered. Sure, he let me throw my punches first, but it makes him look like a gentleman. I console myself with the fact that I drew first blood.

However, he knowingly diminished my plan to conquer him because he only hit me when defending himself.

I slip quietly into his chauffeured car. He slides in behind me.

His hand, inked and relaxed, rests possessively on my leg, like he didn’t just make a fool of me on my turf.

Because yes—he won.

No blood. Maybe a few bruises. But the message was clear.

He can take a punch. And give one back.

Mentally. Physically. Strategically. He’s impossible to goad.

And I respect him .

He didn’t treat me like a girl. He treated me like an equal. And damn him, I respect the hell out of that. And worse? He enjoyed every minute of the match .

Even now, I feel his gaze flick to me as we slide through the streets, but I keep my eyes focused on the scenery outside the window.

“You’re quiet,” he says, his voice is velvet-wrapped steel.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” I bite. “I’m thinking.”

He chuckles, deep and low, and damn it, that’s not a turn-on as well. “Careful, Princess. That kind of silence usually means surrender,” he purrs.

And I love the sound of his voice. But I can’t let him know that.

I keep telling myself to resist. I refuse to concede to him. There are only nine dates left. I can do this.

“Surrender?” I snap my head toward him. “You think this was a win?” I huff.

“I know it was.”

But now, he’s smug. So smug, I want to slap him. Or kiss him—or both.

The car turns onto my street and slows. The temperature inside the car puts a 120-degree heat index to shame.

“Next time,” I warn, “I won’t go easy.”

“I hope not. I don’t want it to be easy.”

And by it, he means winning me. Damn him! He banters, he flirts. He’s incorrigible. He’s perfect .

This is only date one. I’ll bounce back. I’ll regroup. I have time to piss him off.

Silence hangs like it does before the agony of defeat. Only this time, it’s insufferable.

We roll to a stop at my condo building. I reach for the door, but his hand presses lightly on my thigh as if he doesn’t want me to go.

But that’s ridiculous. He can’t be into me. This is a game, and he’s compelled to win. That’s all it is—a battle of wills.

But when his hand reaches for mine, my heart stops. His hands are strong, wielding power and reminding me he’s in control .

His voice drops, and his words are slow and deliberate. “You know what I kept thinking about every time you threw a punch?”

I say nothing. Because if I do, I might give too much away.

“I kept thinking about how good you’d look on your knees.”

My breath catches, and I close my eyes. He can’t read them if they’re closed.

Damn him. He’s so smooth. Too smooth. I’m sure he has women eating out of his hands with lines like this.

But Internally?

I’m an inferno.

I want to fuck him. I could climb into his lap right here and now. I want to ride his stiff cock and release the desire that impregnates every fiber of my being.

His lips brush the shell of my ear.

“Not begging,” he whispers. “Just waiting.”

And then, as if he knows how I feel, he leans closer, just enough that I can smell the cologne and sweat on his skin. Heat radiates off his body like it knows how much I hate how much I want him.

Then he kisses me.

It’s not soft. Not sweet.

It’s slow. Intentional. He kisses me like he has all the time in the world to destroy me and is going to enjoy every second of it.

The pressure on my lips is delicious. His lips are warm. His scent fills my nose, making it difficult to breathe. Not because it’s too much, but because it’s all him .

I kiss him back. I didn’t mean to, but I’m powerless. Thank God my heart thumps on despite my predicament because I can’t move, and if I’m being honest, I don’t want to.

His hand slips behind my head and rests on my neck, holding me in place. He nibbles at my lower lip, teasing and tasting, then he covers mine. His tongue enters my mouth, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Him, me, us, our lips melding as one.

His kiss is sinfully hot, the kind of hot I can wallow in for days. The kind of hot I feel on my skin when my body is burning under the summer sun, on a lake, in the desert with my body slathered in vegetable oil.

I don’t move away. Instead, I swallow my moan as my lips kiss his. I can’t remember when his lips left mine because moving means losing. I wait, breathlessly, as he straightens in the seat.

“Ten dates, and I plan to make each one hurt a little more,” he murmurs.

His breath ghosts across my jaw like a threat or a promise of something more, and god help me, I can’t wait to find out which.

He opens the door and slips out. The city is waiting, but I’m locked in his orbit. It takes a few seconds for me to clear my head.

I exit the car, and he stands before me, larger than life.

Before I breeze past him, I ask, “?You want to win?”

He steps closer, and our eyes lock. “I already did.”

I open my mouth to argue, to say something , but his lips are on mine again.

His lips part mine with slow authority. Not asking.

Taking.

His tongue slides against mine like he’s memorizing the taste of defiance. He kisses like a man who’s waited too long and decided patience is no longer a virtue.

His hand curls around my neck, firm but not rough. His mouth moves against mine with no warning and no hesitation. And just like everything he does, it’s controlled, deliberate, and utterly devastating .

The heat of the flames flickers between us like a roaring bonfire .

My spine hits the car, my breath vanishes, my thighs are clenched.

God help me—I melt. I lock my knees to remain upright as heat pulses low and hard in my body. A liquid ache is pooling between my legs faster than I can process.

My body is limp with anticipation. I grip his shirt, not to push him away but to ground myself. I’m a fall risk, and I’m nowhere near the age where that’s even a concern.

His lips burn against mine, branding me. And it breaks something I didn’t know I’d been holding back.

He murmurs against my mouth. “You think that was control?” he rasps. “That was mercy.”

Then he kisses me harder.

My pussy clenches. And this time, I can’t hide it.

I whimper into his mouth like a traitor. My thighs press together tightly. As if closing them will keep me safe. As if it will protect me from his throbbing cock that’s engorged against my thigh.

My body pulses. And he knows .

When he finally pulls away, I’m breathless, sexually frustrated, and soaked in heat I’ll never forget.

His thumb traces my lower lip.

“Nine dates,” he murmurs in a voice of dark silk. “One crown. You gave me a challenge, Princess. And I don’t lose.”

I push off his Mercedes, stunned. My jaw is clenched, and my shoulders are tight. His scent lingers too close, and seeps in too deep—like it’s found a place in my lungs and won’t let go.

I don’t look back as I walk to my building, knowing the fire in my chest is a problem.

I hear him shut the door, and the confident click is like a stamp on my defeat.

I miss him before his driver pulls away from the curb.

I’m not going to fall for him.

I’m not .

But God help me…

He’s the enemy I don’t want to fight…He’s a challenge I didn’t intend to have. And I’ve never backed down from a challenge— ever .

But Vukan?

He’s a challenge I’m not sure I’ll survive.