Page 57 of Runaway in the Mafia (The shadows of Cosa Nostra Chronicles #3)

I gripped her chin. “You could never do that. I was thinking of you.”

She nodded weakly. I ran my thumb along her lips. I love that she hardly wore lipstick. They were brown and naked. Just the way I liked it. “Va bene?”

“Va bene,” she whispered. But her ‘okay’ in Italian was the sexist thing I’d ever heard.

Well, if you took aside her moans when I had her alone.

Or the way she called out my name in her language.

I closed the door and came around on the other side.

Her next words chilled me to my bones. Scraped on my skin like a fucking icicle on my spine.

“I only wanted to forget.”

Pain smashed into me like a fist to my gut. I stopped breathing. It took me more than a couple of beats to pick it up again. In front of me, a sheet of despair spread out. I dragged my voice from the hollow of my chest. “Forget what?”

Silence.

I turned to find her with her back to me, looking out of the window. “Ahana, forget what?” I grated.

“Forgot.”

Fucking hell. I waited for a lifetime, but she was lost in whatever she saw outside the window.

It’s not you she’s seeing in her future.

My hand felt like it was encased in cement as it crawled to the ignition.

With an inhuman effort, I started the engine.

It geared up instantly. Inside me, I was dead.

Cold. Felt like I was six feet under already.

I was a blend of nerves as I drove home.

Forget she was married to me, was the only reason I could think of.

It fucked me up all wrong. Made me want to erase it from my memory.

That she saw our marriage like that fucking hurt.

It ripped my heart in two. Why couldn’t she see it the way I did?

My glance caught her continuously. But she was passed out, breathing evenly.

No fucking way is she ever drinking again.

Her eyes sprang open when the engine stilled.

I couldn’t let it go. “What did you want to forget, Ahana?” I asked quietly.

Her brow furrowed. “Did I say something?”

“No.” I sighed. “Must have been my imagination.” I wish.

I walked around to get her, but she was already stumbling out. Grabbing her hand, I pulled her along inside. When the lights switched on, she made an awkward semi-twirl in her dress.

“You like my dress?”

I ran my eyes from top to toe. Fucking siren. “I’ll like you better without it.”

“Okay.” She reached back and unzipped it in one go. The dress pooled like saffron on the white marble. She stood in a yellow lacy thong and heels. Nothing else.

My cock thickened behind my pants. “I’m not fucking you.”

She pouted. “Why?”

“Because you’re drunk.”

“No, I’m not.”

“You are, mia ammaliatrice,” I said softly.

“Tipsy. That’s not drunk. And I’m horny.”

I groaned. This was going to be a long fucking night. “I’m not fucking you when you’re drunk.” I caught her glare and corrected myself. “Tipsy.”

“Fine.”

Thank fuck.

She flipped her silky hair behind her and sashayed to the sofa. She dropped on it and picked up the half-read book lying on the table next to it.

“Planning to read?” I gritted through my teeth. I hadn’t realised the amount of patience I had up to now.

“I’m going to get myself off with one of these sex scenes.”

Jesus fuck! My cock jerked in my pants.

“You know, since you don’t want to fuck me.”

God help me. “I didn’t say I didn’t want to.”

“Whatever.” And she slipped her hand inside the lace. All the blood in my body dropped down south.

“Stop it.”

She didn’t. Instead, she lifted one leg and dropped it on the back of the sofa, and the other fell on the floor. I could clearly see the dark stain on the lace and, for the life of me, couldn’t get myself to look away. “Please stop.” I was not going to fuck her when she was drunk.

My cock disagreed. My control shook.

I forced my gaze to move up. She wasn’t even reading her damn book.

It was, in fact, held upside down. It had taken me that long to even figure that out.

I squeezed my eyes shut. Hers were unrelenting.

Needy as she stroked inside from bottom to top.

Top to bottom. “Ahana, this is a dangerous game you’re playing. ”

“Oh, fuck me then,” she moaned.

“No.” I had more control than this.

She pushed two digits inside. Her groan grated on my aching cock. I was making it worse. Walk the fuck away. Go upstairs. She’d just follow me. But I couldn’t get myself to move. My fucking feet wouldn’t move. She let out a frustrated sigh. “This isn’t working.”

Thank fuck.

She pulled her fingers out. It glistened with her wetness. She yanked the lace down.

My control snapped.

“I agree.”

I stole her breath by yanking her hips off the sofa and smacking my mouth to her pussy.

She was messy. I was worse. I lacked coordination.

No control. Only animalistic instincts. She bucked and fumbled.

It took me a hot minute to realise she was flipping my belt off.

I swatted, her hand away. She pushed through and unzipped me.

“Ahana, I’m not going to—”

In one shift, she was on my lap, and my dick slipped inside. “Fuck.” I groaned and gripped her hips. My arms strained to keep her from bouncing. “Stop it,” I said, my voice a sharp whip.

She froze. Turned into ice right in front of me. Her eyes flat-lined out of any feeling. “Are you going to make me feel bad?” Her voice was tiny. Full of past insecurities.

My nails bit into her skin. “What do you mean?”

“For wanting sex. I shouldn’t want it.”

Jesus. I wanted to bring that fucker back so I could chainsaw him again into a thousand fucking pieces. “I love that you want me, mia ammaliatrice. ”

“What does it really mean?”

I sighed. “There’s no direct translation for it.” She pouted. “Something between an enchantress and a witch.”

She cocked her head, slowly rolling her hips. “I love it.”

“It’s what Odysseus called Circe.”

“Yeah?”

I growled and gripped her hip. “Do you want to talk or fuck?”

“Fuck, please.”

And that’s what we did. At least that was something she wanted from me.