Page 35 of Soulmate of the Mafia King (Kings of Philly #8)

PAIGE

I trudged up the stairs after a long day at the shelter, exhausted but pleased with the work.

Cat had begun helping with dinner after weeks of refusing to come down during mealtimes at all.

I’d take the progress. And Miranda had sworn to me on the way in that she’d stopped Tom from ever leaving the room.

I pushed open the door quietly, trying to catch him out of bed if he was.

Tom sat, propped up with a few pillows, in the middle of our bed with the TV on. I smiled. “Did you survive your first day of bed rest?”

“Somehow.” He switched off the TV. “But it’s a lot better now that you’re here.”

I dropped my bag and headed for the bathroom. “I’m proud of you. I really thought you wouldn’t be able to?—”

On the tile floor sat a discarded suit. And not the one he’d been wearing when we got home yesterday. I turned slowly back to him.

“What?” he asked innocently.

I snagged the tie off the floor and held it up. He went pale.

“I’m sorry!” He held his hands up. “Do you have any idea how boring daytime TV is?”

“Way less boring than being dead!” I marched across the bedroom, tie still in hand. “How much work did you do?”

“Only a little, I swear!” His mouth tugged playfully up at the corners.

I struggled to hold onto my scowl. I wanted him safe, maybe above all else, but God, his hand-in-the-cookie-jar look was kissable.

Luckily, Tom saved me from having to humiliate myself by kissing me first. I pulled back like I hadn’t been craving the taste of his mouth.

“I really don’t think that falls under non-strenuous activity.”

“I’m never too hurt for you.” He pouted. “I’ll be good, promise.”

I rolled my eyes, but I knew I was never going to be able to resist him.

I stripped down to my bra and underwear before even climbing into bed then pressed my mouth back to his.

He tilted his head up, and I pushed him back down.

I felt his frown against my mouth. Before he could complain, I climbed on top of him, straddling his lower thighs and putting no pressure on his chest or bad shoulder.

He ran his good hand over my thigh, up onto my waist, holding me there. Like an anchor. Like a promise. I ground against him as he slipped his tongue into my mouth. The smell of cinnamon surrounded me, and I finally felt like I was home.

Tom tried to sneak his hand on my waist higher, to my breast. I pulled back and looked at him.

“Do you need that for balance?”

He shook his head. I smiled indulgently and unfastened my bra.

His hand was on me in a flash, kneading the exposed skin and toying with my nipple.

I rocked into him harder. His teasing, self-satisfied smile drove me wild.

Even laid up in bed, struggling for breath, Tom looked like a storybook hero.

Something magical. My mouth fell open as he flicked my nipple, and white-hot pleasure coursed through my veins.

“Gentle.” My voice sounded rougher than I wanted. “I’m supposed to be doing the hard parts.”

That earned me another impish smile and a meaningful glance at the tented blankets between us.

My patience strained. I needed to remember he was hurt as much as I needed to remind him.

Still, I slid up his lap until his covered cock nestled between my legs and braced myself against the headboard.

When I rocked against him, he dropped his hand from my breast to hold onto my hip again, keeping me steady.

Even through the layers, the friction stoked the warmth in my gut into an inferno.

I wanted to have wild, celebratory, destroy-the-bedroom sex.

And we would, as soon as he was healed. But for now, I just needed to feel him.

I gave up the attempt at patience and pushed down the blankets, then his boxers.

Pulling my panties aside, I lined him up and sank down.

We moaned in perfect unison. The relief, the certainty that he was alive, coursed through me.

I dropped my head against his good shoulder and fucked him, careful and desperate and wanting.

Tom grazed his thumb over my cheek, and something wet smeared. I looked up, touched my other cheek, and realized I was crying.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

I nodded. I didn’t know when I started crying, but right here, surrounded by him, I was totally, perfectly all right. I kissed him, dancing my tongue into his mouth, and thrust as fast as I dared.

Tom’s breath sped, just short of dangerous, but he whispered, “Don’t stop,” against my lips.

I was happy to obey. Our orgasms crashed over us in unison, and I rolled off him as soon as my legs would obey. He took a few moments to catch his breath then trailed his good hand down the middle of my chest.

“I love you,” he said.

“I love you, too.” I grinned up at him, not sated but willing to wait.

“I was talking to the guys today?—”

I groaned and rolled over. “No work talk.”

“It’s not work!” he protested. “They were just asking about the future of the organization, and I was wondering if you ever thought about that. The future.”

My delirious evening waiting to hear news from his attack at Zahur’s appeared in the forefront of my mind, featuring the whole life I imagined for Tom and me.

“I do,” I said.

“Does it involve me?” He traced random patterns over my back.

“Yes.” I smiled. “Does yours involve me?”

“Maybe.”

I flipped back over, gaping in false hurt. Tom laughed and claimed my mouth again.

“You are my future,” he murmured.

My heart thudded unevenly, and for some reason, I remembered the night he told me to quit my job and go all in on the shelter.

We’d kind of danced around the idea of marriage then, and I’d never had any idea how serious he was.

As he smiled against my lips, I started to hope he remembered that night, too.