Page 8 of The Mafia Marriage Contract

His smile returns, softer this time, as though he found my defiance endearing. Slowly, he traces the curve of my spine with his fingers, stealing my ability to think clearly.

“Olivia.” The husky way he says my full name makes my veins burn hotter. “Hate the fact you’re mine all you want, but the way you’re looking at me right now? That’s not hate.”

“If this is how other women look at you, Kingston, then I’d be worried for your safety if I were you.” I half laugh. “Because I hate everything about you.”

“Oh yeah?” His lips curl into an easy, predatory grin, but there’s something else in his eyes. Something dangerous and intimate.

“Everything?” His voice drops to a velvet whisper. “Does that include the way I make you feel when I’m this close?”

I open my mouth to speak, but the words get stuck in my throat for a beat. My heart is pounding so loud I’m almost sure he can hear it.

“Back the fuck off, Kingston.”

“Make me, Livvie.”

My cheeks burn, desire crawling through me. “Don’t think I won’t strangle you.”

“Oh, baby, now I’m hard,” he says, the tone of his voice deep and dirty.

“You’re so full of yourself. It’s unbearable.”

Kingston’s smirk widens, and he leans in just enough to feel his liquored breath against my skin.

“Guess what?” he murmurs. “Knowing I have to wait until later to watch my wife strip out of this dress… that’s unbearable. Although, I have to say, I find it very entertaining how you’re pretending you’re not married to me when you’re the one who showed up looking like…”

He falls silent for a split second. “…temptation. From the soft brown hair on your pretty head to your dainty little toes, you’re branded Kingston Viacava’s wife. Until death do us part.”

“Fuck you,” I hiss.

He chuckles. “Fuck you, too, sweetheart.”

Before I reply, his other hand flies up and cradles my jaw, tilting my face toward him. His thumb burrows in, securing my face in his murderous hand.

My fist shoots out to punch him, but before it connects, he stops the movement with his other hand. His tight grip on my wrist plays havoc with the burning ache in my core.

“You’re beautiful when you’re angry, you know that?” he says. “But I’m liking this other look too… this flustered wife version.”

And just like that, his lips are on mine.

The pressure is rough and demanding, like he’s staking a claim. But equally, it’s also electric, too, pulling me under in a way that makes me crave more. The taste of his tongue—liquor and danger—God, it makes my heart pump faster.

“Still fucking hate me, wife?” he asks into my mouth, his deep voice laced with a smirk.

“You bet I do…” But I still kiss him back and he matches my hunger like we’ve popped a cork and can’t stop the bubbles from spilling over.

My fingers dive into his thick head of hair, and I tug at the lengths.

This is a mistake.

I can’t trust him.

“I’ll never stop hating you, Kingston.”

That admission seems to kick-start a wildfire between us. His body cages mine, leaving me no way to escape and our teeth clash the deeper we kiss.

“Good, sweetheart, ’cause I’ll always fucking hate you, too,” he grits out as he lowers his face to my cleavage and drags his tongue over my hot skin. “Bet you hate me doing this, don’t you?”

“Yesss…” I lie, painfully aware of the tingles where his warm, wet mouth moves and his teeth graze. “It’s gross.”