Page 24 of The Mafia's Christmas Baby

He cups my jaw with his palm, and I feel the roughness of his knuckles and the heat of him and the future getting complicated.

“Tell me to stop, Elisa,” he murmurs.

I don’t.

ELISA

His palm is rough against my jaw, warm enough to make my pulse trip.

I lean into it before I can stop myself, my cheek fitting the cradle of his hand like it has been waiting there.

The quiet between us vibrates, thick with something neither of us can name.

My lips part but no words come.

He tilts his head and his mouth finds mine.

The kiss hits like a match to dry paper.

Hot, fast, and immediate.

His lips are hard, his tongue sliding against mine, slow at first then deeper, coaxing, tasting.

My fingers claw into his shirt.

I want him closer.

I want the scrape of his stubble against my skin, the weight of him against me.

I want the ache to become something I can touch.

A hand on his forehead tells me the fever has broken.

He pulls me into his lap with a strength that leaves me trembling.

My knees hit the edge of the mattress, and I climb him without thinking, straddling his hips, my skirt bunched high around my thighs.

The air feels hot and close, thick with the scents of flour and soap and his cologne.

He drags me forward until I'm pressed flush against him.

The hard line of his body sits perfectly under me and when I move against it, I gasp into his mouth.

“Tell me to stop,” he repeats, his forehead resting against mine.

“No,” I whisper, hands sliding up the back of his neck. “Don’t.”

His grip tightens at my waist.

He moves me against him once, slowly and deliberately, and the friction pulls a sound from me that I have never made before.

His hands climb under my blouse, palms rough on bare skin, rising higher until they cup the soft weight of my breasts.

The contact steals my breath.

My nipples peak instantly under his touch, aching for more.