Page 57 of The Mafia's Christmas Baby

I feel like a girl again, caught doing something deliciously wrong.

Nico opens the nearby cabinet.

He doesn’t look at me as he reaches in and pulls out a small jar. Lemon curd.

He unscrews the lid, dips two fingers in, and tastes.

Then he steps between my knees and touches those same fingers to the corner of my mouth.

“Sweet,” he says. “You should always taste like this.”

I part my lips and suck the curd from his fingers slowly, eyes on his.

His breath stutters just slightly.

One small loss of control.

It lights something behind his eyes.

He dips again, this time dragging a smear across the curve of my breast above the cup of my bra.

The citrus scent cuts through the air, sharp and bright.

“Can I?” he asks, fingers warm where they rest just under the strap.

I nod once.

He bends and licks the lemon from my skin.

His mouth is hot.

His tongue traces the edge of the lace, not straying farther, just lingering, making me feel the emptiness of everywhere heisn’ttouching.

My head tips back.

My lips part.

He does it again, this time on the other side.

His stubble scrapes lightly and I gasp, fingers threading into his hair.

He kisses the top of each breast through the lace, never slipping beneath it, never rushing.

“God, you smell like sugar,” he says against my skin. “Flour. Lemon. Heat. You smell like things I should pray for and take apart at the same time.”

He kisses his way up my sternum.

My thighs wrap around his waist without asking permission.

“You’re trembling,” he murmurs.

“You’re still dressed,” I answer.

That earns a half-smile, dark and crooked.

He reaches for my hand and brings it to his collar.

“Fix it.”