Page 65 of The Underboss's Secret Twins

For a while, we just lie there, tangled together, the air thick with the aftermath of what just happened.

And I know.

I know I’ve ruined her for anyone else.

But fuck—she’s ruined me, too.

My fingers roam in slow, absent patterns along her spine, tracing shapes neither of us name. The last tremors of pleasure still ripple beneath her skin, fading like the tide.

For a while, silence stretches between us, thick and drowsy.

She just breathes. Lets me keep her close.

I could stay like this, let the night pull us deeper into its quiet, but she needs more than warmth, more than the steady rhythm of my hands.

So, I press a kiss to her hair, then another to the slope of her shoulder, each one an unspoken thing, something that lingers long after my lips leave her skin.

"Come on, baby," I murmur against her skin. "Let’s get you dressed."

She makes a soft noise, somewhere between exhaustion and reluctance, nuzzling against my chest.

"You mean I don’t get to sleep naked in your bed?" Her voice is drowsy, teasing.

I smirk, trailing my fingers up her bare thigh, enjoying the way she shivers. "If I let you stay naked, we’ll never make it out of this room."

She huffs a tired laugh but doesn’t argue when I sit up, pulling her with me.

Carefully, I lift her, turning her in my lap, letting her rest against my chest as I reach for the discarded fabric of her dress. It’s wrinkled, tangled from how I stripped it off her, but it’s still warm from her body.

She watches me, eyes half-lidded, dark and unreadable, as I smooth the silk back up her legs, over her hips, and carefully fasten the straps over her shoulders.

It’s intimate in a way I don’t usually allow.

I dress women the way I undress them—with purpose, control. But with Sofia, it feels different. It makes me forget thereareother women. It'll never be how it is with her.

She studies me as I work, her fingers lifting to brush over my jaw, tracing the rough stubble there.

"You’re not what I expected," she murmurs.

I lift a brow. "Yeah? And what did you expect?"

She smirks, lazy, knowing. "Less of a gentleman, more of a brute."

I let out a low chuckle, smoothing her hair back.

"I can be both."

She hums, pleased.

Once she’s dressed, I help her slip back into her heels—an unnecessary gesture, considering I’m about to carry her out of this room.

Which I do.

Before she can even think about walking, I scoop her up in my arms, earning a startled gasp.

"Marco—"

"I’m taking you to the kitchen," I say simply.