Page 63 of From Rome, With Hate

“How does it feel to run your own businesses? You know, now that you run a zillion and a half of them.”

He chuckles behind me, and my stomach flutters at the sound.

“One of the best decisions I ever made.”

I don’t even bother asking him to expand. He doesn’t need to. His answer is miles deep in meaning. I try to focus on the target ahead, getting lost in the thoughts of Rome running his own businesses and how, admittedly, I’ve watched him rise to succession over the years, despite the scandal around his family name.

But along with the images of him making a mark across the city, I can’t stop thinking about his hands all over me and how I don’t want him to stop.

“Now that I’ve answered yours, I get to ask you mine. Why did you start hosting fundraising events?”

That catches me off guard.

My arms are Jell-O at this point, my body growing weaker under his touch. He guides my leg farther out before shifting his attention to the other.

I blink and trail my tongue across my lips as I breathe deeply, trying to remember his question. “After attending them my whole life, I always envisioned hosting one myself. I thought they were admirable. It’s the one time those with wealth do good with their money.”

“Huh.” His hand moves along my other thigh. He gently guides it farther out, the same way he did the other one.

“I hated how everyone looked at me differently because my father was the mayor. They treated me differently, as though my whole life centered around money. I figured if I hosted enough charity events, they wouldn’t have a reason to call me the greedy Capuleti princess anymore.”

Rome’s hands still haven’t moved from my thighs. My feet and legs are in perfect position, and there’s no reason for him to remain crouching behind me.

He plants each hand on the outside of my thighs as he lightly chuckles.

“What?” I ask, unable to hold back my smirk.

“I used to call you the Capuleti princess,” he admits, sliding his hands up my thighs and to my hips. His large palms press against my flesh, and he twists them a fraction to face the row of targets.

“Everyonecalled me the Capuleti princess,” I mutter, deadpan.

“Yeah, well, you always have been kind of a princess.”

I drop my jaw in mock offense. “I have not.”

“Okay,” he mumbles sarcastically. “Right.”

“Fine. You’re right.” I smile and toss my head to the side. “I have always been a princess.”

He grips onto my hips, adding pressure. “Take another shot.”

“With you behind me like that?”

“Just shoot, Lark.” His voice is commanding.

It’s difficult to concentrate with his hands on me, but I try my best. I focus on my target and pull the trigger once I’m satisfied with my aim. I hit the target better than the first shot but it’s still not perfect. I’m out of practice.

Rome glides his hands up the sides of my rib cage in time with my heavy breathing. I’m practically panting with need.

Then his mouth is at my ear again. “Better, Lark.”

His entire front is pushed against me, his stiff cock pressed against the small of my back.

“I’m a bit rusty,” I reply, trying not to turn around and free it from the loose constraints of his gray sweatpants.

“I somehow doubt that.” He slips his hand between my thighs and presses his fingers against me. “Your cunt remembers easily. I felt it the other day.”

“That’s not what I meant.” There’s an intense, pulsating ache right where his fingers are pressed.