Page 59 of Wicked Mafia Beast
"Looking at me like that." I step closer, my finger jabbing into his impossibly hard chest. "Like you know what I'm thinking. Like you can see inside my skull. Like you think I am perfect and want to throw me on the kitchen counter and devour me like I'm your last meal."
I didn’t mean to say that last part, but it’s true. I can see it written all over his heated expression and it’s infuriating to the max.
"You're thinking that everything you believed was wrong and that’s okay. It’s okay to be wrong." His voice doesn't rise or waver. Those dark eyes hold mine with a steadiness that makes me want to scream. "You can not paint everyone with the same brush,malyshka.We are not all monsters to be slaughtered. I know what you are thinking and why you are here. I know you want to eliminate the ugliness that has controlled you your whole life. But you are wrong. We are not all like your uncle and father.”
He pauses.
“You're thinking that if they're not monsters, then what the hell are you doing here," he adds in a softer tone. “You wanted to use me against your uncle which I’m all for by the way.”
"Use you against my uncle? I've handed over everything I have and I'm still sitting on the sidelines while you and your brothers decide what happens to my family behind closed doors. This is MY fight, Kon. MY story. And you've turned me into a spectator."
"You're right." The words land flat, no defensiveness, no deflection. "I've kept you out of the operational side because keeping you safe and keeping you informed are two different things. The less you know about how we move against Seamus, the less he can extract from you if he ever gets his hands on you again." His jaw tightens, the muscle jumping beneath the stubble. "That's not me sidelining you. That's me making sure you survive long enough to write your story."
He pauses, letting that settle, his dark eyes reading the fury still burning across my face.
"But that's not what this is really about, is it." It's not a question. His voice drops, the accent thickening. "You walked into that penthouse today and saw something you weren't prepared for. Now you're having second thoughts about me and my family and that terrifies you because you can't be the cold, detached journalist when real people with real lives and real babies are involved. You can't write us off as monsters when you've held our children and eaten at our table."
My palm connects with his cheek before I register the decision to swing. “How dare you accuse me of being as cold hearted as my father!”
The crack echoes through the entryway. His head turns with the impact, the red print of my hand blooming across his jaw. He stays perfectly still for one breath. Two. Then he turns back to face me, those black eyes burning, and catches my wrist before I can pull it back.
His grip is firm. Not painful. Controlled. Always controlled.
"Feel better?" His voice is gravel.
"No." The word comes out ragged, broken, but honest.
"Then let me help."
He pulls me forward by the wrist and crushes his mouth against mine. I taste salt, my own tears on my lips, and underneath, coffee and the smoky bite of vodka. I kiss him back with fury and confusion and the desperate need to force this back into a framework I understand. Physical. Transactional. A battle with clear lines and a winner. Me.
He lifts me and I wrap my legs around his waist, my back slamming against the nearest wall hard enough to rattle nearby shelves. His hips pin me in place, his hands grip my thighs, and his mouth devours mine with a hunger that matches my own desperation.
"This doesn't mean anything." I gasp the words against his lips, yanking at his belt. "This is just sex."
"Whatever you need it to be." He tears at my jeans, shoving them down my thighs. His fingers find me already wet, already aching, and he groans against my throat. "Whatever you need."
He grips my bare ass and I tilt my hips just right so that his hard shaft finds my entrance.
He enters me in one hard thrust and I cry out, my nails raking down his shoulders through the fabric of his shirt, my back scraping against the door. He sets a brutal rhythm, each stroke driving the air from my lungs, each impact jarring my spine against the wall.
It's angry. Desperate. Exactly what I need.
I come with a sob that wrenches itself from somewhere deep in my chest.
And then I can't stop crying.
The orgasm dissolves into sobs that shake my entire body, raw and ugly and completely beyond my control. Six months of fear and loneliness and the crushing weight of fighting a war no one asked me to fight, it all comes pouring out against this man's shoulder while he's still buried inside me.
He stills. Doesn't pull out. Doesn't pull away. His arms wrap around me, one hand cradling the back of my head, his fingersthreading through my hair, and he holds me against the wall while I shatter.
"I'm sorry." I choke the words out between sobs. "I don't... I can't..."
"Shh." His lips press against my temple. "You don't have to explain."
"Everything I thought I knew..." Another sob wracks through me. "They're not... you're not..."
"I know." His voice is low, rough, vibrating through his chest and into mine. "Ya znayu, ??????."
