Page 44 of The Wrong Mafia Bride
I’m babbling now. Nonsense words, his name, pleas for more, for less, for him never to stop. He drinks it all in, his own breathing ragged against my ear. I feel the hard ridge of his erection pressing against my hip through his shorts, and the knowledge that I’m doing this to him, that I’m unraveling the always-controlled Gabriel, sends another jolt of raw desire through me.
My body tightens, coiling like a spring. The world narrows to the rough bark at my back, the solid wall of his chest against mine, and the devastating, expert motion of his hand. The pressure is immense, overwhelming. I’m clinging to him, my nails digging into the hard muscle of his shoulders, anchoring myself as the first tremor rips through me.
"Come for me,"he commands, his voice guttural.
It’s not a request. It’s a demand my body has no choice but to obey.
The orgasm hits me like a train. It’s not a wave; it’s a tsunami. My entire body locks, back bowing off the tree, a silent scream caught in my throat. Then the release crashes over me, violent and sweet, tearing a raw, broken cry from my lips. Pleasure pulses through me in hot, relentless waves, each one timed to the stroke of his fingers, the press of his thumb. I shake, convulsing around him, completely at his mercy as he milks every last shuddering spasm from my body.
Slowly, gently, he withdraws his hand. My legs give out entirely, but he’s there, his arms wrapping around me, holding me up as I sag against him, utterly spent. I’m boneless, my breathing a ragged mess. He presses a surprisingly tender kiss to my temple, his own breath coming hard and fast.
For a long moment, there is only the sound of our breathing and the distant chirp of waking birds. The world feels new, raw, and utterly exposed.
Then his head snaps up. His body goes rigid against mine. He’s looking past me, down the path.
"Shit,"he breathes, the tenderness gone, replaced by sharp urgency.
"What?" I mumble, my brain still fogged with pleasure.
"Security cart. Headed this way." His hands are already moving, pulling my leggings back up, smoothing my shirt with a brisk efficiency that brooks no argument. The shift from lover to protector is instantaneous. "We need to go.Now."
The reality of where we are hits me all at once—the open park, the thin cover of trees, the fact that we let ourselves forget. The lingering warmth in my body fractures, replaced by a surge of adrenaline so sharp it steals my breath. My heart slams back into a frantic rhythm.
Gabriel grabs my hand, his grip unyielding.
“Run.”
There is a wild light in his eyes, reckless and alive, and then we’re moving.
We burst from the trees onto the gravel path, still adjusting our clothes and flushed, the morning sun suddenly too bright, the world too awake. Our feet hit the ground in rough unison, the sound loud in my ears. Somewhere behind us, the faint electric hum of a security cart carries on the air.
We don’t look back.
We run—toward the house, toward safety, toward whatever comes next—our hands locked together, our breath ragged, the promise of it all pulsing between us like a second heartbeat.
11
LUCA
Early afternoon sunlightstreams through the kitchen windows when I finally drag myself downstairs, and I feel like death warmed over.
Four days. Four straight days of negotiations with Frank Lucas that have bled into early mornings and left me sleeping through entire afternoons. The man is not easy to appease—not easy to negotiate with, and definitely not easy to tolerate for extended periods without wanting to put a bullet in his smug face. He thinks he runs the entire city just because he has a direct line to heroin suppliers in Southeast Asia, and every meeting with him is an exercise in patience I do not naturally possess.
Dante and I have been on a completely nocturnal schedule, up all night handling business in Harlem, sleeping all day while the rest of the world functions normally. Which means I have barely seen Rosalina in almost a week. Which means Gabriel—lucky bastard—has had her all to himself since he volunteered to be her personal bodyguard during the day while Dante and I handle the Lucas situation.
I am absolutely not jealous about this.
Except I am completely, irrationally jealous about this.
I am halfway down the stairs when I hear it—music filtering up from the kitchen. Something with a good beat, something that makes me smile despite my exhaustion because I know exactly who is responsible for the noise.
I round the corner and stop dead in my tracks.
Rosalina is in the kitchen, and she is dancing.
Actually dancing—hips swaying, shoulders moving, completely unselfconscious as she assembles what looks like a turkey sandwich on the counter. She is wearing the tiniest black shorts I have ever seen and my hoodie—my favorite black hoodie that I have been looking for all week—hanging off her frame in a way that should look ridiculous but instead looks so fucking good it makes my mouth go dry.
Her hair is piled on top of her head in a messy bun, exposing the elegant line of her neck, and she is singing along off-key to whatever is playing, using a butter knife as a microphone while she spreads mayo on bread with her other hand.
