Page 62 of The Wrong Mafia Bride
"That’s it," I murmur against her lips. "Come for me again. Let me feel you."
Her nails dig into my shoulders. Her breath comes in hot, ragged pants against my cheek. Her heels dig into the small of my back, pulling me deeper with every thrust.
"I’m… I’m gonna…"
"Let go," I command, my own control fraying. "I’ve got you."
Her orgasm hits her suddenly, a violent, beautiful convulsion that locks her body around mine. Her cry is muffled against my shoulder. The intense, rhythmic clenching of her cunt is my undoing. My hips stutter, my rhythm shatters, and with a guttural groan, I follow her over the edge.
I pulse inside her, my release hot and endless, my body shuddering with the force of it. I hold her tight, my face buried in her neck, as the world slowly comes back into focus.
We stay like that for long minutes, joined, breathing each other’s air. The cool marble beneath her. The hard tile under my feet. The warm, spent feel of our bodies.
Slowly, carefully, I pull out. I help her off the counter, her legs wobbling. She sags against me, and I hold her up, my arms wrapped securely around her.
I reach for a soft washcloth, run it under warm water, and gently clean between her legs. She lets me, her head resting on my chest, her eyes closed. I clean myself quickly, then toss the cloth aside.
I pick her up—she’s light in my arms—and carry her to the bed. I lay her down and slide in beside her, pulling the covers over us both. She curls into my side, her head on my chest, her hand splayed over my heart.
In the darkness, the truth sits on my tongue, heavy and real. Her breathing evens out into sleep, I know it. I feel it in every cell.
Her fingers twitch against my chest in her sleep. I press a kiss to the top of her head.
"Rosalina," I whisper into the dark. “I love you.”
14
ROSALINA
"That is complete bullshit!"I shout at the television screen, mashing buttons on the controller with increasing aggression. "I had you dead to rights!"
Gabriel laughs from his spot on the couch beside me, his own controller held loosely in his hands, the picture of casual confidence. "You had nothing, Bella. I outplayed you."
"You got lucky."
"Three times in a row?" He grins, that infuriating dimpled smile that makes me want to punch him and kiss him in equal measure. "That is not luck. That is skill."
We are sprawled in the media room—a space I did not even know existed until Gabriel dragged me down here an hour ago, claiming I looked bored and restless. The room is all dark walls and comfortable leather furniture, with a television screen so large it takes up most of one wall. Empty soda cans litter the coffee table in front of us, and I have long since abandoned any pretense of maintaining the proper Italian wife persona I wore to the compound dinner last week.
Right now, I am just Rosalina, wearing shorts and one of Luca's hoodies I definitely stole, my hair piled on top of my head, my bare feet tucked under me on the couch, engaged in increasingly competitive warfare with Gabriel over some first-person shooter game I barely understand.
"Rematch," I demand, already selecting the option on screen.
"You are a glutton for punishment, you know that?"
"I am going to destroy you this time."
"You have said that the last four rounds."
"This time I mean it."
He laughs again, the sound warm and rich, and I find myself smiling despite my competitive frustration. This is nice—easy and comfortable in a way I did not expect. No pressure, no expectations, just two people hanging out and talking trash over video games.
The new round loads, and I am just lining up my first shot when my phone rings from where I left it on the coffee table.
Unknown number.
I pause the game, staring at the screen.
