Page 40 of Mafia Obsession

Yes…

I want that. I wanthim.

Blinded by this sudden surge of lust, I bump into the wall, reminding me I’m not supposed to be in his bedroom at all. Even though he’s fantasizing about me and it’s so damn sexy.

I step back. For all I know, he can go for hours. Of course, a man like that can go for hours. I turn and open the door to leave, but in my rush, I end up in his closet.

Before I turn around, my eyes are locked on how perfectly organized it is. There are rows of suits and dress shirts. Everything is arranged with precision that borders on obsession.

His scent is stronger in here. It smells spicy and addictive, and it makes my lungs expand as I breathe it in. I can’t…leave. I just can’t.

On the center dresser, a silver tray holds several bottles of cologne. He uses different scents for different occasions? Different versions of himself. I only know one: CEO Ares.

I reach out before I can stop myself and touch the scent label I recognize. My fingers brush the glass, then I lift it. Heart pounding, I give a quick spray to my wrist, so I can smell him all day.

This is insane.

Pulse quickening, I set down the bottle, forcing myself to breathe. Then something catches my eye.

At first, I don’t understand what I’m looking at. Then I do.

Rope.

Not an industrial cord used for some domestic purpose. It’s…beautiful. Thick and soft-looking. It’s coiled and hung neatly.

My stomach flips, and I whisper to myself, “What is that?”

“Shibari.” The soft answer brushes the back of my neck.

My heart slams into my ribs.No. No. No.

Ares.

“A Japanese form of rope bondage,” he adds, and doesn’t sound the least bit angry that I violated something there is no going back from.

He sounds…amused. Like he’s a spider who caught the butterfly in his web.

Shibari… I am definitely Googling that later.

“Now that I’ve answered your question, you can answer mine,” he adds when I say nothing. “What are you doing in my closet?”

“I’m in the wrong room,” I say just above a whisper.

“Are you?” he asks, his tone changing. “Turn around, Lourdes.”

Bracing myself for what I’ll see, it’s worse. And better. Ares stands there with a towel knotted against his waist.

And it’s not a very big towel.

It sits low on his hips but shows a lot of his thighs. His damp hair looks darker. Shower water still clings to his skin, beads of it trailing down the sculpted ridges of his chest and his abs. A deep V cut disappears into that towel. His ridged abs go on forever. I’ve heard of six-packs and eight-packs. But at over six-feet tall, I think I’m staring at a twelve-pack.

I see the outline of his cock perfectly. Is he still hard? Didhe come? Is that his normal resting size?

God, I can’t…

“Say something.” He gets closer, his expression unreadable as his gaze drags over me. “You are in my bedroom. In my closet, gazing at rope I use to tie women up when I fuck them.”

He has every right to be inappropriate. I violated his space. Heat floods my face, and I don’t think I can speak, but I try.