Page 8 of Knocked Up by My Dad's Mafia Boss

“Enough,” I mutter.

In fact, there’s only been a handful of one night stands. Three, to be exact. In three years. I’m not good at meeting people, and even worse at seducing women. Usually I just wait for a bold one to approach me.

I’m pretty easy on the eyes, or so I’m told.

“You’ll have to move in here.”

I give him a half smile. “Like old times?”

“You can even have your old room,” he says cheerfully. Too cheerfully. He’s enjoying this.

I chuckle. “Alright. How bad could it be?”

Terrible. This is fucking terrible.

Samantha comes out of the dressing room, pouting up at me in a white dress that barely stretches across her ass. I draw in a deep, cleansing breath.

She does a little spin and smiles at me. “What do you think?”

“It’s just as good as the other three.”

She rolls her eyes. “You barely looked at those. You’re barely looking at this one.”

I’m looking at the fucking floor, because if I look up my eyes are going to instantly go to her thighs, her ass, her tits.

“You look great in everything, Samantha.”

“Yeah, yeah,” she grumbles, heading back into the dressing room, her shoulders slumped.

I hesitate. “Maybe you could find something more… conservative.”

She barks out a laugh. “Yeah, no. That’s not happening.”

I frown as she goes back into the dressing room, standing from the bench I’ve been sitting on. “What’s wrong with conservative?”

“Nothingwrongwith it. It’s just not me.”

She’s right. She’s got a wild streak that makes me crazy. It’s part of what draws me to her.

Samantha comes out in her street clothes—a tracksuit that fits her like a glove. It doesn’t leave much to the imagination, either. “You gotta let me be me, Dante.”

I swallow hard at the sound of my name rolling off her tongue. She breathes it, almost like a little moan, every time she says it, and I have to try hard not to imagine it when I take myself in hand at night.

We head to the counter with her purchases, and she swipes one of her father’s many credit cards for. Money’s something she grew up with. It’s nothing for her to drop a couple thousand on a single piece of clothing.

It makes me anxious. Not because I don’t have money. I do. I’ve got millions in off-shore holding accounts, but I struggle to spend thousands even on a suit. I guess it’s because I grew up without much until Elio’s father took me in.

Samantha lives an expensive lifestyle and she looks it, her skin always dewy, her makeup always done. Sometimes I see herstumble out into the hallway, barefaced and in her pajamas, the worn ones with kittens all over them. It’s times like those my heart opens up like a blossom until I close it back up and push it down.

She’s not meant for you.It’s something I have to tell myself nearly every day.

“I’m going out tonight,” she announces as we get into the car.

I want to argue, but instead I just tighten my fists on the steering wheel. “Again?”

“I haven’t been out since last week.”

“Right.”