Page 32 of The New Godfather

I lather the soap between my palms until it foams rich and creamy, the scent of jasmine rising thick in the steam. I start with my hair, working the suds through the long strands while he watches every movement, eyes heavy-lidded. Then I slide my soapy hands down my body—over my neck, my breasts, my stomach. All the while I can feel his gaze follow every stroke like a physical touch.

As if unable to stop himself, he makes a tortured sound, then his hands replace mine on my breasts, palming them, his thumbs brushing my nipples until they tighten into aching peaks. When he bends his head and sucks one into his hot mouth, I gasp with breathless surprise. The sound turns into a broken moan as his tongue swirls around the sensitive bud.

I take the soap again and lather it over his body this time, taking my time, studying him like I couldn’t have ever imagined doing. He is all lean, sinewy muscle and rippling strength. The ridges of his abs flex under my palms. My hands move lower, sliding through the dips and valleys, tracing every vein that stands out along his arms. Then I reach his cock. It’s already hanging hard and heavy, jutting out from his body. I wrap my soapy hand around the thick shaft and stroke it slowly, feeling the bulging veins throb. His cock grows in my grip. He groans—low and rough—the sound sending fresh heat flooding between my legs.

Our mouths find each other, pressing, desperate, tongues tangling, breaths mingling hot and fast. Then he turns me and pushes me onto the cool tiles of the wall. With the cold marble against my palms, I arch instinctively, breasts thrusting forward, a gasp escaping me as he enters me, thick head pressing against my entrance, parting my slick folds with insistent pressure. The stretch is immediate, intense, a sweet-burning ache that makes my breath catch hard in my throat. With a moan of surrender, my head falls back, eyes fluttering shut as his thick shaft sinks inside me. He’s so big it still feels impossible, every ridge dragging against my sensitive walls. When he bottoms out, he fills me so completely it feels as if he is in my belly.

With his hips flush against my ass, he stills for a heartbeat. Both of us are breathing hard, chests rising and falling together, as he lets me feel every throbbing inch of him buried deep inside my body. The overwhelming sensation is novel and utterly addictive.

Then he starts to move.

The first few plunges are hard—powerful, possessive, almost punishing thrusts that slam into me with such controlled force they make my legs shake, and my breasts bounce with the impact. He growls low and guttural against my neck.

Then he slows down.

Deliberately. Torturously.

He pulls out almost all the way, and slow enough that I feel every ridge, every vein sliding against my inner walls, then sinks back in with the same unhurried pace, dragging the pleasure out until it’s unbearable. I feel everything: the thick head catching on that sensitive spot just inside me, the way my walls flutter and grip him, trying to keep him deep, the slick glide of his cock coated in my arousal. The sounds of our mating echo around us—wet slaps of skin on skin, the squelch every time he thrusts in, my own shameless moans and gasps, his low, guttural groans that vibrate through his chest into mine. They are filthy and beautiful.

Incoherent words tumble out of my mouth, broken and pleading, but he keeps that slow pace. The pleasure builds in layers—slowly becoming sharper, hotter, coiling tighter and tighter in my belly until I’m whimpering with every stroke, hips rocking back eagerly to meet him, chasing more.

Nothing exists outside this—outside him inside me, slow and deep and relentless.

I come first. A sudden shattering of my sanity. The walls of my sex clamp down hard around his cock as pleasure rips through me in long, shuddering waves. My body shakes violently as the orgasm drags on and on, every thrust prolonging it until I’m gasping.

He follows right after—hips stuttering, and a low, guttural groan tearing from his throat as he buries himself deep and comes hard. Hot, thick spurts fill me, until I’m overflowing with slick warmth. His arms tighten around me, holding me flush against him as he shudders through it, breathing ragged against my neck.

We stay like that—locked together, trembling, water still pouring over us—until the last tremor fades. My legs are limp, boneless against the tile, heart hammering. Alarm bells are flashing in my head. This is not how I thought it would be. I’m walking unarmed into dangerous territory filled with snakes and dragons.

Chapter Thirty

RICCI

Ilift her out of the shower in one smooth motion, her dripping body slipping against mine. She’s boneless in my arms, cheeks flushed, chest rising and falling quickly. I set her gently on the cool marble counter. She lets out a tiny surprised breath that makes my chest tighten. God, she’s beautiful like this: skin glowing, hair plastered to her shoulders in careless dark gold clumps, lips parted as she’s not quite back on solid ground yet.

For a few frozen seconds I can’t do anything but stare at the beauty that has been put into my care, and marvel at my good fortune. Then I come to my senses and reach for the folded, thick, white towels, and start drying her hair. In the face of such beauty, my movements are almost reverent. I gather the long, wet strands in one hand, and squeeze the water out with the towel. Then I work my way through the silk from roots to tips, patting and smoothing like I’ve got all the time in the world. I can feel her watching me the whole time—those bewitching green eyes fixed on my face, wide and slightly confused, like she can’t figure out what the hell I’m doing or why I’m doing it.

I let her stare, but inside, I’m burning up with how self-conscious it makes me. This is a totally new experience for me. I have never done this for any woman. My neck heats, a slow creep of warmth that I can’t hide. My pulse is thudding hard enough that she can probably see it jumping under my skin.

Fuck, I’m so fucking besotted with her it’s ridiculous.

And yet… I’ve never felt more at peace than I do right now. This quiet moment, her sitting naked and trusting in front of me, letting me take care of her, it soothes something broken in my chest that’s been hurting day and night for as long as I can remember. The calm spreads all over my body. All those years of watching her from the shadows, the obsession that kept me up at night, the way I clawed my way to the top just to have the power to protect her… it wasn’t for nothing.

This is it. And it is worth every second of pain and longing.

And the more I think about it, the more it clicks. Technically, her background is so much like mine. Both of us were coldly handed off by people who were supposed to care for us. Both of us farmed out, used, forced to crawl out of the gutters anyway we could just to survive. She married into this world to clear her father’s debts. I ran the streets and pledged my soul to Salvatore to never be weak again. We’re both survivors. Maybe that’s why we feel so right. Why touching her like this doesn’t feel like pretending. The truth is it feels like finally coming home.

Eventually, the heat crawling up my neck is too much to bear, and I meet her gaze head-on, the towel stilling in her hair. She can only hold my stare for a few seconds; uncertainty flickers across her face as she looks away shyly, lashes lowered.

“What is it?” I ask, my voice so low it hardly breaks the quiet.

She hesitates. “You’re surprisingly gentle.”

I give her a small smile. “I don’t think the men I’ve killed will agree with you.”

The words hang there between us. She shudders. It’s a small, involuntary tell that I’ve ruined the mood. I pull back just enough to grab the hair dryer from the drawer, plug it in, and start running the hot air through her long strands of hair. My fingers comb through as I go, careful not to tug. She keeps watching me, eyes tracking every movement like she’s trying to solve a puzzle. Minutes stretch. The dryer hums low. Her hair starts to dry in soft waves around her shoulders. I see the exact moment that brick wall goes back up inside her, the shutdown she uses like a shield. She’s decided to put space between us before it gets too real.

“I can finish,” she says softly. “You should be heading out to work.”