Page 33 of The Mobster’s Mistress

After that, time becomes considerably less important. We kiss until my lips hurt pleasantly. He touches me like he has nowhere else to be, and I learn that Enzo likes hearing exactly what I want almost as much as he likes pretending he’s the one giving orders. Eventually I pull him closer until he’s between my legs.

“Enzo.”

He searches my face immediately. “You sure?”

I nod.

“Words, sweetheart.”

My heart kicks.

“Yes.”

His expression softens for one brief second. Then the darker look comes back. “Tell me what you want.”

There is something deeply unfair about how much I enjoy hearing that.

“You.”

“Not enough.”

I laugh breathlessly. “You’re impossible.”

“Tell me.”

So I do.

“I want you to fuck me.”

His eyes close for half a second. Apparently, I’m not the only one who enjoys certain words. When he looks at me again, there is very little polished businessman left.

“Better.”

He reaches toward the nightstand.

“Prepared again?” I ask.

“I was hoping you’d stay.”

That unexpectedly sweet answer lands somewhere far too close to my heart. I cover it with a joke.

“You should probably keep emergency supplies in every room at this point.”

“Planning ahead.”

“Very mafia of you.”

His hand stops. Only for a fraction of a second. Then he looks at me.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

I laugh. “You look guilty.”

“Do I?”

“You are Italian.”