Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 75683 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75683 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
I rushed out the door, stabbing the elevator key in, then riding it down, waiting for the doors to open, for Nino to step inside.
Then I threw myself into his arms, feeling his wrap me up, pulling me up off my feet as he squeezed the air out of my lungs.
“You okay?” he asked, face still buried in my hair.
“Yes.”
“Your mom okay?” he asked, slowly placing me down on my feet as the doors chimed as we reached the penthouse.
“Yes. She’s sleeping. But… yes. I bleached her nightgown,” I told him as I led him into the suite, pointing at it.
“Look at you, thinking like a mafia wife,” he said, giving me a soft smile as my belly just flip-flopped at the very idea of maybe, possibly, being that one day, of him seeing me that way. “What’s this?” he asked, tone and face suddenly dark, furious, as he grabbed my wrist and dragged my arm up, revealing all the bruises from where the guy had grabbed me.
“It’s just some bruises,” I said, trying to brush it off because his entire body seemed to vibrate with his rage. “Fair warning, I have some on my knees too,” I told him, figuring it was better for me to tell him than for him to find out for himself. I rethought that, though, when a growl—an actual growl—escaped him at that. “I just landed on my hands and knees, that’s all,” I said, running my hand up and down his arm, trying to calm him down.
“Who did it?” he hissed, jaw so tight that a muscle was ticking there.
“The guy you shot,” I whispered back. “He can’t hurt me again,” I added.
“He never should have been able to hurt you in the first place.”
“I only have myself to blame,” I reasoned.
“No, you—“
“Mr. Grassi told me to wait for you guys. I was stubborn. So, yes, the bruises are kind of my fault,” I told him. “But I don’t want to talk about that anymore,” I said, letting my hand drift up his stomach, chest, then around the back of his neck, pulling him down to me. “I want to do this instead,” I said, then sealed my lips to his.
I could actually feel the way the anger left his body at the contact, the tension releasing as his arms went around me—one around my lower back, the other at the back of my neck—holding me close as his lips slanted over mine, deepening the kiss.
“I told my mom we weren’t going to engage in any adult activities,” I told him when I broke away, the desire like a live wire through my body.
“Guess we’re just going to have to be real quiet then,” he said, picking me up, wrapping my legs around his waist, then leading me back to the bedroom.
We tumbled into the bed, a mess of limbs and love and desire, hands roaming, lips and tongues exploring, bodies coming together.
His hand slammed down over my mouth as he surged inside of me, silencing my moan against his palm as he started to move inside of me.
Slow, soft, and loving at first, but growing faster, wilder, with each passing moment until the pleasure overtook us completely, and we came hard together.
We stayed together afterward, bodies entwined, arms holding on tight.
“So you’re not having second thoughts?” he asked after a long stretch of silence.
“About what?” I asked, pulling back enough to look at his gorgeous face.
“About me,” he said, and I could hear the hint of vulnerability in his tone.
“No,” I said, tone firm. “Never,” I added for emphasis, wanting to wipe away any traces of uncertainty from him. “I’ve never been more sure of anyone or anything before in my life,” I told him. Because it was true. And because I wasn’t scared of my feelings for him, only the idea of losing them.
“Me either,” he confirmed, pressing his lips to mine.
It wasn’t long before his phone started beeping, forcing us to get up, get dressed, and move out of the bedroom.
There were visits from his brothers then.
Dante took the bleached nightgown, but left yet another cooked meal from, presumably, their mother, despite the fridge having several of them already.
Santo pulled Nino out into the hall for a private talk.
Then even Massimo dropped by, but their conversation seemed not to be about the situation with the kidnapping thing, and more about their youngest brother. Who seemed to be out of town without permission? I don’t know. But I figured someone would tell me that story eventually.
Then, finally, around dinner time, as the meal was reheating in the oven, my mother made another appearance, coming down with bed-messy hair and a soft smile as she looked at the two of us.
“Is that coffee fresh?” she asked, nodding toward my hands.
“Yes,” Nino said, grabbing her a cup.