Page 33 of Nanny to the Mafia

His rough hands did things to me I didn’t want to comprehend. “I need love to go with sex.”

“We’ll see about that. That’s all?”

“No,” I gulped. This was the most difficult one. Looking down, I whispered, “When this is over, when you have full custody, and everything calms down, I am free to go.”

He was silent, stretching the awkwardness before he lifted my chin up. “Is that what you want?” he asked, looking into my eyes.

I nodded. Yes. There was a darkness to him I didn’t want to tempt myself with. Long term was an impossibility without burning.

He drew his lips into a straight line, and displeasure slid off his face. “If that’s what you want, fine. So, it’s a yes?”

“Yes,” I croaked.

“Good.” He smiled. This must be the first time I had seen him smile. It was warm enough to melt honey. “We should celebrate.”

“I am not much of a drinker,” I shrugged.

“Who said anything about a drink? With a kiss.”

“I just said no sex,” I snapped.

“You said no sex. Kissing is not sex. A kiss to celebrate. Yes?” He was asking my permission. That was a first.

“Fine.” I sighed and turned my cheek around.

He pulled me closer by putting his warm hands on my naked bum till I was at the very edge of the machine. He must have pressed a button because the machine suddenly geared up. I gasped, startled, and he zoomed in on my mouth. He nipped my lips, sending tingles up my body. He held me in place with his grip around my neck. When I made a feeble attempt to move away, he jerked me back to him. He nipped at my upper lip and made his way to my lower lip. He wasn’t gentle nor soft, but a moan slipped from my mouth anyway before I could capture it, which he used to slip his warm tongue inside, exploring leisurely, like a canoe moving into a secret cave. Mixing my mintiness with the aftertaste of a drink I didn’t recognise. Bittersweet with a touch of spice. It was languid and warm, and I never wanted him to stop. His hand dropped to my thigh and glided up higher. I didn’t stop him. He haltered on my upper thigh, bunching one side of my shirt and moving it gruffly aside.

His warm lips slid to my neck. He burned me from the inside out. When he inhaled my smell and nuzzled my neck, his soft stubble sent sparks up my body. “Will I find you wet Miss Praan?” he rasped with a wicked chuckle.

I grabbed his hand to halt his progress. I didn’t want him to know. He swatted it roughly aside and inched forward. The suspense alone was building up the lava between my legs. He stopped right in front of my apex. Not moving. Neither forwards nor backwards. Just resting and feeling my clenching core. I trembled. In impatience or fear, I didn’t know myself.

“No sex?” he whispered against my neck.

My heart screamed, Yes, sex. But my brain got my back. With the greatest effort I could gather while I sat with liquid dripping down, I whimpered the words, “No sex.”

He didn’t listen, anyway.

Thank god.

Two fingers moved forward. Barely touching my clit, yet just enough to feel my oh-so-obvious wetness. My breath hitched as a moan caught in my throat. He pulled them out, his weapons of pleasure, leaving me needy, wanting. Pulling my mouth, he kissed me harshly before letting me go. Letting go of my mouth, my apex, my neck. He flicked his eyes from my mouth to down below. He closed his eyes and stilled his breath. One second. Two. Three. Before he opened them and let them lick a path up to my neck.

He softly rubbed my skin around the collar. “Whose shirt are you wearing?” he asked huskily.

I gulped. Something told me he wasn’t going to like the answer.

A muscle jerked in his jaw. “Whose shirt are you wearing, Divya?”

I blinked. Unwilling to answer.

Like darkness wrapping the sky before a storm, his face went dark. Latching on to my shirt by both sides of the collar, he ripped it open, buttons flying around the room.

I shrieked, clutching the fabric to hold it together.

“From now on, if you want to wear a man’s shirt, you wear mine. Capisti?”

I trembled, the rush of cold air aiding the mixed emotions rushing through my body.

“Divya,” he tilted my chin up. “Capisti?”

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