Page 91 of Mafia Mistress

He nudged my face toward his and gave me a tender kiss, one so soft and sweet that my knees nearly buckled. “I like this word on your lips,” he said. “I like it a lot.”

I had to think back. Oh, the endearment. It had slipped out of my mouth naturally, as if I’d called him that for years. Sliding out of his arms, I grabbed for the soap, hoping to hide my embarrassment and horror. It was way too soon for me to be calling him names like that, names that people in serious loving relationships used. I wasn’t staying and this was not a loving relationship.

Thankfully, he didn’t push it.

Soon we stepped out and dried off with thick towels. Strangely quiet, he took my hand and led me toward the terrace. I dragged him to a stop. “Don’t we need suits?”

He grabbed my ass and squeezed. “No, we don’t. No one will see.”

I soon discovered why. One half of the upper terrace was surrounded by Italian cypress trees, giving privacy to the jacuzzi. Probably countless women had been here to soak with him, and an irrational jealousy swamped me as I slid into the warm water.

“Is it too hot?” he asked as he climbed in next to me.

“No, it’s perfect.”

“Then why are you frowning, piccolina?”

I had nothing to lose by asking him. Perhaps in learning how not special I was to him would help prevent any feelings from developing. The last thing I needed was to fall in love with Fausto Ravazzani. “Do you bring women here often?”

He reached over, lifted me and settled me on his lap. “Why? Would it bother you?”

“No, but I am curious. It seems like the perfect fuck pad.”

“Fuck pad?”

“Place where you bring women to fuck.”

He shook his head, his chest shaking with suppressed laughter. “Francesca, I don’t need a special place fuck women. I can fuck wherever I like.”

Hadn’t he already proven that with me? The stables, the dining room…. “I get it. You’re a man whore. Congratulations.” I tried to push him away, needing space.

His arms tightened around me. “Wait. I did not mean to upset you.” He kissed my neck, my jaw. Then he nibbled on my earlobe. “I haven’t brought a woman here in a long time. Not since the last time someone tried to kill me.”

Gasping, I leaned back to see his face. “Kill you! What? When?”

His expression said I was naive for even being surprised. “There have been four attempts to kill me since I took over, the most recent six years ago. It’s why I stick to the castello as much as possible.”

“Jesus Christ,” I muttered. Four attempts on his life? “Were you hurt?”

“My car blew up, but the detonator went off early. I was thrown back and suffered a concussion, nothing more.”

I gaped at him. “Oh, my God. That is terrible.”

The edge of his mouth hitched. “I like to see you worried about me. It makes my dick hard.” He kissed me, long licks of his tongue against mine, and sure enough his cock thickened underneath me. How could he get aroused so soon? Didn’t men of a certain age need some sort of recovery period?

When we broke apart, I said, “Everything makes your dick hard.”

“True. But only around you these days, it seems.”

“If people are always trying to kill you, then why did you come to Rome?”

“To see you. I couldn’t wait.” He put his arms on the back of the jacuzzi and closed his eyes. “Believe me, Marco had a fit. He nearly restrained me to keep me in Siderno.”

“He’s right. You shouldn’t have come, if it’s dangerous.” I would never forgive myself if something happened to him here.

“If I die, it would have been worth it to see you in that red bodysuit.”

“Fausto! It’s not a joke.”

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