Page 98 of Mila: The Godfather

“Mila.” He shouts gently over the loud noise of the waves and the rain. He’s getting all wet, and his beautiful light brown hair looks darker.

A lot of things have left me speechless or have taken my breath away throughout my life, but nothing quite compares to the sight of him at this moment in time.

“Yes, Riagan?” Standing up, I move closer to him. I focus on his face and watch in fascination as a blinding smile appears, revealing perfect white teeth. Thud. Thud. Thud. I gently tap my chest three times, trying to calm my rising heart.

“Dance with me.”

My eyes widen at his odd request. Dance with him? In the rain with no music on?

I’ve never danced with anyone. Not even my sisters.

It was not something we did.

I’ve imagined countless instances where I would be in the arms of a dashing prince as he spun me in circles, dancing the night away, but it was just all in my head. There was never a dashing prince.

My chin trembles, and so does my voice. “You want to dance in the rain? With me?”

“I do, with you.”

“But there is no music.” I point out the obvious to him, and he only laughs.

“We don’t need music.” This time when he offers me his extended hand again, I take it.

The tattooed giant tugs me gently until we’re standing chest to chest with my palms on his shoulders. I’m left breathless once again when his rough hands grab onto my waist, and he slowly starts to sway to the sound of the rain. My heart is beating so loud, I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s able to hear it. Rain, wild waves, and all.

It’s been established that I don’t know much about love or feelings between two people. What I do know is that, in this moment, while dancing in the rain with Riagan’s hands on my body, I feel as if the parts of me that I believed were buried long ago are throbbing with life.

Parts I didn’t even think he could touch, he has.

There’s no dyeing it any longer. This man who looks like the devil has made a place for himself in my heart, and every day that I spend with him I feel myself losing myself in all that he is.

Does he feel the same? I wonder.

Of course, he does. Just look at the man. Really look at him. The small voice inside my head insists.

I do.

We’re pressed against one another, so closely that I can feel his hot breath on my face, warming me from the rain. I can smell the hypnotizing scent of his cologne. His scent evokes a combination of raw masculine power and fresh and playful sweetness.

I find myself wishing I had the power to stop time right at this moment. Every moment with him. The first few times we’ve been this close, I tried to protect my heart from the inevitable by telling myself that it is just in my head. That this feeling that takes over me every time he’s near is one-sided.

But it isn’t, is it?

“I’ve never danced with anyone before.” I blurt out.

“Me neither.” He pulls me closer, making my breath hitch. “I guess we’re each other’s firsts.”

And why does the thought of being the only woman he’s ever danced with fill my heart with joy and something else? Something possessive.

“I like that.” I whisper as he sways me from side to side. “Being your first dance. Your first something.” I steal a glance up at him and find him already looking at me, but his smile is gone. Flustered, I look back down at his chest. Sometimes I feel brave, and other times, the intensity with which he looks at me makes it too much. I have to look away. We continue swaying slowly and gently, and I feel his gaze on me.

“Was I your first kiss, Mila?” he asks, startling me. His voice is smooth and easy, and I imagine it as a soft rippling wave of sound. Comforting. Lovely with its bass tones. I can’t get enough of this man’s voice.

Lifting my head, his gaze meets mine. I break contact and let my eyes focus elsewhere. “Yes.” I whisper, a bit embarrassed. What must he think? What girl my age has her first kiss at twenty years old?

“Fuck, baby.” A growl escapes him, startling me.

My gaze shoots up, and I look up at him with fresh eyes.

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