Page 78 of Princess of the Mafia

“No idea. I had to make some abstract shit with squares and rectangles.”

Amusement sparked his lips. “No idea, huh?”

“But they told me I have great style,” I told him haughtily.

“Of course.”

I frowned. I had expected him to laugh, but he acted like I had told him I was born in the Cosa Nostra. Like it was evident. “One day, I’m going to buy my own house and do it all up.”

My glance fell down. His hands were stroking the line of my slip.

“One day,” he muttered tightly. “Can I fuck you till then?”

Shit! There wasn’t a tint of a whisper to his voice. I twisted around, but thankfully, Orso had earplugs in.

“He can’t hear.”

I found my husband’s devilish grin and tried to swat his hands off. “But he can see.”

“Not if you’re subtle about it.” His finger crawled underneath my panties and found my core, right on cue.

“Minchia! You can’t be serious.”

He plunged two fingers in and jerked me upright. A hot moan flooded out of my body. “Is this serious enough?” he muttered darkly, his breath hot on my lips.

“You said subtle,” I whispered.

“Up to you, Principessa, but I am fucking you either way.”

He was so vulgar. I wished I could say I hated it. But I couldn’t explain why it had the pulse of this good Sicilian girl thumping on her clit. His long fingers inside me felt all rough, dipped in warm honey, touched me everywhere, melted me into lava. It made me rock my hips against him even as his hand gripped my hip. My hands crawled up his shoulder and pulled his neck to me. The thought that I might never look Orso in the eye again floated through my mind. But he was pulling at my strings like I would die if I didn’t ride him out. A fever, hot and itchy, rushed up my body, tingling every nerve ending with it. A release was imminent as much as my next breath. I fisted my hands in his hair and pulled his lips into mine. His name spilled from my mouth and he captured it in his easily. Like it was as evident as the sun rising from the East. That I would call him Zo.

LORENZO

“Hurry the fuck up.”

I had thought she would be low maintenance. She had left the jars and pots she brought from Sicily untouched for weeks. Until she found them, I guess. They lined my bathroom and cluttered my bedroom. Pink smudges and gold dust were as much a part of my vanity as the glossy white Calacatta marble used to clad it. She was the messiest person I knew. For that alone, I should have returned her with a one-way ticket to her brother.

I growled in displeasure. She didn’t need any of this shit. She was perfect as she was. My bandaged hand tapped against the vanity, and her glance fell on it midway between switching a pink powder set to a black brush. I saw the question on the tip of her tongue, but she didn’t ask, and I didn’t tell. Yet.

“Just one more minute.” She dropped the black brush and picked up a red tube, and my patience flipped.

I pulled her up to her shriek, tossed her over my shoulder, and made for the elevator. “You don’t need that shit. I’m going to kiss it off you, anyway.”

“But I love getting dressed up,” she whined as I dropped her onto the elevator.

I punched the button. “You never did it before.”

She stilled, and I frowned. “What?”

She shrugged and said smugly, “I didn’t want to make the effort.”

I crowded her in against the mirror. “What, now you do?”

She examined her nails airily. “Maybe.”

Jesus! For the boys in her fucking uni?

The desire to lock her in our room was one I had to fight every single day. Instead, I dropped my neck and rasped my words along her neck. “You’re always worth the effort, Principessa.”

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