Page 81 of Princess of the Mafia

“Bring your book. Maybe I can help you with it.”

There was only one thing he wanted to help me with and that had nothing to do with a style or putting pen on paper. The man acted like I was his obsession.

“No, thank you.” I snuggled in deeper on the couch, the thick book on my lap balancing precariously.

Neoclassicism, also spelled Neo-classicism…

“What?” I jerked my head up. He had said nothing and not moved a single inch. He still sat with one forearm leaning on his desk. But somehow, there was a magnetic line between us, and it was calling insistently.

“I insist.”

“Fine.” I stomped over with my book and dropped it on his desk in front of him. He was annoying. Even the way he sat was irritating. Laid back, legs spread wide like he had the world worshiping below him. “What is neoclassicism?”

His eyes sparked with amusement. “Neoclassicism is an attitude.”

“Yeah?” He is actually helping me.

He nodded. There was a glint in his eyes not even an idiot would trust. “An aesthetic attitude based on the art of Greece and Rome.” The next second, he leaned forward, wrapped his arms around the back of my thighs, and plopped me on his desk. With a swipe of his hand, everything on it thumped onto the floor.

I shrieked. “What’s the matter with you?”

He shoved me hard, and I landed on my back.

“It’s also about appreciation….” He pushed my top up. I struggled, not allowing him to pull it past my neck, but all it did was give a buzz in my head and electricity in my hair when he yanked it off, anyway. “Of your body.” He pushed my skirt down, panties and all. “Of studying every curve, every dip. It’s about following that path with my tongue.”

Shit! He was hot. I wanted to open my legs and allow him to plunge in. So I ignored the spark between my legs and sat up and jerked my head towards the floor. “That was a new book.”

“I’ll buy you another.”

I frowned. “Are you also going to do my paper?”

“After we fuck,” he growled.

“No.” I made to sit up, but he pushed me back.

“Let’s make a deal.”

I eyed him suspiciously. “What kind of deal?”

“If you’re not wet, I’ll allow you to cuddle my couch like a lover and read your damn book.”

I squeezed my legs tight. This wouldn’t end well.

“Aren’t you going to ask what happens if you’re not?” he smirked.

“You do my paper?” I asked hopefully.

“Oh, Principessa, you know I don’t do well with things I don’t like. What I like is to put my tongue on your pussy and lick you dry. What I like is to fuck you on my desk and hear you moan.” His voice rasped like sandpaper on my skin. He ran the back of his index finger along my arm. Light and rough. “You know, I’ve been dreaming about it ever since you came here the last time.”

He has? It was silly. The thrill riding my skin told me I was happy to be in his dreams. My eyes fluttered closed. “Doesn’t matter. I’m not wet.” Neoclassicism is an art…something…

“Yeah?” The chair scraped, and a hot flush of air touched my lips. Down south. My eyes snapped open. He was studying me with his head between my legs like he was inspecting an artwork or something.

I tried to snap my legs shut, but he pushed them easily open, his hands big and firm on my bare thighs. “I think you lied, Principessa.” He ran a finger along my slit, and I felt every pore in it, and all the creases lining it, as he trailed my slickness. I bit back the moan climbing my throat.

A dark chuckle escaped him like he had pulled it out of the depths of his own hell. All hot and molten, like the pit of a volcano. “I think you like me, Principessa.”

I rolled my eyes. “Not.”

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