Page 22 of Vito

Exhaustion hits me. The jet lag from Bangkok, the adrenaline from crashing the successor reveal, and being in Aiken's domain are hitting me hard.

Since I just got into town before the funeral, I'm crashing at Aiken's place. Either his ghost will haunt me tonight, or I might feel closer to the brother who I hadn't let myself know these past nine years.

I start walking down the wide pathway from Gilly's to where the Camry, AKA my Uber, idles at the curb. Squealing tires slice the night's quiet, and the Camry races away like a bat out of hell.

"What the fuck… Hey!" I shout as the taillights disappear around the corner.

Frustrated and exhausted, I exhale sharply, scanning around. There's one vehicle left on the street.

A black 1968 Ford Mustang Shelby GT500. It's an amazing car. The Shelby GT500's second year of production was 1968, and it's a beast on wheels.

But seeing who stands outside the beast on wheels—a blue-green-eyed man with a god-like body, who probably has a god-like cock—makes heat bloom in my core, and I scowl at Vito.

He tilts his head. "Looks like you need a ride."

I grind my teeth.

"I know… I really am a fucking cunt." He smiles.

Which shouldn't affect me physically, yet my knees are weak and wetness pools in my panties.

Jesus Christ, what kind of spell does this deadly man have on me?

He studies me, trying to read my impassive face. "Get in, Eden."

He's calling me Eden, not Ed. As if he's resisting my efforts to draw attention away from thelet's forget she's a chick.

"I'll order another Uber."

"No, you won't. Get in." His voice is deep and low. Dangerous and drawing me in.

"Vito." I glare at him from the safety of the sidewalk.

"Eden," he growls, then rubs the back of his neck. "It's just a ride."

"Something that could be misconstrued and dangerous to both of us."

His jaw clenches, and he flexes his hands. "Just this once."

Famous last words.

"I want to talk about Aiken." He stares at me and sees the moment I cave, figuring out that this is my Achilles' heel.

I scan around to ensure we're alone and sigh as I reluctantly walk to his car. I get in the passenger side and settle into the comfortable leather seat.

I'm instantly in love.

Vito folds his big frame into the driver's seat and slams the door. One scarred hand grips the wheel while the other goes to the gearshift. When he guns the engine, I swear my cooch releases a bit of wetness at the rumble of the seat, not to mention the sexy-as-sin bastard behind the wheel.

Visions of climbing into Vito's lap and riding him hard and fast assault me, and I force down the surge of lust.

"Nice car. I took you for a douche-Porsche kinda guy, though."

He laughs. He knows damn well that this car fits him perfectly—powerful, rumbly, can lay you flat in four seconds.

"This isn't exactly neutral behavior," I deadpan.

"Just giving you a ride." He shrugs. "Couldn't leave you stranded."

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