Page 93 of Mafia Boss's Fake Wife

Marco De Luca might not want me, but he also has shown me more kindness and love than I’ve felt in years.

And I’m just a girl. I can’t be expected to hold out under these conditions. On top of all of that, Marco walked out of the shower without a shirt on, and the curve of his muscles made me practically salivate with want.

I’m not strong enough to resist him. Complicated, messy, as awful as this is.

I want him. Pure, simple, and clean.

So I cave.

When his hand curls behind my neck, tugging my lips up to his, I moan and lean into it. The feeling of him pinning me to the counter should scare me. It should scare me a lot.

Except with Marco, I never feel trapped.

And while I’ve been scared plenty, he doesn’t scare me.

I’m so tired of fighting this. Marco is like a drug, I know I’m an addict, and right now, I’m not strong enough to say no.

I kiss him with everything I’ve got.

It’s not just a kiss. It’s consuming. Marco’s body is everywhere. The kitchen is small, absolutely, but it gets smaller by the second as his lips skate over my neck.

He smells good. Comforting.

Sexy.

I gasp when his hands scoop underneath my legs and lift me up onto the counter. I’m wearing some soft lounge pants and a tank top with a sweater over it, all selected from the bag that he packed for me.

Leaning back on the countertop, I shiver as Marco’s hand finds its way under my shirt, tracing up the line of my stomach toward my breasts.

He moans when he finds out my choice (or lack thereof) in underwear.

“Jesus, Roisin. If I’d known…”

“You knew,” I murmur. “You didn’t pack me a comfy bra, so I had to make do.”

Marco’s eyes shoot up to mine, and I can tell that he’s genuinely worried for a second. I lean forward and press a kiss between his eyebrows.

“I’m teasing you,’ I whisper.

The brown of his eyes flashes. “If that’s the decision you made, I’m throwing out every fucking bra I can find,” he growls.

I laugh, but before I’m even really aware of it he has my shirt tugged up and over my head.

I shiver, but not because the air in the cabin is cold.

Marco’s looking at me like he wants to devour me. Like I’m some kind of feast, spread out for him.

I tilt back, leaning on my elbows on the countertop.

“You,” Marco growls, the sound of his voice a low and tantalizing rumble, “are the most beautiful fucking woman I’ve ever seen.”

I turn my head, feeling a blush creep up my cheeks. “I bet you say that to all the half-naked girls you see.”

“No,” he rasps, his lips an inch from one of my nipples. “I don’t.”

When his mouth closes around me there, I arch, gasping like I’ve been struck by a live wire.

The thing is, normally I’d assume that men would say anything to me in this position. That they’d lie to get what they wanted.

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