Page 29 of The Kings
“Scars make for better stories anyway,” she says, her own admission mingling with mine. She inches closer, her thigh brushes against mine, sending a jolt of awareness through me. “In my family, you learn to read the room before you can walk.”
“Useful skill,” I murmur, feeling the heat from her skin bleed into mine.
“Essential,” she agrees.
The scent of her perfume, something floral with a hint of danger, wraps around me. I want more; I want to drown in it.
Her gaze never wavers, fierce and unapologetic. “You know, Oliver, most men would be terrified by now.”
“Terrified?” She has piqued my curiosity. “Of what?”
“Of the fact that I can play the game just as well as they can,” she states, her confidence as alluring as it is absolute.
“Not untrue. Good thing I’m not most men.” My hand finds its way to her face, fingers trembling slightly with the intensity of the moment. Her skin is warm under my touch, softer than I imagined.
“Very good thing,” she whispers.
My thumb traces along her jawline, making her pulse quicken. The tension between us is a live wire, sparking and hissing with the promise of something more.
She bridges the gap between us in a swift, fluid motion that speaks volumes of her upbringing in a world where hesitation can cost you everything. Her lips crash onto mine, fierce and demanding, a storm of passion that leaves me reeling in its wake.
Her boldness catches me off guard; it’s like getting hit with a bullet I never saw coming—a sweet, searing impact that ignites every nerve in my body. The kiss is a clash of power and vulnerability, her assertiveness battling the surprise that renders me momentarily defenceless.
Fuck, she kisses like she leads—relentless and passionate.
Time dissolves around us, each second stretching into infinity as we lose ourselves in the raw intensity of our connection. The feel of her curves pressed against me sends a surge of desire coursing straight to my cock, hot and potent.
Her fingers tangle in my hair, tugging me closer as if distance is now the enemy. We’re a mess of limbs and shared breaths, our bodies locked together tightly as if neither of us wants to let go.
“Eliza,” I groan against her mouth. Our desires twist and coil, two flames merging into an inferno.
She pulls back just enough to look into my eyes, her own alight with fire. “Oliver,” she pants lightly, and the sound is a key turning in a lock I didn’t know existed. There’s no going back from this—not that I’d want to.
The need to breathe forces us apart, chests heaving, the cool autumn air a jolt to our overheated skin. I’m not ready to let her go, but reality crashes back with the lingering threat that shadows our lives. Mafia blood runs through our veins—a constant reminder that every stolen moment is a treasure in our dangerous world.
“Careful, love,” I murmur, my thumb brushing her slightly parted lips, swollen from our kiss. “We’re playing with fire here.”
Her soft laugh dances through the tension. “Isn’t that what we do best?” There’s a challenge in her tone, the same daring that defines her every move in the treacherous game we call life.
A reluctant smile tugs at my lips. “Something tells me you’re going to be the death of me, Eliza Hughes.”
“Only if you’re lucky,” she teases, her boldness a reflection of the power she wields, even seated here beside me.
Reluctantly, we disentangle from each other, the absence of her warmth immediate and protesting. But the promise lingers, an invisible thread tethering us together, defying the chaos of our world.
“Until next time,” she says, standing gracefully, the queen of her domain rising from her throne.
“Next time,” I confirm, rising with her as she indicates with a tilt of her head that I should follow.
17
ELIZA
Oliverand I reach the heavy front door of the manor, and I push it open; the familiar scent of old wood and secrets welcomes us home.
My lips are swollen from Ollie’s kiss and it just makes it even more fun as I stride into the living room and be faced with Raphael, Tarquin, and James. They’re lounging around, each occupied by their own thing.
They look up, their faces shifting like they’re trying to read the end of a story from its middle.
