Page 74 of The Mafia Assassin's Redemption
What do you think?
The words roll through me, feeling me up, taunting. I can’t get my thoughts to focus on anything other than him.
What do I think?
Oh God. I can’t. I know I want him, need him. Or maybe I’m just going to lose whatever’s left of my mind.
I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to block him out as he stands over me. But I can’t keep them closed. His shadow is somehow like the sun, warming me.
And yet he refuses to give me what I need to even breathe… his touch.
“You know,” he murmurs, “this suits you.”
I’m being pulled apart and rebuilt. The voice that haunted me and gave me nightmares is now beautiful and low. The lilt is perfection as it dances against me, bringing innuendo to even the mundane.
He’s the man who killed my family. I can’t want him and yet I do. So badly. Even with what he said to me earlier, even if I could believe that, how can I forgive him? Too many years have packed so much into the grooves and scars on my soul and heart. I can’t. And with that, I shouldn’t want him. Yet I do.
“Toys, latex, lace. All things I want you to wear under your loose clothes. You’re a dirty little thing at your soul. And so fucking pristine. I love dragging you down to where it’s dark, hot, and fun.”
I shake, my pussy so horribly empty, and the other thoughts slip away again.
Toys? I wanthim.
“You’ve been doing God’s work in that church,” he says, voice still the seductive softness that caresses my skin. “Helping people like Salvatore’s wife. That’s why Bernardo was there. Oh, sweet Harry, I should never have set you up with the bleeding heart Father Dermott.”
He keeps talking but my mind is all over the place. I’d watched him when he was in the room, slouching like a well-dressed demon in his shirt and vest, looking like a Hollywood dream. Those Celtic crosses on his inner wrists showing when he took off his cuff links are so fucking sexy.
And then when he walked out of the room, there was something so explosively erotic about him leaving me here alone, I came.
Even now, my senses flutter, all on a knife edge of mind-blowing pleasure.
I want that pleasure. I want to drown in it.
And I don’t want to think about anything else other than him inside of me.
He comes down so his face is near mine. “Get up, Harry. On your forearms.”
I struggle to do what he wants. He doesn’thelp. He just watches. A bolt of fury slices through me, but even that has another, erotic side.
But I fucking manage to do what he says, and he slides down to sit on the floor. We’re eye to eye as he finishes his drink before setting it down. In that moment, the gentle rock of the boat rolls through me as we stare at each other.
Then he leans in and kisses me, the tang of whiskey dancing on his tongue.
He slides a lock of hair from my face. “Tell me something, do you still hate me?”
“Yes,” I say.
“Still blame me?”
“Yes.” How can I not?
Those blue eyes burn into me. “But you want me to finger you, don’t you? To lick you, tongue you, fuck you? You want to do anything and everything to bring me pleasure, so you get yours right back. Would you have me fuck your cunt, ass, and mouth if you got to have another orgasm? You would. You know it. I know it.”
I loathe him. I have to. It’s the one thing that’s kept me strong, sane. Somewhat. And I need to cling to that, especially now, when he’s both the man I thought—strong, frightening, lethal—and so much more—family oriented, complex, sexual, smart, and occasionally funny.
What the hell am I supposed to do with all of that?
I look at him, drowning in lust, and he rubs his thumb lightly against my lower lip.
