Page 129 of Double Trouble for the Mafia Prince
She is so close.
I feel it.
Her breath hitches.
Her lashes flutter.
She starts to tremble again, thighs tensing, chest slick with sweat.
She clenches hard, her orgasm tearing through her in waves that force a broken scream from her throat.
Her body milks me, and I let go, burying my face in her shoulder and coming so hard I forget where I am, forget who I am.
Only her.
Only this.
We lie there afterward, a tangle of sweat and breath and silence, the rug soft under my back, her hair damp against my neck.
For this one breath, this single moment, I let myself believe we are still allowed to have this.
22
GIANNA
The first thing I notice when I wake is that I am alone in bed.
The second is the smell of coffee, faint and rich, drifting in from beyond the bedroom.
The curtains have been drawn halfway, letting in a pale wash of early sun, and somewhere down the corridor, I can hear the low scrape of a chair moving against the floor.
I dress without hurry.
Nothing elaborate.
Just one of the cotton dresses Dante likes, paired with flats and a thin cardigan.
It is cool enough that I could justify a coat, but I leave it behind.
My chest is already tight enough.
He is seated on the sofa when I step into the main room of the suite.
The coffee table has been set with two cups, a small platter of figs, bread still warm in its cloth wrap, and two silver-domed trays I do not open.
Dante is not eating.
He sits forward, hands clasped loosely, gaze low but not unfocused.
He looks up when I enter.
"I didn’t want to wake you," he says.
His voice is quiet.
There is no edge to it, but it is not soft either.
"The girls are getting breakfast downstairs."
