Page 69 of Double Trouble for the Mafia Prince
"I thought about it."
Our eyes meet.
Something ignites in his, something both warm and unreadable.
His gaze drops to my mouth and lingers.
Then he leans back, exhales slowly, and says nothing else.
The wise thing would be to get up, tell him good night and retreat behind the heavy doors of the south wing suite, shed this dress, and climb into a bed that still feels foreign.
That would end this day with grace. But I stay seated.
The alcohol is nearly gone.
My hand is loose around the stem, and when I set the glass down, it tips slightly against the stone.
"I looked terrible in those pictures," I mutter, glancing toward the shuttered reception room.
He arches a brow.
"You’re kidding."
"The dress was too long."
"You looked like a fucking queen."
My mouth opens, something sardonic ready to escape, but his laugh breaks out first—quiet and sudden, a low rumble in his throat.
I blink at him.
"What?" I ask, half-smiling.
"You’re just…damn." He shakes his head, watching me with that same unreadable look. "I keep waiting for the part where this becomes real."
"It is real."
"Yeah," he says, voice lower now. "I’m starting to figure that out."
I laugh under my breath, my head tilting back just slightly, the tension of the day easing in my shoulders, letting something brighter slip through the cracks.
And when I look back at him, I catch him staring.
There is no warning.
One moment, I’m smiling.
The next, he's pulled me to his lap, and his mouth is on mine.
12
DANTE
She tastes like the wine we shared, dark and sweet, her laughter still echoing somewhere behind her teeth as my mouth claims hers fully, not with calculation, not with heat for its own sake, but with that strange, awful hunger I have been keeping locked up for too long.
My hands slide to her waist, feeling the soft give of silk beneath my palms, and I groan when she doesn't pull away.
Not even a little.
