Page 70 of Double Trouble for the Mafia Prince
"Gianna," I murmur against her lips, the name like a promise I am terrified of making.
Her fingers twist in the front of my shirt, and her breath stutters. "I shouldn't let you."
"Then stop me," I whisper, and press my mouth to the curve of her jaw, trailing my lips down to the tender skin just below her ear.
She exhales, shaky and quiet, but her grip tightens instead of loosening.
She is not running.
I carry her inside, to her bedroom within the suite, lit only by the antique sconces and the silver of a rising moon.
Right now, the world feels narrowed down to the places where our bodies touch, where heat gathers, where breath meets skin.
Her wedding dress rustles faintly as I back her toward the armchair near the fire, the hem of it brushing over the rug.
I slip a hand behind her back and find the zipper.
Sowly, I slide the zipper down, watching her lashes flutter as her body tenses beneath my touch.
The silk falls away like it was waiting to be asked.
Gianna lets out a low breath, and I step back just enough to drink her in.
The dress slips past her hips, pooling at her feet, leaving her in nothing but pale lingerie that should not look this innocent.
Her skin is gold where the moonlight touches it, her stomach soft from childbirth in a way that makes my hands ache to touch it.
She has never looked more like a queen and more like mine.
"You’re staring," she says, trying to fold her arms, suddenly self-conscious.
"Yeah. And I’m not stopping," I answer, stepping forward again.
My hands find her hips and I guide her back into the chair.
She lets me.
Maybe because she's tired of being in control, or maybe because some part of her knows I need this.
I kneel in front of her, not because I want to worship her, but because I need to taste her, to know that she is real and that she is letting me in.
My fingers slide slowly up her thighs, watching the way her legs shift.
I want her impatient.
I want her trembling.
I want her to forget everything except what it feels like to be wanted not as a symbol or a strategy, but as a woman.
"Tell me to stop," I say again, voice lower now, rougher. "And I will."
Her eyes meet mine, wide and uncertain, but she doesn't speak.
She reaches down instead, threads her fingers into my hair, and says, "Don't you dare."
I smile into her skin and kiss the inside of her thigh.
She gasps when I bite her, just lightly, just enough to remind her that this is not about being gentle.
