Page 57 of Dirty Mafia King
I swallow hard. How does a violent image like this excite me so much?
His brow furrows, because Lord knows what’s crossed my face.
We stand here. Him gloriously naked and dripping water on the tile. Me clasping the only thing separating us—the loofah.
He’s shameless.
Yet evidently, so am I.
His grunt interrupts the intense moment, and then, without a care for who’s watching or the mess he’s causing, he climbs back into the tub. It takes a few more seconds for him to settle and a few more for me to catch my breath.
“You can begin with my back,” he informs me in a flat tone. As if anything about this exchange is normal.
For him, perhaps it is.
The trio from a few days ago are fresh in my mind. Not that I noticed. Not that I care.
I plunge the sponge deep into the tub, and water splashes everywhere.
A bubble bath. Seriously?
And this bath is scented … with leather and cardamon. Very male. Very mafia-chic.
“You waiting for the water to get cold?”
I smack the sponge between his shoulder blades and he laughs. Deep and sexy, like everything else about him. Swallowing hard, I begin tracing circles across his upper back.
With a sigh, he relaxes.
This pleases him, and my anger fades.
Touching him like this is the second most intimate act in my life, though nowhere close to his finger-fuck. A shiver runs through me at the memory of his hand between my parted thighs.
I bite my lip, my rational side forming a list of the ways this is wrong. Dangerous mafioso boss and soon-to-be father-in-law are tied at number one. Except my irrational side has me leaning in to wash his back.
Faded white scars crisscross his tan skin. Most are thinly lined, but a few angrier scars are raised. Did someone branded him with anX? I draw the loofah over the letter, as though the soapy water combined with the slightest friction will erase his scars.
“Lower.”
I dip the loofah lower. What caused these scars? A control freak like Bastian enjoys dominating others, whether it be for business or pleasure. He’s kinky as hell but definitely not the kind of man who’d self-mutilate. Most likely, an enemy did this? A rival mafioso, who whipped him hard enough to break skin? The temptation to ask is on my lips, but his low hum of pleasure stops me.
I draw a bubbly trail along his spine. Feeling his muscles flex beneath my touch. Enjoying the dips and valleys that lie between. It’s so incredibly wrong how much I’m enjoying this.
Taking care of him.
Pleasing him.
Like I’m stealing a moment, a guilty pleasure that will fade into a memory once I marry his son. But I don’t stop … I can’t. I’ll scrub his back, yet I’ll never wash away our dirty secrets.
Time stills, and silence settles between us. My heart flutters with his every move, my breath catching on his every hum.
“What did you need to speak to me about?” he gruffly asks, the interruption reverberating around the room.
“School,” I quietly reply. “I want your permission to finish my degree online.”
“A degree. In what?”
My spine straightens. “Art history.”
