Page 113 of Dirty Mafia Torment
“What?”
I hand it to her. “Italian?”
She gives me a strange look. Wild-eyed, like I caught her in a trap. “Yes.”
I keep my tone neutral, playful. “But it’s not pink.”
“I hate pink.”
Now that makes me smile. “You do?”
“Loathe the color. Almost as much as my father does.”
I throw my head back and laugh. Jesus, she’s one of a kind. “You’re a piece of work, know that?”
“So I’ve been told.” She smirks, and the weird vibe between us dulls. “Though considering how Carlo died, I’ve grown fonder of the color.”
I cock my head. “How did he die again?”
She frowns, confused. Because she clearly heard me talking to Dante about this. “Allergic reaction.”
“Right.” I wink at her. “And then you fled, executing a brilliant escape plan.”
She rolls her eyes. “Brilliant because you suggested it?”
I open my mouth to say yes because I’m a cocky fucker. But I placed a lot on chance back then and am well aware things couldhave turned out differently. “Glad you took my advice, Fina. You’re safe here under my protection.”
She is about to remind me it’s fucking Dante who is protecting her.
I turn away to retrieve her dirty dress.
When I return, she’s holding a hay bale.
I scowl. “Going somewhere?” I demand, not wanting her to leave.
“To bed.”
“You’re naked.”
She shrugs.
I look her up and down, knowing without seeing. “With my come dripping down your thighs.”
God help me. She hitches the hay bale to her hip, then touches herself only to confirm I’m correct.
I feel like pounding my chest and howling at the fucking moon. “I’ll allow you to leave?—”
“You’ll allow me …”
“If you don’t wash it off.”
My dick hardens, loving the idea. It’s not as good as my initial imprinted on her skin but good enough.
“Deal.”
What. The. Fuck?
“If you don’t wash my juices dried on your face.”
