Page 52 of Wounded King
I don't think we're going to make it through the appetizers. Only one thought keeps me rooted to my spot. When I fuck her for the first time, I want it to be inmybed, not in a public restaurant or bathroom— though this evening, both options have crossed my mind. I want her inmyworld undermycontrol.
I don't taste a damn thing. It could've been cardboard for all I know. All I can think about is the way her lips wrap around that bite, and how much I want them somewhere else.
Somehow, we make it through the appetizers without me snapping and carrying her to the nearest dark corner. I search for a topic that will distract me from my throbbing dick and the sight of the mounds of her breasts poking through the material of her blouse.
"Do you still want to be a nurse?" I ask, swirling my wine, "Or is it just a stepping stone until the real dream kicks in?"
Her eyes flash, playful, knowing. She's fully aware I'm changing the subject. She just doesn't mind letting me squirm a little.
"I'm not sure," she says with that subtle smirk of hers. "I might use the absurd amount of money you're paying me to finally buy a fixer-upper. You know… live out my HGTV fantasy."
I raise a brow, pleased by her sass. "Absurd, huh?"
"I would've taken the job for less," she teases, sipping her wine. "But I wasn't about to correct you."
Her tongue flicks across her bottom lip, and I fight the urge to groan. Then she tilts her head, all innocent mischief and glowing confidence. "And you? Are you still happy being a mafia boss?"
I choke. Literally. The olive I just tossed in my mouth goes halfway down the wrong pipe. I cough, clearing my throat, narrowing my eyes at her while she blinks at me, pure sugar and sin.
Is she serious? Or is she challenging me? Her gaze holds mine, unafraid. Curious, but with the smallest trace of heat lurking beneath it.
She's baiting me. I can feel it.
I lean in, just a little, and let my voice drop low. "That's a dangerous question, tesoro."
"And yet you're still answering it." She sips again, cool as ice.
I chuckle—dark and slow. "Being a boss has its perks."
"Oh, I don't doubt that," she murmurs. "But does it make you happy?"
Christ.
She's going to make me feel something, isn't she?
Nothing seems real. Not this restaurant, nor the food. It's as if I've fallen asleep, dreaming the best dream of my life. Things like this don't happen in real life. In books and movies, yes. But not out in the world I live in. Still, that's nothing compared to the presence of the man across from me. The flickering light of a single candle, held inside an old-fashioned belly wine bottle covered with the wax of multiple candles that burned out long ago, dances shadows over Marcello's face, making him look sinister one moment and sexy as hell the next.
Over the past few weeks, I've done my research on him. His family is rumored to be involved in extortion and loan sharking. People go missing around them, some forever, some who later turn up in body bags. Aside from the trial currently underway for his dad, there is no tangible evidence tying Marcello or the Orsi family to any of this, but there is no doubt in my mind that Marcello Orsi is a mob boss. He's a bad man. Very bad. Being involved with a man like him is like signing up for a suicide mission, and yet, I cannot take my eyes off him, cannot stop thinking about his hard body on top of mine. Driving his cock into me.
I've touched his body countless times, sometimes in a non-professional way. I've moved his hair back when I didn't need to, caressed his cheek on the rare occasions Luciano would leave the room. Nothing was ever enough. I've wanted more from the moment they wheeled him into my station.
He wouldn't even have to say a word, one simple nod from him, and I would find myself in a shallow grave. The worst part is that I don't care. All I care about is the way my body trembles when he looks at me. The way desire coils low in my stomach just from the sound of his voice. The way my nipples tightened the moment he started feeding me—bite after bite—like he was claiming me with food and fire and quiet control.
And somehow, that heat—thatwant—is louder than my mother's voice in my head.
The one that warned me to stay away. The one that told me he's dangerous. The one that said falling for a man like him could cost me everything.
But right now, I can't hear her.
All I hear is him and my body's desires.
"Like this," his voice brings me back from my reverie, and I remember asking him how he twirled his spaghetti so easily.
He holds up a large spoon for leverage and twirls his fork, curving spaghetti strands, longer than I've ever seen before, around until they are neatly bound.
His fork moves to my mouth, and I automatically open it, allowing him to feed me, which is a good thing, too, because I'm pretty sure my hands are shaking too badly to hold a fork or spoon right now.
True to his word, our table is piled high with dishes, from steaming fish and meat to lasagna, spaghetti, and risotto. He named a few: Ossobuco alla Milanese, Bistecca Fiorentina, and Bottarga, words I could never pronounce that flow like music from his lips.
