Page 86 of The Mafia Enforcer's Temptation
“Who the fuck knows.” He looks around. “Intimidation, I suppose. This club’s used by all kinds of organized crime groups. But usually, it’s the top dogs. None of the smaller families tend to get invited into the membership circle. Unless they’re rich. Powerful.”
Romanov. Did he organize this? I don’t see him, but… I snap my attention to Seamus because there’s no one else to check out. “So how do you know about it?”
“The Murphy organization is small, but we’re rich and powerful. Not to mention to die for hot and charming.” Then he takes my hand again. “Come with me.”
He drags me off, and various clusters of people, as well as a group of men who have impressive mustaches, eye me like meat.
I think I imagine a growl coming from Seamus as he takes me from the opulent and tasteful club room down a hall and through a door. It takes me a few moments to realize where we are.
“Do you have a thing about bathrooms?”
He closes the door as he releases me and leans against it. “I thought you did. But for someone I don’t like very much, I find myself needing to take you into any empty room I can find.”
I swallow hard, unsure how to answer. “I’m not having sex with you in here. I can’t. We can’t. We need to?—”
“Shut up.”
He moves fast, coming at me and grabbing me by the throat and I land against a soft wall that I swear to God is covered in velvet. He thumbs up my chin and presses his hard body against mine.
“Sometimes, sweet thing, you drive me crazy in the wrong way.”
He stares into my eyes and I’m lost, mesmerized. I can’t look away, even if I wanted to. He won’t let me.
“I shouldn’t even be attracted to you, no matter how fucking drop-dead gorgeous you are, no matter how fucking skilled. You’re cold, greedy, and hard. Your walls have walls. I’m not sure you care about anything or anyone other than yourself and yet I’d willingly drop to the ground and worship you.”
His eyes burn a hole into my soul and my knees buckle as he moves in closer, his hands grazing the sides of my throat.
“You’re exactly the kind of creature who was born to rule. You have that. Those men were born into it and didn’t have to try. But you? Fuck, Ava, you turned down money, a husband, protection from Romanov who might have plans to take over your little bratva. It’s that important to a lot of groups. And you want to know how I know?” he asks in that same matter-of-fact voice. “Because when you told me who your bratva was, I wanted it, too. An in. I can see the possibilities it has. The room to grow, to be something bigger than the sum of its parts. And the people out there see the potential I do.”
“You want to take my bratva?” I push out the words because they’re the only ones I trust myself with.
Everything else is too big.
“I’m not an idiot; of course, I do. It’s got possibility beyond what it does. And you know it. That’s not what I’m saying. I’m saying you didn’t give up, and you didn’t go and give it to Romanov in exchange for a cushy life.”
I tilt my head. “You’re not a cushy life?”
“Sweet thing, I’m a life of bad decisions and roller coasters and impossible highs. This isn’t about me. It’s you. Ava, I’m telling you I like you about as much as you like me, but outthere? I’m your number one fan. You’re tough as fucking nails. Are you sure you’re not Irish?”
He lets go of my throat, pulls me against him, and says, “Look at you, you’re dressed to fucking kill in this dress. You look like a modern-day empress.”
And he looks like my emperor.
I swallow those words down before they can hit air.
The black dress with embroidered crystals clings to me, down to the asymmetrical hem that goes from just below my knee to my ankle. The top part plunges to show off cleavage, and the straps are black leather.
I put my hair up, pinning it with some black metal combs I could probably harm someone with, combs I found with the dress and the shoes on the bed after working out in the gym on Seamus’s floor of the brownstone.
He picked them out.
Bought them.
And with him in a black suit, black shirt and tie, black rings on his fingers, he’s dark perfection. I breathe in that scent of his, letting it infuse me down into my bones.
Seamus slides up the skirt and exposes my lace panties to the floor-length mirror we’re in front of. Then he pushes his other hand into my panties and his movements in the reflection, the exquisite sensations that race through me like crazed butterflies, are impossibly enhanced by not seeing anything other than his hand moving under the fabric.
He strokes my clit, sliding a finger into me, thrusting and stroking like he’s stoking a fire.
