Page 1 of Claimed By the Mobster
1
ANWYN
Even though it’s dark and pouring with rain, I hesitate before climbing the steps to the imposing London townhouse. With the orange glow of streetlights, shiny black tarmac, and low dark sky flickering around me, I run through my options again. I search desperately for a better alternative than throwing myself at the mercy of my ex-boyfriend’s dad.
Cold water seeps between my toes and fogs my brain. Mr Crosse was always kind to me, in an offhand way. He’s a bigger, grumpier, intimidating version of his son. Generous too, encouraging Tom to treat me with gifts and telling me I was welcome here anytime. He meant as Tom’s guest, I suppose.
I’m testing that statement tonight.
Who else have I got who I can ask? I’ve walked miles across London and cannot afford pride. I mount the steps and press the bell, huddling a bit as a gust of wind tries to snatch my hood and succeeds in plastering it against my face. Ugh. December in London is miserable.
As the door opens, I ready the speech I prepared on the walk over. All about how I know Mr Crosse—or rather his son Tom—and please would they let Mr Crosse know I’m here and why I need his charity in the form of a bed for the night.
“Miss Kendrick.” Framed by the yellow light, Mr Crosse takes up the whole doorway and my throat goes dry. My lips are gummed together. The carefully crafted speech slices into my tongue.
He remembers me. Even as a drowned rat in a waterproof coat, he knows who I am?
My eyes take a second to adjust from him being a massive shadowed presence, to a man I’ve seen many times.
But none of them like this. I saw he was handsome before, but only in an abstract way. I didn’twanthim. My core didn’t tingle. Somehow I missed Mr Crosse’s raw sexuality.
He’s dressed in a dove grey shirt undone at the neck and rolled to the elbows, revealing muscled forearms with a dusting of black hair. But his face. I don’t know how I didn’t see how handsome he is, how aggressively masculine he is with his stubble, hard jawline, and severe nose. How did I ever breathe when he was around? I guess he was just my boyfriend’s dad.
But he’s not anymore.
He stands back, silently inviting me inside. I follow him into the house. I haven’t been here for two years, since Tom and I left school and went to university. He broke up with me in our first term apart. We’re still friends. We were just friends, really. Never even kissed properly. I tried, but Tom only hugged me and gave a peck of a kiss. I think he liked the symbol of a girlfriend and the reality of a friend.
The Crosse house is just as understated traditional luxury as I remember. Thick wallpaper in creams and blues, with intricate patterns of leaves, flowers and birds. And I’m standing here, in my cheap waterproof and yoga pants that are soaked over the thighs.
Kill me now.
“Sorry.” I shrink back, dripping on the front mat.
Mr Crosse takes me in, a sweeping look from my soaking canvas shoes to my hood, covering the strands of beige hair that worked out of the ponytail as I walked.
“Tom’s not here.”
“I know,” I whisper miserably. I would have texted him if he was, but we’ve sort of lost touch recently. He’s always too busy to talk to me now.
I meet Mr Crosse’s gaze, expecting to find distaste in the grey eyes he gave to Tom, but no. It’s not that. Just a curiously intense expression.
I’m shedding water everywhere. I shouldn’t have come, it was a humiliating mistake. “I’ll go—”
“Best get you out of those wet clothes,” he interrupts as he reaches out and draws down the zip of my waterproof.
My breath clogs in my throat.
It’s nothing. Only him undoing my coat, but I’m peeled like a banana. Exposed and my cheeks heating, as he grasps the lapel and slowly lifts it.
He hasn’t touched me. He’s totally respectful and appropriate as he helps me out of the soaked garment. He’s not interested in a girl half his age with no experience, who used to date his son. It’s me who is being weird. My body is bubbly all of a sudden. I’m a bottle of fizzy pop that has been sitting on the shelf, inert and dull, then seeing Mr Crosse has unscrewed the cap. There’s sensation everywhere. Little crackles as Mr Crosse’s eyes glide over me, bursts of awareness of my clothes on my skin.
Wet yoga pants are not erotic. They aren’t. Just objectively. But my pussy is defying that law of physics and is heating as Mr Crosse eases my coat from my shoulders. The bedraggled garment is hung up while I watch, so confused and turned on, I can’t bring myself to say or do anything but press my thighs together.
“Come.” He turns and strides away and I’m left trotting to catch up. We twist through the house to a room I’ve never been in. It’s a cosy library and I barely repress a gasp. The walls are covered with dark wood bookshelves and a table has old maps unfolded. Flames flicker in a large fireplace and two plush chairs are placed on either side. Mr Crosse gestures to one chair and folds his massive body into the other, taking a glass of amber liquid from a side table and swirling it thoughtfully.
I sink into the seat and struggle to begin my explanation of why I’ve turned up at his house. But instead of a coherent story, what emerges is, “I need somewhere to stay for tonight.”
Mr Crosse nods slowly, goes to take a sip of his drink. Whisky? But he stops as the glass touches his lips, lowering it again and swallowing hard. His hand encompasses that chunky glass—I bet it’s crystal—like it’s nothing. A toy. But I can see it would be solid if I lifted it.
