Page 10 of Claimed By the Mobster
I wonder if he heard me…
My face heats. I bet he’s known all along.
“Just wake someone up!” I hiss. My body is aflame with desire after touching him, and I’m going out of my mind. I cannot stay here. I’ll die of horny embarrassment, which is not the way I wanted to go. I’m trapped with a man who doesn’t want me, who has seen my pyjamas. “You have guards. Get them up here, tell them you’ve been an idiot and dropped the key out of the window, and let me out.”
“No,” he replies in that scary mafia kingpin voice that makes me go still. The tone he uses when he tells me to eat a piece of fruit for breakfast, or finish reading that chapter on leaf morphology before I turn in for the night. “And you’re not going to scream either. Even if you did, they wouldn’t do as you asked, because they work for me.”
Usually, he uses that voice and I go to mush. It makes me instinctively obey. I do whatever he says because it’s so dominant. A dark, rough growl that vibrates through my body.
And yeah, it does all that delicious vibration this time too, but I’m pissed.
“You can’t just kidnap me and hold me prisoner,” I seethe.
“Yes. I can,” he replies implacably.
“No!” I grab fistfuls of his shirt and force him around to look at me, and in my still partially dozy lack of spatial awareness, I misjudge the distance between us. The precise gap that we both maintain so carefully. Two inches or a foot, a big enough space that I don’t know what it feels like to touch him.
My front presses to his. My forearms are on his sculpted chest, my breasts touching the top of his abdomen, my hips on his thighs. And nudging at my belly is a solid length.
And suddenly I know he’s not so unaffected.
He’s hard. The significance clubs me around the head.
Benedict Crosse wants me. Me.
I’ve gone six months thinking my inappropriate crush, which worsened week after week, was just that. Unrequited. He’s a powerful man, and he could have anyone. He’s twenty years older than me, experienced and with an air of authority that has me light-headed.
But he’s got an erection, and he has trapped us together in this room for… Well at least a few hours. He looks like he sat by my bedside while I slept off whatever they drugged me with. And suddenly, I don’t want to leave. I think I’m in exactly the place I should be.
I boost onto my tiptoes and lean into his warmth. Oh god his cock feels so big. I squirm a little and I’m gooey between my legs.
“We’re going to be together all night, Ben.” I dare to use his name. “Tell me why they were after me.”
He swallows and shuts his eyes. “Because you are precious to me.”
Precious. I’m dizzy with that one word.
I’mprecious.
He killed a man who was trying to hurt me. My insecurities could find plenty of reasons to doubt this, but I don’t let them. Fingers crossed for foolhardy.
I pull on his shirt, dragging him down. For a second he’s immovable, an oak tree versus a hummingbird. Then with a groan, he lowers his head and takes my mouth.
And when I say takes, I mean that literally. His hand goes to the back of my neck, and his tongue plunders. I’m helpless against the force of his unleashed passion.
As if I’d protest. I try to get closer, to give as good as I get, but he doesn’t give me a chance. Our mouths are sealed together, and he holds me to him, my breasts crushed and heat flaring everywhere across my skin.
He drives me backwards and I think he’s going to push me to the bed, but he pivots so my back is against the door and he’s holding me, braced. He strokes my cheek with his thumb, fingers in my hair and whispers my name like it’s a prayer as he runs his hand up and down my side, teasing against my breast. His body traps me in place, his hard length digging into my belly and I’ve never felt anything so swoony in my life.
“Anwyn, we shouldn’t do this,” he says, then covers my lips again in a punishing kiss. He’s shaking, I realise. He wants me so much he can’t contain his need. That fills me with heady power. All this time I’ve been miserable because he didn’t want me and thought I’d have to grovel for the smallest acknowledgement of his affection. His impersonal protection he gives freely, but this? Up-tight, grumpy Mr Crosse? The head of the most influential and important mafia in London does not lose control.
He does with me.
I’m held as he kisses across my face and down my neck.
“This can’t be happening,” he growls, but doesn’t stop. The sensation of his rough stubble on my jaw makes me weak and heated between my legs.
“Ben, it is,” I whisper, because I’m done with denial. I’ve pined after Benedict Crosse for six months.
