Page 11 of Claimed By the Mobster
“We mustn’t.” But this time, he stops, slamming his palms on the door both sides of my head. “I can’t betray…”
“No one will ever know.” I’m not saying my ex’s name right now, and I think Ben doesn’t want to either.
“Fuck…” He dips his head and closes his eyes. A pulse beats fast in his neck.
There’s a long moment and for all the time I can see him fighting with himself. His sense of honour battling with his desire.
He eases back and I restrain a sob. No. No…
His eyes catch me as I’m falling into despair.
“Just tonight.”
My heart does an awkward, flopping flight. A swoop of happiness and a slam down onto hard ground. A young bird trying to fly. He wants me, but only for one night.
I nod, quick. Eager.
“No one can ever know. Especially not my son.”
The hurt that I’m something dirty, that he’d be ashamed of being with me, is another test flight for my fledgling heart. A secret is deliciously naughty. His. Private and cherished.
But the reference to his son? Ow. Stubbed toe and period cramps levels of ouch.
“One night, to get it out of our systems,” I say, because that sounds worldly and experienced. In fact, it’s just something I’ve read in romance books.
He sighs deeply, as though this arrangement is causing him considerable inconvenience. Well, listen up buddy. I’m inconvenienced by him being a mafia lord and kidnapping me and keeping me captive, not to mention wanting him for the past six months. We all have to deal with the challenges life throws at us.
“I’m too old and dangerous for you, Anwyn,” he grinds the words out, rough and low. “Say no, as you should, and I’ll tuck you back under the covers and sit by your side as you sleep.”
I trail my fingers down his chest. “Give me a reason to stay awake.”
He nods slowly. “Get on the bed.”
4
BENEDICT
She scrambles to obey my barked command.
I don’t allow myself to think about how wrong us acting on our attraction is as I look at her. All the reasons this is taboo are faded, a distant hum compared to the immediacy ofher. Eagerly climbing onto my bed, waiting for me. And I can’t deny that when I don’t remember exactly why this is wrong, the lure of the forbidden makes her all the more appealing.
“So beautiful,” I murmur as I sink down to sit on the bed before her. We have all night, so I gaze into her eyes and curl a blonde tendril around my finger. Incredibly soft. Her expression is trusting now, open and curious.
I sweep my hand into the silk of her hair, and gently draw her to me.
Our lips meet. A questioning, slow kiss, this one. A prelude of music, testing both players. Hot breath and supple skin. Everything about her is soft. The skin of her cheek is a contrast to my own as our mouths brush. Where I’m harsh, she’s yielding.
I’m slow in deepening our kiss. First coaxing her mouth open, then dragging my lips over to dally at her cheeks. By the time I slip my tongue in to touch hers, she’s whimpering and has crept forwards. Sweet, so sweet.
Drawing her to sit over my lap I allow myself to roll my hips, my aching shaft pressing into the yielding part of her belly.
Her hands find the back of my neck and my shoulders, timidly exploring and anchoring herself as our kiss intensifies.
I’ve never been so turned on by a mere kiss. It’s because she’s Anwyn: the sexiest woman I’ve ever met, and the bravest. From turning up at a mafia boss’ home because she needs refuge, to taking kidnap and being drugged in her stride, with no screaming or panic, Anwyn is stronger than most people twice her age.
I’ve had almost a whole day to absorb that my innocent girl has a tattoo of leaves over her breast, peeking out from her strappy top. I’ve been entranced by the revelation of her hidden self since I saw it when I laid her into my bed. So pretty, and clearly a reference to her study of plants as well as a rebellion. I love it and I’m desperate to see it all.
I can barely breathe as I lift off her tease of a camisole and reveal her glorious chest and the rest of her tattoo. I stroke my palm over the black ink first, admiring the art she chose before the beauty she was born with. The continuation of the pattern is fronds pointing down to her nipple, finely worked and elegant. I trace the design, then go where it leads: her breasts.
