Page 15 of Claimed By the Mobster
ANWYN
I should have slept soundly after all the terror and drugging stuff. And I do. But it’s punctuated by the feeling of Benedict’s warmth and his hard frame. When I awoke, he did too, his mouth finding mine, languid and sweet, and his hands skimming down my body. I don’t know how many times he fingered me to orgasm last night.
A lot.
I’ve had many unexpected wakings in the last forty-eight hours, but this one is the best. Ben is asleep. I get to look at him, up close. The sheet is around his waist and he’s naked, sprawled on his back, one arm loosely clasping my shoulder.
I carefully lever up onto one elbow, moving slowly so as not to wake him. My kingpin is even more gorgeous than I had realised and I catalogue each part. The black stubble that covers his jawline and down to the protrusion of his Adam’s apple. His eyes are closed, long lashes fanned on his cheeks. The eyebrows which are usually pinched down in a scowl are relaxed. The lines of silver at his temples glint. His chest is gloriously naked.
That happy trail… Ugh so good. Dark hair down his sculpted abdominals like that should be illegal. He’s practically a honeytrap. Irresistible physically, but add in his smooth dark voice, the way he told me I’m his good girl, gives me dinner, and listens to everything I say, I’ve no chance. And I’d be lying if his power wasn’t heady. He’s the most noteworthy mafia boss in London. The man everyone looks to for permission to do anything.
And he wants me. A nothing-special girl with no family, who likes books way too much and is a bit—alright a lot—of a nerd.
My first proper kiss. My lips are tingly and plump from the force of his passion. The ones on my mouth, yes, and also the lips at my core. Benedict Crosse demanded I ride his face until I came, and I did it.
Who is this Anwyn, because I’m pretty sure she’s not me.
Or, a little voice suggests,maybe this is you, and no one else has ever seen you like he does.
The daring voice that could get me into trouble.
I run my hand down his chest, tracing the soft and wiry hair of that happy trail.
The sheet has a lump in it. His cock. My mouth waters as my fingers brush back the fabric, so near to touching him as I’ve longed to do. Finally.
“Anwyn.” A dangerous snarl, and Ben traps my wrist between his palm and his belly. “That’s enough.”
“I can make you feel good,” I say, desperation beating in my heart. I can’t leave him, having made me twist up with pleasure, hard and unsatisfied. He has to break apart too. “I want to lick you.”
“It’s morning.”
I don’t understand why his tone is harsh and why that’s significant for a moment.
Then it rushes back.
He’s my ex’sdad. This is taboo. Wrong.
No. I don’t accept that, and he doesn’t want this to be over. I can tell by the gravel in his voice.
“It’s still the night if we haven’t got out of bed yet,” I try, rubbing my thumb over his skin.
For a second our eyes meet, and I swear I see the world reflected back to me. He’s trying for stern and unfeeling, but there’s a tumult of pain and desire in his expression.
Then he shutters, a wall of black onyx crashing between us. “One night, Anwyn.”
He puts my hand away from him and rolls off the bed, stalking across to a wardrobe where he’s pulled on boxers and is buttoning a shirt before I catch up.
“That’s it?” I whisper.
“Yes.” He doesn’t look around.
“We’re going to pretend nothing happened?”
“No one can know.”
I’m dried out and brittle, dead. I’m a leaf cut from a tree, wilted, scorched, then crushed beneath Benedict Crosse’s well-shod heel.
Fuck him.
