Page 3 of Claimed By the Mobster
Then it’s gone, and he unfurls himself, standing so much taller than me. He approaches and my mouth waters. He’s big, and my head is level with his crotch. I could…
Stop it, Anwyn.He won’t ever think of you like that. But my mind does a slideshow of smutty images anyway, blurry as they are since they’re based on books rather than reality.
“I’ll take you to your bedroom now. And in future, when your housemates are having a party, you come here.”
2
BENEDICT
Six months later
I deserve torment.
Don’t get me wrong, I have done many bad things in the pursuit of power and I’m sure I have a penthouse in hell waiting for me. Every violent and ruthless action I’ve ordered—I don’t tend to get blood on my hands directly anymore, but obviously I used to—marks my soul as much as scars cover my body under this suit. I absolutely should burn for all the dark acts I’ve committed to keep my people safe and my mafia as the foremost in London.
But surely,surely, I do not deserve this.
I wait a moment before I look up as Anwyn hovers in the doorway to my office. I pretend I haven’t given everyone strict orders that from Saturday afternoon to Sunday late morning I am not to be disturbed unless it is a crisis of the highest magnitude.
I feel her eyes on me and it’s this bittersweetness. Anwyn is an angel. Far too young for me. Much too innocent. She’s beautiful and funny and she’s my son’s ex-girlfriend.
“Hello.” I push my keyboard away.
She smiles tentatively. “Hello, Mr Crosse.”
“Benedict.”
“I can’t call you that.” She shakes her head ruefully, as she has a dozen times before.
I wonder if she knows she ought to call me Mr Crosse to keep me at a distance. If she calls me my given name it might be too easy to forget all the reasons Anwyn is forbidden to me. Not just because of her youth and her relationship with my son. No, I was forcibly reminded recently that the other mafias will use anyone I care about to leverage the absolute power I hold over London.
No doubt Marco Brent figured out that I have a soft spot for Anwyn because he has a bride even younger. There’s no such thing as too careful, so I’ve had to become more circumspect in my behaviour towards Anwyn.
But I want her.
From the tips of her honey-blonde hair to her pastel-varnished toes, I can never get enough. A glimpse of her peaches-and-cream skin, like today when she’s wearing a short-sleeved T-shirt, and I’m overwhelmed with the desire to find the places where she’s pink and sensitive, and make her feel good.
I suppose many people long for Saturday night as much as I do. I believe it’s considered something of an opportunity to relax. But it’s not relaxing when Anwyn is with me. She’s a temptation like no other, as she’s curled on the sofa in my office, reading. Not having her with me chips away at my soul, but her presence tests my patience. I thought my self-control was unbreakable until I saw her on the doorstep that night. Fucking egotistical. Every week I hold on by a thread, and manage not to ravage her. Wreck her.
My son’s ex-girlfriend. When I told him about Anwyn coming over because her house is a noisy shit-hole, he thanked me. He sounded surprised, and said to tell her hi, and he’d see her when he was back for the holidays. I think I know the reason he loves her as a friend, but still. She is—or was—his girlfriend and best friend.
Students should have longer terms, the vacations are too damn long. Thankfully Tom had plans for nearly all of it, only staying for a few days between mountain climbing trips with his new friends.
“They started the party early today, huh?” I lean back into my office chair and take in the sight of Anwyn in the doorway. She has her hair down today, falling over the small rise of her breasts. There’s a hint of anxiety in her blue eyes and she nibbles on the plush pink of her bottom lip.
It’s only four o’clock. Anwyn’s visits have crept forward, week by week.
“You don’t mind, do you?” She doesn’t meet my gaze, the whites of her eyes flashing like a wary animal.
I swallow, my throat dusty, and wave her in. “Of course not.”
I love that I get longer with her, and I hate it. Having to control myself even longer is my favourite punishment.
“I brought some work to do while you finish up.” She indicates her armful of books like they’re tickets of admittance and I’ll inspect them.
I did once. Amongst her textbooks about trees was a single paperback with a floral cover. Totally innocuous, and I’d have passed right over it.
But the way she snatched it back, cheeks bright red, and muttered,it’s just a novel, was not innocent. I looked up the title later, and suffice to say, it wasn’tjustanything.
