Page 9 of Claimed By the Mobster
Of all the humiliating times for my massive crush on Mr Crosse to emerge from my mouth.
I told him he was handsome.
I asked him tokissme.
I close my eyes. Maybe it would have been better to be kidnapped by Mr Crosse’s rivals, dumped at sea with hungry sharks, or stranded in a jungle with a ravenous panther. I’m wearingpale pinkpyjamas. Something wild and dangerous eat me now, please.
No, I mean, not like that, and yet, yes, like that. Ugh. My brain.
“Fine.” I roll out of bed. From about a thousand angles this is something I’d prefer to forget.
“What are you doing?” And there’s a note of genuine panic in his words.
“I’m going home.” My legs aren’t wobbly, just a bit out of practice, but I get to the door. I yank it open one inch before Mr Crosse reaches me and slams it shut, trapping me between his forearms, his towering body, and solid wood.
“You’re not leaving,” he growls.
Heat flares over my skin as he looks down at me, and I look over my shoulder at him. I want the kingpin so much. My nipples pebble, and I’m half a second from climbing him like a particularly attractive tree.
I practically drooled over him last night. And yeah, I’m doing it again. My cheeks flush.
“Let me go.”
“It’s dangerous.”
It is here too. The warmth of his breath on my neck makes me weak. I turn in his arms, tilt my chin, and look up into his face. “Then give me a reason to stay.”
His jaw clenches and a frisson of fear goes down my back. Fear of what nearly happened last night and that if I leave here there’s no option but to give up everything I’ve built in London—my degree and my modest little job in the coffee shop. Chats with my fellow barista, Lina, and the happiness and fun and quiet companionship of being with Benedict, because he’s right that another London mafia is after me. Fear that Benedict hasn’t got anything more than the most tepid, cool emotion towards me when I burn every night. When I can’t sleep for wanting him. Or worst of all, that maybe this isn’t one-sided, but he won’t confess his feelings out of loyalty to his son. That Tom is more important than I will ever be to him.
“I can’t, Wyn. I can’t.” He leans closer, holding my gaze, a mixture of longing and torture. His arms shift until there’s nothing in the world but Benedict, surrounding me. His scent is intoxicating.
“Why not?” I breathe, trying to get all of his smell into my lungs, like I could trap it there.
“You’re my son’s girlfriend—”
“Ex-girlfriend,” I correct him.
“This is wrong.”
I keep piling up mistake upon mistake. Idiot.
I’m not staying here for more humiliation, even if it is entirely my own fault this time. I duck under his arm and pull at the door as there’s a click.
It doesn’t budge, and it’s a second before I see the glint of metal. A key.
“Give me that.”
Benedict goes to pocket it, then as I reach down holds the key above his head, way higher than I can grasp but instinctively I try, too ashamed and angry to restrain myself. I grab his arm and try to pull his clenched fist to me, and he groans, stepping backwards.
Then he’s across the room, shoving open a window and I’m speechless as he tosses the key out.
A small tinkle says it has reached the ground outside.
“Neither of us can leave now.” For a second I swear he’s going to smile, but immediately his expression is grave again.
I dive to the window, but I already know what I’ll see. This room is adjacent to the one I’ve slept in every Saturday for the last six months. And yeah, two floors below is the patio I’ve spent evenings lounging around on, reading smut and sipping mocktails.
All this time, I slept only a wall away from Benedict.
