Page 44 of Protection (Mobsters + Billionaires 2)
“But everybody calls you Edgerton.”
“Not you,” he whispers, pressing his body against my back, snaking his hand across my belly. “You call me Anthony. It’s company policy, remember?”
Oh fuck.
“Not Tony?” I ask, trembling against him.
His hand slides up to my throat, squeezing it gently. “Never Tony.”
Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck.
With my heart rate somewhere in the stratosphere, I shiver and bite back a whine. “Noted. Just Anthony.”
We stand there for a few seconds, his body stiff. I can only imagine the internal battle he’s fighting right now. My visual field is limited to his darkened outline in the windows. He inhales and breathes out, his posture softening, a white flag of defeat. His hold tightens as he lowers his head, and I feel the press of his lips to my hair. I allow myself to melt back against him.
“Anthony…?”
“Only here,” he whispers into the top of my skull. “We can only do this here. Just once, and then we never speak of it again.”
My inner dealmaker, the negotiator, wants to make a counteroffer because once will never be enough. But the desperation in his tone stops me cold, and I wonder how much of his life is spent denying himself again and again. I want to erode those defenses and curl myself around his spine, his heart, less under his skin and more an element of his soul.
Shit, first sand dunes and now an element of his soul? What was in that wine?
Not that it matters. I can’t negotiate with whatever ghost is holding him back, and I can’t deny the offer on the table. It’s going to fuck me up, ruin me for days, and I can’t stop myself.
“The Vienna Exception,” I whisper, my heart simultaneously breaking and soaring.
“Yes,” he affirms into my hair. Rubbing my belly, he prompts, “I need you to ask for it.”
I scramble for words, gasping when his grip on my neck tightens before doing as I’m asked.
“Fuck me, Anthony.”
He takes my shoulders and spins me, slow and deliberate, pushing my back against the glass. We stare into each other’s eyes, and it’s electric. Cupping the back of my head, he leans in, kissing me as I strain up to meet him. It's a simple kiss, no tongue, just his mouth on mine. No big deal. Just him rearranging my entire world with a soft pair of lips.
He pulls back and looks into my eyes. I go to say something, and he kisses me again, only this time more forcefully, less soft. Still simple, and yet not.
I open my mouth to speak, but he kisses me again. This time his tongue demands entrance, plundering every thought from existence. I stand on my tiptoes, needing more. My skin is on fire and my heart beats like a drum, my breath heavy, needy. Willing.
He pulls me closer to him, grinding his cock against my belly, the clothes between us barely mattering. He continues kissing me as his hand lands softly on my ass, squeezing gently over the jean material. I arch into him, pressing my hardness against his thigh, letting him know I’m all in. If we keep going like this, I swear I'll come in my pants.
But he stops. I gawk at him, dumbfounded, speechless. Fuck, he’s so beautiful, so intense I feel his stare down into my soul.
His grin is evil. “Now that I've gotten you to shut up, what else would you like me to make you do?”
I’m breathing like I’ve run a marathon and my toes are curling inside my shoes. My clothing is suddenly way too much for my skin to handle. I want to say something elegant, witty, something to make him laugh and think I'm sexy and cute, but I don't have it in me.
“Come,” I croak. “I want you to fuck me and make me come.”
“Good answer,” he says, scooping me up in one smooth motion. “I can definitely do that.”
