Page 23 of Gardener for the Mafia

“What do you think these are supposed to mean, my king?” I sass, skipping over to the decorative eggs.

I feel his eyes tracking my every step, even though I’m just wearing a T-shirt and pants, nothing fancy, and yet his eyes take me in as though I’m wearing the fanciest dress in the universe.

“Mean?” he chuckles grimly. “I think they’re supposed to just make the place look nice. Anyway, what’s this king business?”

“What?” I fire, spinning on him. Sunlight shines through the closed drapes behind me, filling the room with a warm glow which Lorenzo steps into as he moves forward. “You’re allowed to call me queen, but I can’t call you king?”

He smirks like an unchained beast, as though he’s been locked in a cage all his forty-two years and now he’s finally smashed the bars and tore them to pieces.

And now he’s free, I’m the only thing he wants, needs.

He stalks right over to me and his smell envelops me, sharp cologne intermingling with the deeper, more primal scent of his seed, a sharp tangy bite that fills the air and makes my nipples tingle and harden, makes my sex flood and my lips buzz with the anticipation of receiving him.

“I need you,” he says, reaching for my cheek. “I’d kill any man who tried to take you from me. Not like Diego did, with his pathetic games. But if somebody barged in here right now and tried to take you by force, I’d snap them like a wishbone. I’ll always protect you, Lena. Always.”

I step forward so that my cheek brushes his hand, turning my head and nuzzling against the strength of his fingers. His whole body heaves in his suit when I make a moaning noise, high pitched and breathy, almost song like.

“And I’m going to take you,” he growls. “Now.”

I let out a squeal when he jumps at me and wraps both his arms around me, smashing me against the sheer rock solidity of his form. I stand on my tiptoes and reach up to find his lips, our mouths infusing as our lips split open and our tongues clash and come apart only to clash harder.

Nerves tingle and dance up and down the surface of my tongue, around my mouth, captivating me in the miniature explosion of a dying stair.

Everything sizzles and spins and deep inside I feel my hymen going tight and creamy. My hole flutters and my belly gets warm and fuzzy, screaming at me to sit down on his massive length, to let the lust in my body guide me.

No more doubt.

No more second guessing.

No more what if.

This just is, and I’d have it no other way.

Our desire takes us dance stepping toward the bed. I run my hands up his broad muscled back and over the fierce tendons of his neck, and then through the moon silver of his hair. I drag my fingernails down his scalp, gasping in the kiss.

He grabs my shoulders and pushes me softly, sending me backward on the bed.

“I need to see you completely naked,” he breathes, his dark eyes roaming over me in captivation. “Every inch of you bare like a blank canvas, ready for me to paint you in any damn way I want.”

He grabs the waistband of my jeans, tangling up my underwear in his meaty paws, and then drags both down in one brutal movement. I giggle and writhe as the material brushes achingly against my sex. My clit tingles and glows. My lips scream with the friction heavy contact.

“Take off your shirt,” he commands. “And your bra. Now.”

“Bossy,” I tease.

But really I delight in sitting up and stripping off my T-shirt and then reaching around to unclip my bra. A note of shame threatens to sting me, but only for a moment.

When I see how Lorenzo eyes stare at me, at every part of me, lust replaces the shame with flaring brightness. Lorenzo’s dark orbs glint with desire as they move from my neck, over my breasts, to my belly and then down to my pussy.

Every single piece of me – even those parts I thought men would hate – he drinks in, reaching down to slide a hand up and down the front of his pants.

“Fuck,” he whispers, snatching his hand away before he loses control. “I need to be inside of you. I feel my seed roaring at me in my mind.”

“I feel the same,” I say, rubbing my legs together as wetness smears between my thighs. “Not your seed. My womb. It’s fucking yelling, Lorenzo.”

He stumbles onto the bed and tears his clothes off. I reach up and help him, popping buttons and sending them flying to the floor. I throw his suit jacket across the room and it knocks over the weird egg decorations, sending them cascading across the room with a click, click, click as the jewels hit the hardwood floor.

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