Page 47 of Secret Babies for the Italian Mafia Boss

“Camilla,” I whisper her name, pressing my head against the door as she climbs higher, her voice carrying her pleasure, a song I want to hear on repeat forever, and I soak it in.

My fist clenches against the door, and when the lust builds, my lips part, and my breathing becomes erratic. I tighten the grip on my cock, fucking myself harder, imagining her tight cunt, and when I hear her final shout, signaling her orgasm hit her, I fall into a blissful abyss.

I cup my hand over the tip and turn my head to bite my arm as I come. I can’t hold in the groan and half fucking sob that leaves me as I dream of filling her depths with every drop. I catch all of my evidence so she has no idea that while she pleased herself, I was right here wishing we could do it together.

The shower turns off, and I push from the door, hurrying down the hall to the kitchen to wash my hands.

“Damn it,” I curse as I tuck myself into my pants.

I didn’t make her snack.

I got sidetracked.

The door opens, and I hold my breath, turning on the sink so it sounds like I’m doing something productive instead of catching my breath.

“Is everything okay, Luca?”

Fuck, I can still hear how breathless she is from her orgasm.

I swallow, my cock swelling in my pants again. “I’m just preparing a snack for you, as I said. Everything is fine. Get dressed and come to the living room.”

“Okay,” she says, unsure.

She’s so close, only steps away, getting undressed. She’s pure temptation, a living memory created to haunt me.

I’m completely haunted by our past and lost in the daydream of our future.

Opening her fridge, I gather some fruit, veggies, cheese, a jar of olives, and pickles. An idea forms, and I study her sauces, noticing special gourmet jams. Placing everything on her linoleum countertop, which I’ll fix, only the best granite for my Beautiful Girl, I searched for the cutting board.

It takes a few minutes to chop and slice; then, every piece has perfect placement on the wooden board. Noticing a baguette near the microwave, I cut that too and toast it in the toaster oven sitting to the left of the stove.

“Perfect.” I grab two sparkling cans of water from the fridge and head into the living room, preparing the coffee table for her feast.

I fluff the pillow and grab a blanket for her, then sit down, the couch giving under my weight.

My leg bounces as I wait for her. What’s taking so long? I can’t remember the last time I sat down with someone I was truly interested in and just…sat.

I’m so used to a fast-paced life. Something always needs to be done; someone always needs to be made an example, and people who work for me need to be paid.

All that takes time.

An empire doesn’t run itself, but the second I saw her bakery catch fire, I dropped everything. Nothing could get me to leave.

I hear soft footsteps padding against the floor, and when she enters the living room, her wet hair is plopped on top of her head, her face is clean of soot and makeup, and she’s in pajamas. Purple sweatpants and a shirt that is three times her actual size. It falls to her knees.

She looks perfect.

“I know,” she sighs, tugging on the hem of her shirt. “But big shirts are my favorite.”

“That’s good to know.” She can have all of my shirts. She’ll never have to buy another one again.

She takes the seat next to me, and her leg brushes mine. There’s an awkward moment that passes between us before we laugh, and another blush tints her cheeks.

“You’re beautiful,” I say to her, brushing my thumb back and forth in the curve where her shoulder meets her neck.

She doesn’t say anything. Camilla changes the subject instead, pointing to the food. “What’s all this?”

This is what I can put together last minute because I jacked off to hearing you moan my name on the other side of the bathroom door.

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