Page 129 of My Mafia King

The sun makes his wristwatch gleam as he walks toward me, the bright light highlighting his tanned skin, raven hair, and the artistic edges of his tattoos.

I have a feeling he purposely evades my eyes, and he might be doing it because he has something to hide.

I’m curious, so I keep my stare glued to his face.

He edges closer and finally brings his eyes to me.

They narrow against the sun and hold a look that's different than what I routinely see on him.

“Things all right?” I ask when he pulls an armchair closer like we’re about to have a talk.

“Yeah, yeah…” he says, although a shred of tension is woven in his voice.

My eyes slide to his chest since his shirt is open at the neckline.

His skin is smooth over his pecs.

“I saw you talking on the phone. Is everything all right?” he asks, gesturing at my phone.

“Yes. Everything is fine.”

“Your sister?”

“She’s fine, too.”

My voice is less upbeat this time, and my eyes trail away from his.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. She misses me. And I miss her too,” I say, bringing my eyes back to him, and I catch him looking at my body.

Suddenly, my swimsuit feels too small, covering too little, and his eyes are way more powerful than the sun, creating a small outburst of thermal energy across my skin.

I get hot in a weird way. Something that is very unfamiliar to me, and it doesn’t help that he looks away.

When he does that, I want his eyes to come back to my body and undress me. Even more than I’m already undressed.

I don’t only want his eyes.

My gaze tilts to his hands. The same hands that he moved over my body when he parted my thighs that night with his touch and grazed the side of my breasts with his fingers.

Everything he did to me is still carefully preserved in my memory next to a beautiful image of him. A snapshot of how he is right now

Sexy, powerful, and dressed to impress.

Suddenly, he’s out of words, or maybe he’s having a hard time keeping his eyes away from the small triangle of fabric between my thighs and the matching triangles concealing my breasts.

The wind blows, and my hair swoops over my face.

His hand comes to my cheek as I try to brush my hair back, and I get invaded by his smell.

It’s so predictably sultry, and I know I shouldn’t think about this.

This is not the time to get infatuated with this man.

I can’t even think about him touching me. If that happened, I’d be drowning in happiness. Maybe happiness is not the word, but I don’t have a better one to describe it.

What Damaso’s touch does to my skin fuels something wild and dark inside me.

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