Page 94 of My Mafia King

The thing is, not many men have touched me.

Okay. Let me rephrase that.

Not even Beau Anthony touched me.

We haven’t slept with each other, and most of the things we did together weren’t sexual in nature.

There was a lot of stringing him along.

I’m not going to lie. He was many things to me, but he didn’t put his hands on me.

He thought he’d do it, but he didn’t and was foolish enough to believe me. No wonder he resents me because I didn’t want to sleep with him. The man considers me his property.

He had blue balls because of me more times than he could count and a long list of grievances with me.

He must’ve felt duped. And he was.

Also, male hands on my body hadn’t happened before Beau.

There were boys before him, but kisses leading to nothing wouldn’t count.

I couldn’t let them do their thing. I had an innate distrust for men and disliked the idea of being physical with them.

Doing that with anyone was a big deal for me.

Yet this is not that. I mean, this could happen at the airport. Right?

But no matter how I spin it, this done by Damaso is an entirely different matter.

So, no wonder my nails scrape the wall, and my legs shake when he pulls up behind me, and his body heat rolls over me.

Electrical currents zip through my skin while his body heat makes me sweat despite the air conditioning in the room.

It’s like the air between us has created a magnetic field that pulls us toward each other and me back into his chest.

A mix of fear, anticipation, and unfamiliar titillation sweeps through me.

I’ve been close to him before.

I asked him to stay with me last night so I could sleep.

He lay on the bed next to me, and his hand rested on my head.

I felt things back then. A lot of things, but nothing of this nature. I felt protected and calm, while now I’m tense and almost aroused.

Being aroused is not something I’ve thought about lately.

When you’re in the middle of an endless existential crisis, there is no space in your head for things like this.

The stress of living robs you of the pleasure of living. It’s a known fact.

But fear and sexual pleasure are odd cousins, the first one occasionally fueling the second one.

And then there’s the other man in the room. I don’t know if he gets a kick out of this. Maybe he does.

Hey, things could’ve been much worse had he patted me down.

Damaso leans down a little, moves his hand up my skirt, and starts between my knees.

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