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Definitely not because I’ve been dying to kiss Jen for basically as long as I’ve been alive.
“Your ring,” I say to Jen. “Don’t forget to touch it if this is too much.”
“If what’s?—”
I turn, using the bulk of my body to crowd her against the side of the restaurant. Her back meets the wall and my hips meet hers. A white-hot flash of arousal makes the pulse in my dick throb as I press against her.
She gasps. “Abel.”
I run my nose up the elegant column of her neck. “Don’t. Forget. The ring.”
She nods, a barely perceptible dip of her head. I glance at her left hand. She’s not touching the band.
It’s all the permission I need.
I’m the furthest thing from a hero. But no one ever said a villain can’t save the day every once in a while.
twelve
. . .
Jen
Mob Wife Era
I am surrounded.
Abel’s scent and his rage and the warm, solid mass of his body. Pinned against the wall, I’m powerless.
And yet the weight of the rock on my finger is an ever-present reminder that I actually have all the power. I say stop, and this enormous man with enormous destructive potential stops.
I say go, and he goes.
Good Lord, I want him togo.
Fireworks explode inside my skin as he runs his nose up and down my neck, scraping it with his beard. This promise of a rough kind of pleasure sends my pulse screaming.
All night, Abel’s touches, his dark looks, have ignited a steady simmer of desire between my legs. Now that desire flares to brilliant, ardent life, the kind that will have me soaked in a handful of heartbeats.
His breath is hot on my skin as he nicks my chin with his teeth. My knee—one, both, I can’t feel my legs—goes out, but Abel is there to catch me, pressing me even more firmlyagainst the wall with his hands on my hips. The shingled siding bites through the thin fabric of my dress, but I don’t care. I need friction.
I need something to distract me from how very real my desire is for my very fake husband.
I donotneed to curl my hand around his nape and work my fingers into his hair. But I do.
I don’t need to look at Abel’s mouth, the slick glide of his tongue over his bottom lip, but I do. Pressure builds in my center.
Do I kiss him? We can get away with this little show without locking lips. Brian just needs to see Abel all over me. It’s dark enough for him to think we’re making out if I turn my head this way and Abel turns his head that way.
But.
Abel’s eyes catch on mine. I can’t read them. All I know is they look especially black. Especially liquid.
My face burns beneath their scrutiny.
Go.
His gaze dips and so does my stomach. He’s looking at my mouth now, and I’m looking at his, and before I know what’s happening, he reallyisturning his head that way, and I reallyamturning my head this way, and I close my eyes because there’s nothing else to do but surrender.
