“So.”
Her eyes drop to my mouth then slowly move back up. “We should probably talk about?—”
Fuck talking.
I pull her close and press my lips to hers, swallowing whatever she was about to say.
It’s hot, hungry, and intense, nothing like the kiss on the bridge. That kiss was more of a question. This one's a statement of exactly what I want, what I’ve been craving.
And judging by the way she clings to me, her fingers digging into my back like she’s afraid I’ll disappear, she wants it, too. I back her toward the couch. She falls back onto the massive cushion, pulling me down on top of her. She gazes up at me through her dark lashes and trails her fingertips down the side of my face, staring at me for a long second before the lust wins out.
“Lochlan—” she breathes against my mouth.
Her back arches, her hips thrusting toward me. Her fingers find the hem of my shirt, and she yanks it up over my head then tosses it to the floor.
“I’ll stop if that’s what you want,” I say, leaning over her. My heart punches a hole in my chest as seconds tick past, my body about to spontaneously combust. But I’ll pack all that away if she says the word. I need her, but what I need more is for her to be in this with me.
Her eyes glitter as she gazes up at me. “No,” she whispers. “Don’t you dare stop. I want this.” She pauses. “I want you.”
I don’t need an engraved invitation to keep going.
My lips travel down the side of her jaw and throat, savoring her inch by inch.
Fuck, how does she smell so good even after a run in the summer heat?
When I tease the spot below her ear that makes her gasp, she doesn’t disappoint. Her moan goes straight to my cock, making it throb as it presses into her.
Her hands go for the waistband of my shorts. She loops her finger into the elastic and tugs them down when a sharp ringtone stops us cold.
“Ignore it,” I say, my mouth humming against her skin.
She hesitates, her hands still on my shorts. It rings again. And fucking again.
“It could be Luna or my mom. Or the hospital,” she murmurs. “I have to take it.”
Shit. She's right.
I pull back. She fumbles for the phone in the pocket of her leggings and checks the screen. Her whole body tenses. Her eyes find mine. My heart deflates. The glimmer of desire that glowed bright only seconds ago is gone.
Motherfucker.
“It’s Vincenzo.”
Talk about a total dick deflator. She lets me go and sits up on the couch, straightening her ponytail, tugging down her shirt. Taking a deep breath, she squares her shoulders, preparing herself for whatever he’s about to tell her.
She clicks to answer the call. “Hi, Zio. What's wrong?” she asks.
A pause follows.
“When?”
Another pause. Then her jaw tenses so hard, her teeth might crack. “I'll be there in twenty minutes.”
She hangs up and covers her face with her hands. “Those fucking bastards.”
“What happened?”
“Moretti's, the restaurant on Hanover Street, was attacked. They’re closed today but when Sonny Moretti went in to do some paperwork, he saw the damage.” She's already on her feet, moving toward the bedroom. “It was the Russians. They trashed the whole place and left a message on the wall."
