Page 14

I part my lips, sucking his fingers clean, and the flavor of my own arousal mixed with the salt of his skin is the most erotic thing I’ve ever experienced. He watches me with heavy-lidded eyes, his jaw tight with restraint.

“Now,” he says, his voice a low rumble that vibrates through my chest. “It’s my turn.”

He guides my hand to the front of his riding pants, pressing my palm against the hard ridge of his cock. I can feel how big he is, straining against the fabric, and a flutter of nervousness stirs in my stomach. I’ve never done this before, and it makes me feel so painfully aware of my own inexperience.

“Unzip me,” he instructs.

My fingers fumble with his zipper. I can feel him watching every clumsy movement, but he doesn’t rush me. Just waits with that terrifying patience of his. Finally, I free him, and his cock springs heavy and thick into my hand. He’s burning hot, and I have no idea what to do with something this size.

“Wrap your hand around me,” he says, his voice strained now, his control finally cracking. “Tight. Like you mean it.”

I grip him, my hand barely closing around his girth, and give an experimental stroke. He hisses, his hips jerking forward.

“Faster,” he growls. “And twist your wrist on the upstroke. Yes,” he hisses, “just like that.”

I find a rhythm, awkward at first. Then smoother as I learn what makes his breath catch, what makes his fingers dig into my hips. He’s leaking already, the tip wet and slick. I use the moisture to ease the friction, spreading it down his shaft with each pass.

“Look at me,” he demands. “Don’t look away.”

I lift my eyes to his, and the intensity there steals my breath. He’s watching me like I’m the only person in the world, like my hand on his cock is the most important thing he’s ever felt. It makes me bold. I tighten my grip, speed up my strokes, and his head falls back, a groan tearing from his throat.

“Fuck, Bella. You’re going to make me come. You want that? You want me to spill all over your pretty hands?”

I nod, my mouth dry, my heart hammering.

“Then finish it. Make me come.”

I work him harder, my arm burning, my focus entirely on the man in front of me. His breathing turns ragged, his hips jerking into my fist. Then he groans my name, his cock pulsing as hot, thick streams spill over my fingers and palm, coating my skin with his release.

His whole body shudders with each pulse until he’s spent and gasping and leaning his forehead against mine. For a moment, we just breathe. The stable smells of hay and horses and sex, and I should feel ashamed, but I don’t. I feel alive. Powerful. His.

Dario lifts his head, his eyes still dark and heavy. He looks down at my hand, at the mess he’s made of me, and a slow, wicked smile curves his lips. “Clean it up,” he murmurs, and there’s no question in it. Only command.

I bring my hand to my mouth, licking his come from my fingers, one by one. The taste is salt and musk and him, and I savor it, my eyes locked on his the entire time. When I’m finished, he leans in and kisses me, deep and thorough, his tongue sweeping through my mouth like he’s tasting himself on me.

He breaks the kiss slowly, his thumb tracing my swollen lower lip.

“Now you know what we taste like together,” he whispers. “Remember it. That’s what surrender tastes like, Katya. And you’re going to be craving it soon enough.”

My heart stutters at the truth in his words. Because I already am. Nothing about Dario seems to allow my heart to behave normally anymore. He brushes a strand of hair from my cheek, his touch unexpectedly gentle after the intensity between us.

I step back before I can do something stupid, like tell him how much I’m beginning to like him. “I should get back to work.”

Chapter Four

Dario

I should leave her alone.

That would be the sensible thing to do after what happened this morning, but I have never been accused of being a sensible man when I want something. And I want Katya Petrov with an intensity that is beginning to piss me off.

I help her straighten her clothes, watching the way her fingers tremble slightly when they brush mine. The reaction does something dangerous to my self-control, especially because I know exactly why she is trembling.

I am thirty-eight years old. I’ve been in the mafia since I was twelve and vowed to my grandfather that I would avenge my parents’ deaths. I know many ways to kill a man, and in recent years I’ve chosen the neater route: putting a bullet through their brains.

When I was younger, I was angrier and had less control. My ways were brutal and I was feared. It created a reputation for me in Italy, one that I encouraged because it meant that nobody could get close enough to betray me or have me rely on them.

And when I moved to the States to establish a new branch for the family in LA, I quickly realized that I needed control and a more sensible approach to keep attention away from me. Romance or love has never been in the cards for me, despite the loneliness I feel now and then.