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Nico strides to the glass doors, throwing them open so that cold, fragrant night air rolls in from the De Rossi grounds. His gray eyes are shadowed, his stubble dark on his jaw, and the navy shirt is open at the collar, the first hint of chest hair peeking through the gap. So freaking handsome.
“You know the real kicker, baby?” Nico’s gathering steam, getting agitated as he rakes up his hair. “It’s all unnecessary, but Santo’s messed up. He can’t see that Raul and Diego and me—he doesn’t need to collect dirt on us. We’re not gonna stage some coup; we’re just plain loyal. Shit, I wouldn’t be surprised if he has a mental file on his baby sister too. It’s fucked up.”
It really is.
Staring out at the gardens, my mobster looks so tired. “He’d never do it, you know. To others, maybe, but not to us. Santo thinks he’s this unreachable ice man, but deep down, that fucker cares.”
Remembering the cool way the mob boss stared down at us in the lobby, I purse my lips. If Nico says so.
“And you’re sure…”
Wow, my throat really hurts. It’s tight and aching, and I wince as I force the words out.
“You’re sure this is what you want? You’re sureI’mwhat you want?”
Finally, Nico stares at me properly, eyes hard. “What the fuck are you saying, Leah? Of course I’m sure. I’m not leaving you out there unprotected, alright? You’remine.”
His.
My belly swoops, and I smooth down the front of my sleep shirt as the mobster prowls closer, throwing off his morbid mood like a heavy coat. He circles me like prey, and all my senses prickle to life.
“This other stuff is all bullshit, okay?” Nico tugs gently on a lock of my hair; he leans in and sniffs my neck, humming with satisfaction. He’s so freaking primal as he circles me, and it heats my blood. “Don’t get distracted with Santo and hit men, Leah. There’s always some drama playing out in this world; always something to fret over, but forget it. This is about us. Eyes on the prize.”
In my rumpled sleep shirt, with my bruised throat and mussed hair, I don’t feel like much of a prize.
Nico stops directly behind me, brushing my hair forward over one shoulder. He bends down and scrapes his teeth against the back of my neck, warm breath misting over my skin. A harsh kiss follows, with a swipe of his tongue.
Jeez. I sway on my feet, woozy already.
“Nico…”
“Remember what I promised you, baby?” He kneads my stiff shoulders, thumbs digging into the tense muscle until I moan. “A ring on your finger and little Nicos in your belly. You think Santo De Rossi’s scheming means shit to me compared to that? He can collect his leverage all he likes. Me, I’m playing the long game.”
“With Santo?”
“Withyou.” Nico’s stubble rasps against the side of my neck as he kisses me there, strong hands sliding down to roam over my body. He traces my waist; my ribs; my soft stomach and the swell of my tits. He lingers there, squeezing and pinching until I moan again, breath coming in short pants. “This is what really matters. Hell, this isallthat really matters. Don’t you see that?”
I sag against the hard planes of his chest. “Um. I guess so?”
“Youguessso?” This time, Nico pinches my nipples so hard I gasp, a bolt of heat spearing through my lower belly. My knees are wobbly, and he’s taking most of my weight already. “You guess so? I don’t like that, bella. I don’t like that at all.”
“Sorry,” I wheeze, laughing as the mobster scoops me up, carrying me bridal style to the giant four poster bed. And I’m wearing a faded sleep shirt instead of a wedding gown, but it sure feels like a vow when Nico lays me down, gentle and reverent, the mattress firm against my back.
Standing beside the bed, Nico plucks his next shirt button undone, gazing down at me with those stormy gray eyes.
“Open your legs, baby. I’llmakeyou sure.”
Lips bitten and heart hammering, I slide my thighs an inch or two apart.
The mobster stares at me, expression flat.
I huff a laugh and slide my legs wider, but as I do, anxiety spikes in my chest, and I can’t help babbling: “I’ve—You—I’ve never done this before.”
Nico looks viciously pleased as he climbs on the bed by my legs, settling his shoulders between my knees. “I know.”
“But if I’m not good at it—”
Nico waves an airy hand, his ruined knuckles extra swollen in the lamplight. “Not gonna happen. But it doesn’t matter, does it? We’ve got our whole lives to find our rhythm.”
