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Santo walks me back to my room, touching me the whole way. There’s always a palm resting on my lower back, or fingers playing in my hair, or knuckles smoothing down my upper arm, and everywhere he touches me—everywhere he’s touched me already—burns hot and sensitive, nerves prickling under the skin. I bite my lip against a whimper, but I don’t think he even realizes the effect on me.
“You were excellent.”
His smoky praise makes my heart pound. What other nice things could I get him to say?
“You certainly earned that plane ticket, Erin.”
Just like that, my happy bubble pops. Because oh yeah, I’m leaving in a few days, and this wasn’t some adorable first date—this was a trade, cold and calculated like everything else with this man. He needed that holiday card photo, nothing more.
So why’s he still tracing my wrist as we walk?
“I aim to please,” I say, but Santo must hear the bitter tone to my voice, because he draws his hand back and doesn’t touch me again the whole way back to my door.
I stomp inside, all grouchy and flustered again. Does he really need to leave so soon? Surely even mobsters take time off over the holidays. Can’t we, like… go for a walk or something? Maybe watch a movie together?
“I’m going to leave this door unlocked,” my captor says, frowning down at me. He’s back in his waistcoat and shirtsleeves, and it really shows off his broad shoulders and trim waist. And those freaking forearms—
“Are you listening, Erin?” Nope, I was not. What was he saying? Something about staying indoors and security guards patrolling the grounds.
“I’m not going to make a run for it, Santo. You’re my ticket out of here, remember?” Not just the De Rossi mansion and my current predicament, buthere.My family, the society pressures, mylife.“Before January, that’s what we agreed.” Then I’ll become the new Erin, complete with one of those dorky hats with corks dangling from the brim.
“Yes.”
His mouth twists, and he looks so unhappy up there. Always so cold and stiff and severe. I rock up onto my toes before I can think better of it, spreading my palms over his perfect chest.
“Erin—” Santo cuts off with a groan as my mouth meets his. And I’ve pictured what this might be like a gazillion times since meeting this man, but I always figured it’d be like making out with one of the marble statues in the alcoves. I never imagined that he’d be sounruly.
But Santo spins us both, flattening me against the door frame. He presses one thigh between my legs; tips my head back and kisses me hungrily. And this is not the cool, controlled press of lips I expected, this is… this is…
I’m being eaten alive.
His hands are everywhere, squeezing my hips and waist and tits then tugging on my hair, and he snarls against my mouth before kissing me harder. What happened to the ice cold kingpin? Where’s the pinnacle of restraint?
“Fuck,” Santo mutters before plunging his tongue into my mouth. It strokes against mine, hot and teasing, and when I suck on his tongue, he thumps a fist against the door frame over my head, then crowds closer. He’s hard against my stomach, his body prodding me with unspoken demands. “Fuck, Erin.”
I hum in agreement, tugging on his dark hair and rolling my hips against his body. He’s all I can smell, taste, touch. “Come inside. Blow off kingpin duties for the day.”
His laugh is strained. “I’m your captor.”
“Mhm.” Hooking one finger in his waistcoat, I tow him into the guest suite. Santo’s eyes are dark as he prowls inside. “I’m completely at your mercy, De Rossi. Got any suggestions?”
He kicks the door closed without looking back. “So many. You have no fucking idea.”
Six
Santo
Imake her watch a movie with me. Not because I’m so desperate to waste two hours of my life on some brainless comedy, but because Erin’s worked up and bright eyed, blushing behind those freckles, and I don’t want to rush this. I need to break the heat of the moment so she can think this through.
She truly is at my mercy here. Before I touch her, I need her to be sure—and if I don’t distract myself in the meantime, I’m liable to tackle her to the rug and tear that sweater down the middle.
“You’re not even watching,” she gripes after an hour, poking me between the ribs. I’m leaning against her headboard, Erin curled against my side, and no, despite insisting on this activity, I’m not watching. I have far better things to focus on.
“Because it’s inane.”
She huffs, her breath warm against my throat. “This was your idea, jerk.”
