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“Not yours,” I mutter. Partly out of habit—I’ve said this nearly every time we’ve fucked—and partly because I’m pissed off I’m down a hundred dollars, and I haven’t even had breakfast yet.
His eyes flash. He grazes his fingertips over my slick folds and circles my sensitive clit. His glare jumps back up to mine. “Who’s pussy is this, Penelope?”
“Not. Yours—” I gasp as he pinches my clit. “A tortured confession is not a true confession.”
“I’ll take any confession.” He stretches me open with his fingers again. “Who’s pussy, Penelope?”
I grind my jaw together. When I don’t reply, he sinks his teeth into my inner thigh. “Depends!” I yelp.
His back muscles tense. “On?”
I swallow thickly, knowing Rafe won’t let this drop until I give him my caveats. I clear my throat, suddenly feeling too hot for a crisp March morning.
“If you’re nice to it,” I whisper.
He smiles lazily, giving my clit a gentle kiss. “I’m always nice to it. What else?”
“If you promise to never leave it.”
He frowns, but stops himself from biting out a sarcastic retort. Realization softens the planes of his back. I feel vulnerable. Uncomfortable. Needy. It’s obvious I’m not talking about my vagina anymore.
I hold my breath while Rafe slowly climbs up my body and pins me under his weight. He presses his lips to mine. “I promise, Queenie. I’m here forever.”
I sigh. Wrap my legs around his hips and draw him closer.
“Then it’s yours.”
Rafe’s whistling while he makes breakfast.Whistling.I watch him from my spot on the counter in amusement. He’s wearing nothing but black boxers and a half-baked grin, and maybe I’d give him some warning about oil spitting from a hot pan, if I wasn’t so selfishly enjoying the view.
He slides past me under the pretense of getting two plates from the cupboard, but I know him better than that. It’s no surprise when he stops short, dips his hands between my thighs, and cups me. “Whose pussy is this?”
My sigh melts into a laugh. This asshole’s asked me three times in thirty minutes, and I’m hoping the novelty of me saying ‘yours’ wears off soon. When I reach down and grab his cock through his boxers, his jaw clenches and his gaze heats.
“Depends. Whose dick is this?”
He dips to kiss my throat, smiling against it. “Yours, Queenie. Forever and always. Although, if you don’t get your hand off my crown jewels immediately, you’ll be eating very burnt eggs for breakfast.”
I let him go, grinning like a maniac as I watch him plating up. I’m barely aware of the galley door opening, until Rafe glances up and barks something out in rapid-fire Italian.
“Gesù Cristo,” he mutters, sweeping a hand over his hair.
“Gesù Cristoindeed.” As much as I love living with Rafe, I don’t love also sharing our home with a bunch of people on his payroll. He hasn’t opened the yacht as a bar again, but still, there’s a dozen crew members needed onboard just to keep it afloat. “Rafe, we need to move.”
He frowns up at me. “But I like having an ocean between you and everyone else.”
I laugh. “Yeah, but it’s a pain in the ass. Besides, how can I walk around naked if there’s a chance I might bump into the first officer in the living room?”
“You wanna walk around naked?”
“Uh-huh.”
He pauses. Rakes an eye over the hem of his hoodie. “Then we’ll start looking.”
Christ, I might not swindle men for their money anymore, but they sure are easy to fool in other ways.
I guess it was a blessing in disguise that Dante’s last hurrah on this earth was blowing the port to shit. It’s given me an extra three months to rework the cliff bar and casino in Devil’s Dip, and I must admit, it turned outexceptional.
We decided to rebuild another hundred feet above sea-level, moving us out of the way of future explosions and giving patrons a completely uninterrupted view of the horizon through the panoramic window. Inside, the decor is signature Raphael Visconti. The finest velvet-clad poker tables, the shiniest roulette wheels, and a fully-stocked bar serving every Smuggler’s Club edition ever made, even the rare ones.
