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His fiery gaze dances over mine, appearing irritated. “I know your scent. I know our scent when mixed together. His scent is expected to be removed. Mine, is not.”
“Here’s your drink, Mrs. Carbone,” Devani interrupts. The smell of vanilla vodka passing my nose reminds me of the time I asked if he was a hundred percent Italian.
He runs his thumb up and down my hip where his hand rests. Then he reaches for my drink and gives it a whirl while he ruminates over his next words. Before I can ask about his heritage, he takes a sip of my drink. I watch him seductively swirl it around in his mouth. The pressure of his hand at the back of my head has me moving towards him. He places his lips on mine then opens his mouth and lets the fiery liquid flow over his lips into my mouth. It’s a shock at first but then I pull back and mirror what he just did and give it a swirl before swallowing it. He lifts my glass, rests it against my bottom lip and tips it until the liquid passes through. The act is simply erotic. His penetrating gaze is addicting. You would never think we just exhausted ourselves not too long ago.
I place my hand on his stomach to brace myself and hold his gaze.
“You okay?” Concern carries his deep voice.
“I am. Are you mad?” I play with the button on his shirt.
“It won’t happen again,” he states while playing with a rouge curl.
“I guess that gives me my answer.”
“Did you enjoy it?”
“I… enjoyed the experience. Do you want to know what the most erotic part for me was?”
A rumbled noise comes from his chest.
I give him a demure smile. “It was when you pulled me onto your lap at the end. When you smashed our chests together and held my body to yours while you fucked me.”
“Is that so?”
“It is.” I tilt my head and kiss the palm of his hand that is still playing with my curls. “Once was enough,” I whisper.
“Once was all you were getting.”
I notice something in his eyes that I have never seen before. “Are you jealous, Mr. Carbone?” I ask thinking back to the first night we went to dinner. The night he cut off a man’s finger for staring at me.
“Jealousy is for men who don’t own their women.”
I try to hide my grin but it’s short lived. “You are.”
“You think this unexpected emotion I find myself experiencing is amusing?”
“I find it sexy.”
“You wash my man from your mouth?”
“You know I did. You wouldn’t have kissed me if I hadn’t.”
His lips are on mine before I finish the sentence. When we break apart, he study’s every imperfection on my face with reverence.
I decide now is a good time to change the subject and alleviate what tension I do feel from him. I reach for his wrist and move it so that I can take a sip of my drink while he still holds the glass. I return to playing with the button on his shirt when I utter, “Can I ask you a question?”
“Go ahead.”
“You’re half Russian?”
He nods. “Correct.”
“You’re a made man in an Italian mafia, though.”
“I am.”
“How?”
