He doesn’t even try to tame the ferocity in his lips as he takes what he wants.
This isn’t a kiss but an ultimatum. His tongue plunders my mouth, invading me, as his grip on my face tightens to nearly painful.
I gasp in a breath, and breathe his in. My own hands reach for him and land on his shoulders, then snake around his neck as if to save myself from falling.
Every breath melds with his. My gasps are swallowed whole. I’m consumed in fire as if burned by a dragon’s flame. And still, he kisses me, claims me.
I lick his tongue and knead his shoulders, craving the sensual touch of skin to skin. A thread of desire weaves its way between us. His responsive moan only encourages me to do more.
I want to touch his skin. I want to feel his naked flesh. I want so much more than this.
I’ve forgotten where I am or why we’re here. Still kissing him, I reach for the top button of his shirt and fumble to unbutton it. I’m still broken, still scarred from what I’ve been through, but I don’t want to think about that, not now. I don’t want to be defined by my past or my pain.
I want to live in the here and now. This, after all, is the only reality I can control. We control.
His hands travel down my face to my waist, and my heart flips in response. He grants me access.
Now I can touch him.
I slide my fingers under his collar, while he threads his hands under my ass and scoots me closer to him. When his buttons fall open, I eagerly scratch my fingers along the column of his neck. The feel of his hot muscle and sinew is all male, so potent it’s exhilarating.
He’s all mine.
My pulse throbs between my legs.
He bites my lips and licks my tongue. I slowly begin to melt on his lap. I feel his hardened length beneath me, as my hands knead his shoulders. I reach the flat of my hand to his neck and skate my hand down his T-shirt to where his naked chest is dotted with dark, coarse hair.
I whimper when he pulls his mouth off mine.
“Not here,” he grates, his voice hoarse. “Jesus Christ, woman.”
I drop my head to his shoulder and don’t bother to hide my disappointment.
He’s right. We’re in a goddamn morgue.
We don’t need to talk. I don’t need to clarify. I know.
He may be brutal and cold, but Ottavio Rossi knows who I am. He knows every thread that’s knit me together. He knows what I fear and what I hope for, not because he’s known me for long, but because the two of us were forged by the same fire.
Tuscany always brought out the romantic in me.
We’re both panting and hot, and a little disheveled, like two lovers caught in the beam of an officer’s flashlight in the back of a parked car.
“You started it,” I breathe.
“Fucking hell, I didn’t,” he says in an almost boyish tone that’s at once endearing and a bit unnerving. “You were the one that undid my buttons and touched me.”
“Oh. Right.” I did. “But you were sad and I wanted to make you feel better.”
I don’t expect the look of shock on his face as his eyebrows rise. “Did you, now?”
I bite back a smile. Bemusement softens his hard angles a little. It becomes him.
“Listen,” he says, gentling his voice to a register I didn’t know he was capable of. “Fuck the mob rules. Fuck what’s expected of us. They can go fuck themselves if they think I’m gonna wait until our wedding night to have you.”
“You should tell me how you really feel, and no need to censor your language.”
He gives me a lopsided smile, the first I’ve ever seen from him. It’s honey and sunlight, so sweet and warm it makes my toes curl. I’d cross hot coals to see him smile like that again.
A thread of hope blooms in my heart. “Who?” I breathe, excited.
“All of ‘em.”
I nod. “Mhm. Agreed. What are they gonna do, anyway? Give me back? Pretty sure there’s a no-return policy.”
His lips tip upward in an almost smile again.
Me. I did that to him.
I’ve melted the Ice King.
My heart does a little somersault in my chest.
And then my mind catches up with my body.
Wait.
Wait.
He said he isn’t going to wait until the wedding night.
Does that mean what I think it means?
I watch in a sort of stupor as he takes care of the rest of the business. Makes a phone call to someone, taps a few things on his phone. I stand beside him in a sort of daze, fixated on what happens next.
I’m surprised when we leave the morgue that it’s still sunny out. It feels as if we’ve been in the dark, cold interior for so long that it shouldn’t be so brilliant and beautiful out here.
I close my eyes and give myself the luxury of a deep, cleansing breath of fresh, sun-kissed air. Spring flowers in Tuscany bloom like brilliant balls of fire, red roses and Tuscan poppies. They line the pathway to the parking lot, the lingering scent more delicate than the most exquisite perfume.
Oh, Tuscany, I’ve missed you.
I like it even more now that I know my family isn’t here anymore.
Tavi takes my hand when an elegant gunmetal gray car glides to a stop where we’re standing.
“You drove here,” I say in confusion.
“I don’t want to drive home.”
I give him a curious look as he opens the door to the waiting vehicle. It purrs like a content kitten. “After you.”
Not surprisingly, Ottavio Rossi has not only the typical Italian charm but the manners to boot. He’ll pay for my meals at restaurants and carry heavy things. But how far does his chivalry go? Only time will tell.
I slide into the back seat. It’s warm and luxurious in here, permeated with the scent of soft, buttery Italian leather and a “new car” scent. I sink into the cushions and watch as he folds his large body into the seat beside me. A uniformed attendant shuts the door behind him. The windows are so tinted it’s hard to see much behind us, but there’s a shadow of a car just like this one following.
His bodyguards.
Bodyguards.
Piero.
I close my eyes to fight the rush of emotion and the pang that hits my chest.
“You alight? Carsick, Elise?”
The concern in his voice shouldn’t make me want to cry. Goddammit, everything does. If I was a normal woman, I suspect I’d seek therapy. But I’m not. I was born a mafia princess, and I’m soon to be a mafia queen. So I blink back tears and hold my head high.
“I do not get carsick.” I force myself to open my eyes and once more slam the lid on the memory that wants to break me. “Ever.”
“Good,” Tavi says with a wicked gleam in his eyes. He moves closer to me, swallowing the small distance between us. “I want to taste your mouth again.”
I blink at the sudden nearness of him, the sudden irrefutable maleness of him, from the hard planes of his chest, to the strong fingers that weave through my hair, to the lingering, harmonious, masculine scent of citrus and fire, woodsy and heady.
My eyes flutter closed when his fingers trace along my scalp as if memorizing the feel of me. He lowers them so his grip along my neck is sure and confident, holding me in place before his mouth meets mine. I put my arms around his neck when he becomes more serious, every trace of boyhood humor gone.
He whispers, his breath hot against my ear. “I’ll have your mouth any time, any place I want.”