Home > Machiavellian (Gangsters of New York, #1)(56)

Machiavellian (Gangsters of New York, #1)(56)
Author: Bella Di Corte

His back was full of muscles, and when he moved to wash, they rippled. The water and candlelight made his skin shimmer. I took a seat on the chair, not willing to look away from him, but not able to stand any longer. Just watching him wash made the pulse between my legs throb. My lower stomach was as clenched as a tight fist. My breasts felt like they were straining against the dress all of a sudden, so tender that they ached.

I licked my lips.

I swallowed hard.

I craved friction.

His back still faced me, and when he turned, his erection touched the glass. He started to wash himself while he watched me watching him. His penis bobbed each time he stroked it. He raked his teeth over his bottom lip, and when I made a noise deep in my throat, his eyes became more serious, more hooded.

I felt faint. The little bit of steam in the room was getting to me. He was getting to me. Then I opened my mouth. “Are we in danger?” Am I in danger? Not from them but from you.

He blinked at me, like he had to remember who he was with—the girl in the white dress. Not the one in red. Then he started to rinse the soap off, our moment over. “We’re all in danger, Mariposa. Some people more than others.”

“We’re the ‘some people,’ I’m guessing.”

He nodded and then shut the water off. I turned and grabbed a towel from the counter and handed it to him. He took it and then turned to dig in his bag. After he gave me a great view of his fine ass, he secured the towel around his waist.

I stood and turned toward the mirror. I watched him walk closer from behind. He stopped when he was at my back. I could feel the heat from his body through the dress.

He moved my hair to the side, and then he helped me lower the top of the gown. My fancy white adhesive bra glowed against my skin. He kissed the nape of my neck, watching me as he did, and then his fingers barely caressed my arms.

“Butterflies have least favorite colors when it comes to flowers. Do you know what they are?” His voice was low, almost hoarse.

“No,” I whispered. A shiver waved over me from his constant touch, his gravelly voice, and it made me tremble.

“Ti piace la mia bocca sulla tua pelle. Tremi per me.” He said the words almost to himself, something about me liking his mouth on my skin, me trembling for him. Then, smoothly, he brought us back to his comment about the butterfly. “Blue to green.”

My eyes lifted to meet his. Blue to hazel.

“Good thing I’m not a real butterfly then, or maybe I would’ve taken the warning the first time I saw your eyes and flew away to something lighter.”

“Good thing.” He ran his tongue from my nape to the center of my back, and then trailed firm kisses on his way back up. His hands moved to my hips, and he moved us slowly. “If you only knew the thoughts I’ve had of you since the night at The Club, the fantasies, you would’ve run away.”

“No,” I said, sucking in a trembling breath, releasing it slowly. “Now that I’ve found you, I can’t fly away. I’m attracted to blue—all shades. It’s my favorite color. It seems to heal me, not hurt me.”

His hands caressed above my breasts, circling the cups, until he removed them. With a touch so soft that it made me want to moan, he caressed my nipples.

I melted into his back and he seemed to absorb me. “I—” I barely got out. “I need to shower.”

He nodded once and then kissed me on the side of my neck, his lips against my pulse. He stepped away and slipped on his sleep pants.

“Wait,” I breathed when he went to leave. I felt lightheaded. “Where are you going?”

“There are no windows in here, Mariposa. You’re safe.”

With that, he left me alone.

 

 

18

 

 

Mariposa

 

 

He was asleep when I walked into the bedroom, propped against the massive headboard, his laptop on his lap. I tiptoed toward him, still rubbing the sweet-smelling cream on my arms. I tried to be even quieter the closer I got to him. He was a light sleeper. In fact, I couldn’t remember a time when he fell asleep first. I was usually the first one out, and each time I woke up during the night, he’d still be up.

In Italy, though, I slept all night. I still didn’t think he did.

His hair was still damp from the shower, he smelled like the ocean, and I had to stop myself from reaching out and touching his face. It wasn’t softer in sleep, but more relaxed. Except for the frown. It was only noticeable when he rested, as if he had to fight to keep it off of his face when he had control. I had once told him that he was going to get premature wrinkles if he kept it up, and he only shook his head and said, “Scars don’t bother me. They only mean I’ve earned my place in this world.”

I took another step closer and reached out for the computer, a hand on each side to slide it toward me and away from him. “Some watch wolf,” I whispered.

When I went to move the computer, he grabbed my hands. “I’m not sleeping. I’m resting my eyes.”

If anyone else would’ve said it, I would have laughed and said, yeah, right, but I believed him. He was always on guard.

His eyes slowly opened to mine. Then they took in the red silk on my body.

“I’m ready,” I whispered. Even though my voice was firm, every part of me trembled as if I was cold, which made me feel almost…achy. My insides were hot.

The shower had done me no favors. After he had walked out, he left me on fire, and not even the cool water could put it out. Every defense of mine had been consumed, leaving me empty. The emptiness demanded that his touch take the place of the fear that had stopped me from doing this with him before. It didn’t matter if we were married or not, whether it happened a week ago, on our wedding night, or the next day. I knew when the time was right.

Now.

He looked me in the eye for a moment or two and then flung the computer onto a bag beside the bed. Then he was off the bed, his body colliding with mine. I thought he’d be gentle with me, but he was the exact opposite. Rough. His mouth started another war with mine while his hands fisted in my hair, keeping me as close as skin. Maybe my lip had busted. Or his.

My hands groped for skin to touch, to claw, returning what he gave. When I raked my nails down his bare back, he hissed, and his touch became even rougher.

My back slammed against the wall and the kiss broke, but his mouth kept working. The scruff on his face burned my skin as it scraped against me. His teeth nipped. His tongue licked. He pushed my breasts up, making them pop out of the silk, and when he took my nipple between his teeth and bit down, my knees almost gave out. The shock of it went directly between my legs.

“You came to me in rosso,” he said, his mouth greedy on my skin, his hands cupping my ass. His fingers dug into my flesh, keeping me pinned against him. His erection was hard against my soft. I wondered how it was going to feel between my legs. How he was going to feel, over me, in me, all around me. Consuming me. If I thought on it too long, it made me nervous, but caught in the moment, I craved nothing but him.

“You wanted a fire,” I barely got out. He moved my neck to the side, and I hissed when he bit and sucked at the skin there. “Sono tuo, Capo.” I’m yours, Boss.

“Put your arms around my neck and wrap your legs around me.”

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