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To my surprise, Angelo doesn’t seem put off. His eyes roam curiously, taking in every detail. He pauses at a framed photo on the wall—me and Lou at the beach a few years ago, both of us grinning widely, our hair windswept.
“This is a nice place,” Angelo says, turning to me with a smile.
“Thanks,” I reply automatically, even though I’m sure he’s just being polite. There’s no way he actually thinks this cramped, dingy apartment isnice.
Suddenly feeling awkward, I gesture toward the kitchenette. “Would you like some coffee?”
As soon as the words leave my mouth, I cringe inwardly.Coffee? We just had some at the restaurant while Lou devoured tiramisu. Jesus Christ, I am theworst.
But Angelo’s warm smile doesn’t falter.
“Coffee would be great, thank you,” he says.
I can feel Angelo’s eyes on me as I move into the kitchen. I’m hyper-aware of every imperfection in the apartment—the peeling wallpaper in one corner, the water stain on the ceiling, the worn carpet. Yet when I glance back at Angelo, all I see in his eyes is warmth and… is that admiration?
My heart skips a beat, and I turn back to the coffee maker, trying to calm my racing thoughts. This man, this powerful, dangerous, undeniably attractive man, is in my tiny apartment. And somehow, impossibly, he doesn’t seem to mind at all.
I fumble with the coffee grounds, my hands shaking slightly. The sound of Angelo’s footsteps coming closer sends a shiver down my spine. Before I can turn around, I feel his breath on the back of my neck, warm and enticing.
“Fee,” he murmurs, his voice low and intimate.
My hands freeze on the coffee maker as his lips brush against the nape of my neck, sending a jolt of electricity through me. Is this real life? My heart is beating a million miles a minute as Angelo’s kisses trail along my skin, his lips soft and insistent. His tongue flicks out to taste me, tracing a path along my shoulder.
I moan softly, the sound escaping before I can stop it. My grip tightens on the counter, and I let my head fall back slightly, giving him more access. Angelo’s body is close, almost pressing against my backside, and the heat from him is intoxicating. His hands rest lightly on my hips, grounding me and setting me alight at the same time.
Every kiss, every touch sends a wave of desire crashing through me. I can hardly believe this is happening—this man, this powerful Mafia Don, is here with me, in my tiny kitchen, making me feel like the most desired woman in the world.
“Angelo,” I whisper, my voice trembling with a mix of need and disbelief.
He pulls back just enough to turn me around, his eyes dark with hunger.
I stare up at him, lost in the intensity of his gaze. This moment, this connection—it feels surreal, yet more real than anything I’ve ever known. As he leans in to kiss me, I close my eyes, surrendering to the sensation, to the undeniable pull between us.
His lips crash against mine with a fierce intensity, igniting a fire deep within me. Our kisses are desperate, as if we’re trying to memorize every curve, every taste, every sensation. His hands roam my body, pulling me closer, and I mirror his movements, my fingers tracing the hard planes of his chest, the taut muscles of his back.
The world outside fades away, leaving only the two of us, our connection feeling like the only real thing in our lives. Angelo’s kiss is both demanding and tender, a paradox that sends mysenses into overdrive. I can’t get enough of him, the way he makes me feel, the way he consumes me.
I pull away just enough to catch my breath, my lips swollen and tingling, “Do you still want that coffee?” I tease, my voice breathless and playful.
Angelo growls, a deep, primal sound that sends a shiver of anticipation down my spine. “I want something else,” he murmurs, his eyes dark with desire. “Something only you can provide.”
His words send a rush of heat through me, and before I can respond, his mouth is on mine again, more insistent this time. Our tongues battle for dominance, each stroke a clash of need and hunger. Angelo’s hands find their way to my hips, lifting me slightly as he presses me against the counter. I moan into his mouth, the sound swallowed by his kiss.
He breaks away, his lips trailing hotly down my neck, licking and biting his way to my shoulder. Each touch, each graze of his teeth, sends a jolt of pleasure through me. I thread my fingers through his hair, tugging him closer, needing more.
“Angelo,” I gasp, my voice a mixture of desperation and desire.
He presses against me, and I can feel him, hard and ready. The sensation makes my knees weak, and I clutch at him, pulling him closer, wanting to feel every inch of him.
His hands slide under my shirt, the touch of his fingers on my bare skin eliciting a shiver of pleasure. He kisses his way back up to my lips, capturing them in another searing kiss. His tongue delves into my mouth, exploring, tasting, claiming. I arch against him, the ache inside me growing with every touch, every kiss.
Our need for each other is palpable, a raw, undeniable force that binds us together. I lose myself in him, in the way he makesme feel alive, cherished, desired. His kisses, his touch, are like a drug, and I’m hopelessly addicted.
My fingers work quickly, undoing the buttons of his shirt and shoving the fabric off his shoulders. He helps by shrugging the shirt off, our lips never breaking the kiss. When we finally pull apart, both of us are breathing heavily. I take a moment to admire him, my eyes roaming over his chiseled body.
God, he’s a work of art. His muscles are taut and defined, a testament to his strength and power.
But my gaze catches on something else. Patchy burn marks mar the back of his left shoulder, trailing down his back and arm. They stand out starkly against his otherwise perfect skin. Without thinking, I reach out and gently trace the burn marks down his shoulder and arm. He shudders under my touch, the sensation sending a spark of something deeper between us.
