Page 57 of Wicked Mafia Sinner

Checkmate.

I should pull the sweater down. I should sit up. I should do any number of responsible things a grown woman knows to do. But where is the fun in that?

I arch my back slightly and let the sweater ride up another inch.

"Would you come here, please," I ask without looking up. "I would love to add something."

He doesn't answer. But the tablet clicks against the side table. Heavy footfalls thud against the marble, each one landing closer than the last until the scent of cedar and coffee wraps around me. He lowers himself to the floor beside me, close enough that his body heat prickles against my bare arm without touching.

Warm fingers brush hair away from where it hangs against my face. "What are you adding?"

I smile up at him. "You. Can you stand in the window for me?"

I sketch fast. The broad shoulders, the jaw, the way he holds himself even when he's sitting. I add him to the composition, standing at the window, looking out at the lake. A figure shaped like solitude, watching the water.

He watches me draw him into my world. His breathing deepens, the rhythm slowing the way it does when his guard starts to slip. When I finish the rough outline and look up, he’s moved closer. His eyes drop to my mouth.

"Cora."

My name roughly spoken from his lips sends electricity straight down my spine.

"Yes, Rowan?" I know what he is thinking, because I’m thinking it too.

He doesn't answer with words. His fingers close around my wrist and he pulls me off the floor and onto my feet in one smooth motion. Before I can find my balance, his hand cups the back of my head, fingers sliding into my hair, and then his mouth is on mine.

Every time this man kisses me, he walks away after. The terrace. The kitchen yesterday. This morning he didn't even need to kiss me to leave me wanting. Three days of him lighting a match and blowing it out before the fire catches.

This time there's no adrenaline, no interruption, no excuse. Just Rowan choosing my mouth while we are both bathed in afternoon light with every confession between us stacked like kindling.

His lips part mine and his tongue sweeps in. The taste of Russian coffee fills my mouth and the ring on his finger presses cold against the back of my neck where his hand holds me close. With his shirt open, his bare chest is warm through the thin sweater and I press into the contact, greedy for the feel of his skin under my touch again.

A gasp breaks from my mouth into his, completely involuntary, and his response is to pull me closer. His other hand finds my hip, fingers pressing into the curve of it through the thin sweater, and the size of his palm spanning my hip bone makes me aware of every inch of difference between his body and mine.

He pulls back. His eyes are darker than I've ever seen them, the ice blue heated to a shade that could burn. His thumb traces my bottom lip.

"I should not have done that."

"Probably not."

"You are in my protection. Under my roof."

"Technically underground. And you've already said this. Twice. It doesn't get more convincing with repetition." I hold his gaze. "You stroked yourself in a doorway this morning while I watched, Rowan. I think we're past the 'I shouldn't have' stage."

The corner of his mouth twitches. There’s that almost smile of his again.

“You’re proving hard to resist.”

With that, the frustrating Russian leaves me with my racing pulse and my lips still tingling from the pressure of his mouth.

I watch him go and my whole body screams at the loss of contact. The push and pull is going to kill me faster than Nikolai.

Eleven

Cora

The afternoon light shifts and I'm at the counter again, leaning over my sketchbook, adding details to the composition. The sweater has slipped off my shoulder again and I haven't fixed it. My elbows are tucked in close, my shoulders curved forward, my body folding in against the marble.

I don't catch myself doing it until his voice cuts through the silence.