Page 59 of Revenge on the Mafia

I turned to follow them, but he casually blocked the doorway. “Not you, Anna.”

Equal amounts of frustration and anger rose in my throat. Animosity filled the room. I went in the opposite direction. Backtracked and put myself between the counter and him. I forced words out of my dry throat. “Why would you do that?”

“I warned you.”

My chest filled with a hollow ache. “I can’t.”

“You were never the maid, Anna. You were always meant to be my wife.”

“Never!” My tone bit. If it were poison, he would be dead.

He stilled. Not that he was moving before. But it was as if he’d stopped breathing. We stared at each other for what seemed like hours in that strange mood, but it was probably only a few minutes.

“I’m not the type of man you can test, Anna,” he said quietly.

I knew he meant my family, but I couldn’t stop myself. “Twenty-eight days.”

Something twisted in his gaze. His jaw flexed as if he were barely in control. “Thirty days.” He took a threatening step into the room. “It only starts when you’re carrying my name.”

“No puedo más.” I shook my head. “I can’t do this anymore.”

He cocked his head. His voice dropped. “You don’t want to know why?”

I took a step back from the counter. I needed to protect myself from this man and his games. “I can live without knowing.”

His lips turned flat.

“Let me go,” I pleaded. “Let my family go.”

“Can’t,” he said, as if he physically couldn’t do it.

“¿Por qué?”

“Why?” He looked up at the ceiling and let out a cold, mirthless laugh. “Fucking why?” The volume of his tone climbed. “Because you’re in this now. Whether you like it or not. You don’t get to back out.” His gaze was fire when it dropped back to me.

“This is ridiculous. We aren’t meant to be together. Even for a month. Not even for a d—”

I didn’t see it coming. One minute his hands were in his pocket; the next he’d banged his fist on the wall.

I stumbled back a step.

Anger split across his face. “For one fucking month, you’re mine.”

My breath caught in my chest when I saw the wall. He looked at it as much in confusion as I did. A spiderweb of plaster that showed too much of him.

I took a slow step back again. “I—”

He swallowed the distance between us in one blink. I half sobbed, trying to get away. But he caught me with no effort, grabbed me by my waist, lifted me off my feet, and dropped me on the counter. He was breathing so hard that it confused me. It certainly wasn’t from exertion. I opened my mouth to kill him with an angry flood of words and he used that to smash his lips against mine. The intensity of it shocked me. It was too sudden, too fucking much. Heat that melted me like butter. A deep sound of need pulled from his throat. My hands curled up on the nape of his neck, found his hair and the softness of it. A moan climbed up my throat. I shook my head, trying to dislodge it or reaching out for more. It infuriated him and he bit my lip in retaliation. When I yelped, he soothed the sting with his tongue before sucking my entire bottom lip in. Another moan slipped out. A deep need glided through me. His hand tangled in my hair, fisting and soothing it at the same time. His palm dropped to my thigh. The edge of my dress teased his skin. He took the invitation, reached for the fabric, and rolled it up inch by inch.

His heat radiated between my legs. As if by witchcraft, my hand reached for his belt. I tugged. He hissed. Then he froze. Entirely. Pulled back and off me. With breaths coming out as gasps, I stared at him in confusion. His eyes were fixated on my thigh. His thumb was an inch away from my moles. He rolled his tongue along his lips. Agitation burned with the lick. Then he curled his fist. Dragged his knuckles to my knee. Exhaled and inhaled. Three times. When he looked up, pain radiated from within his eyes. Then, as if he didn’t want me to witness it, he pulled his gaze to a blind spot behind me. My heart fought to find a rhythm while he fought something I didn’t understand. My hand dropped to his chest. His heartbeat clamored, chasing after something. Suddenly, I knew it. He was counting. I wondered what was shaking his control so badly. His gaze dropped to my moles again. His fist uncurled. Palm spread wide. The tremor in his hand spread through my skin as he gripped my thigh and rolled it to the side. He muttered something in Italian. It sounded something like eleven years. But I doubted it immediately. Then, suddenly, with a groan of despair, he ducked his head. His warm breath hit my moles before he sucked it in entirely.

¡Dios mío!

I fell back onto the counter, my head hitting the marble with a thud. The pain didn’t reach my senses. The pleasure radiating from his mouth was too overwhelming. My core burned. Tingled. Pulsed. As he paid attention to my moles like it was my clit. Sucking. Biting. Leaving indent marks probably. Then tracing it as if he were counting the little dots with his lips. The heat of his tongue, his whispered words, his gentle and rough touch. All of them burned on my skin. It was too much and too little. I wiggled, trying to shift his attention. The pressure was too intense. My core clenched. Drenched in heat and liquid. I wanted a release. Needed one. Might just die under his attention without one. He clamped his other hand on my hip. Stilling me. I moaned. Tried to grind my hip against him. A groan of despair escaped him. I found his head, gripped his hair, and yanked. He didn’t budge. ¡Dios mío! I tried again and he took pity on me. With his mouth still on my moles, he snapped my soaked panties to the side. Then he zoomed in on my swollen clit, sucked it into his mouth, and gave it a light bite.

I exploded. No build-up. Nothing. Just came so hard I lost sense of reality. Of living. I lost the rhythm of my breathing. With my eyes squeezed shut, I tried in vain to regain control.

He did nothing to help. Only traced the outline of my clit. It throbbed under the weight of his attention. Gearing up to explode again. My hips jerked beneath him. Hands clawed at my dress. Eyes popped open. Some kind of late dignity crashed over me. What the hell am I doing? Ice chilled my nerves, and I wrenched myself off him. Pulled myself further along the counter. My breath heaved. Hands shook as I pushed my dress down and squeezed my legs together. A disgruntled moan left him as he lifted his head and straightened. The heated intensity in his gaze burned me from the crown of my head to my toes. I was a sight. He’d put me on the counter where we’d sprinkled flour, ready to roll the dough. My black dress had a tie-dye pattern. Skin burned red. Hair a mess. It probably looked like he’d fucked the living shit out of me.