Page 17 of The Mobster’s Maid

The sun is fully up over the eastern wall.

I stand.

She turns her head, startled.

I bend, slide one arm under her knees, one behind her back, and lift her off the lounger.

“Vincenzo —”

“I’ve got you.”

She is heavier and softer than I expected yet feels right against my body. Her arms go around my neck on instinct. The throw falls off her lap. Her chipped apple plate slides sideways on the little table and I make a mental note to bring it up to the house later.

I carry her across the flagstones.

Through the yard. Past the pool. Up the low stone steps to the terrace. In through the wide glass doors. Across the living room floor she has been quietly warming for two years. Past the couch, and the shelf where I set her paperback yesterday.

To the double doors at the end of the hall and into my bedroom.

I set her down on the edge of the bed. Step back so I can see her.

She is sitting on my bed with her curls pulled back in a low knot with a soft piece of pink cord and one strand has come loose against her temple. Her knitted cream sweater is slouching off one shoulder and there’s a speck of flour on her wrist. I have never wanted any woman more than I want her.

I take the last three steps between us. Kneel between her thighs. Cup her face in one hand.

“Rosalie.”

She swallows.

“Yes.”

“Tell me if I do a single thing you don’t want.”

“Okay.”

“Say it back.”

“I’ll tell you if I don’t want it.”