He needed her. Nico Toscani—ruthless mobster, fearsome warrior, powerful capo—needed her. “I’m here for you, Mr. Mob Boss.”
Mia rested her head on his chest, listened to the steady thump of his heart beneath the soft cotton of his T-shirt, breathed in the familiar scent of his cologne, and soaked up the warmth of the man who had been her husband for three short days.
He stroked his hand through her hair, down her back to the edge of her nightshirt, and then up again. Outside, she could hear the occasional rumble of a truck driving past, the bang of a car door, and the faint sound of music from one of the apartments downstairs.
Up and down. Up and down. Always to the edge of her nightshirt where it curled over her ass, pausing for a moment, and back again, as if he were trying to make a decision.
“The day my father died, we went to Prezzo for lunch,” he said softly. “He ordered so much food, but he only ate the pasta alla norma and the caponata. He loved eggplant. I could never understand it. There is no vegetable I detest more. But we shared a sweet tooth and we finished a plate of cannoli between us.”
Wary of interrupting, Mia relaxed against him, not wanting to push him further than he was ready to go.
“He showed me his pen and he told me the history of how it had passed down through our family from father to son when the son became a made man. He told me he knew one day the pen would come to me. He said it represented a commitment to honor tradition and to protect the family, and that a good leader, a good man, was one who could put his duty to his family above desire. There was nothing in life I wanted more than to please him. There was nobody I respected and admired more. But always in the back of my mind, I wondered if the price of holding that pen was too high, because after my mother died, he wasn’t the same man.”
Finally, his hand dipped lower, stroked the curve of her ass, and then up again. Her heart skipped a beat, anticipation or fear, she wasn’t sure which.
“After he died, I thought of nothing but the weight of his body in my arms, and the warmth of his blood as it ran over my hands. Revenge sustained me. It was the only reason I got up in the morning; it helped me make it through every day; it gave me something to live for. But I didn’t realize it was all I lived for. Not until I met you.”
Mia’s breath hitched. She had never imagined a man like Nico could bare his very soul. Or that he would trust her with such a precious gift.
“Sei tutto per me—You are everything to me,” he murmured, his Italian rolling over her in a soft caress. “I’m willing to put down that burden to be with you. I will find another way to restore the family honor.” This time he tugged the nightshirt up, his hand smoothing over her skin, in and out of her curves, beneath the elastic of her panties.
Need heated her blood like a fever. She stretched and nuzzled his neck, tasting the salt on his skin, moaned softly in his ear.
“Shhh.” He helped her slide the nightshirt over her head, and drew her down again until she lay on top of him. She shivered as her taut nipples brushed against his T-shirt, her hips pressed against the sharp edges of his belt, his hard length nestled firmly between her thighs.
She pushed herself up and stared at him, lost herself in the darkness of his eyes. Gently, she grazed his lower lip with the edge of her teeth. With a low groan, he brought his mouth up to hers, hard and hungry, his tongue thrusting inside.
He tasted strongly of the Johnnie Walker he loved to drink, sweet and spicy, dry and bitter, and she drew him in deeper, tangling her tongue with his, meeting each one of his strokes with her own. She’d missed him. Kissing him was like tasting him all over again.
He was bold, demanding, his fingers in her hair holding her in place, his tongue sweeping her mouth, claiming every inch with the ruthlessness of the mob boss he was.
Tremors of excitement rippled through her body. The silence of their encounter, secret, forbidden, stoked a fire inside her. She gave herself over to the sensation of his hot, wet mouth on hers, the rock and grind of his pelvis, the grip of his hand on the soft cheeks of her ass.
If he wanted to share his pain, she would welcome it. If he wanted to give her his body, she would open herself up and let him in.
With a low groan, he rolled until she lay on her back beneath him. Nico knelt between her parted legs, drank in her body like he was dying of thirst. His big hand cupped her wrists and pinned them to the bed above her head. She writhed in his grasp, fighting the pull of desire, his powerful grip. But he would not yield. He had bared himself to her, but he was still firmly in control.