Seized by the Mafia King (London Mafia Bosses #9)

7. Willow

7

WILLOW

He stops instantly and turns, and my heart bounces. Is it that easy for me to have his attention if I want it? The words stick in my throat on a lump that has formed.

His expression is steady and serious as he waits with apparently endless patience.

“I can’t get out of this on my own,” I confess.

Only his eyes move, scanning down the wedding dress.

“It has ties at the back. No zip. And I can’t undo them.”

He stalks around me—that sounds silly, but it really is the only word for it—and I stand perfectly still, as though I’m his little prey again. Like if I don’t move, and don’t attract attention, I’ll escape.

The first touch of his hands to my silk-covered back is so gentle I shouldn’t even be able to feel it. But I’m attuned to this man in some way I can’t explain.

He sighs deeply.

“What is it?”

“The knots tightened when you ran from me.” There’s a hint of judgement in his tone, and he pauses. “Do you like this dress?”

“No. I hate it.” I didn’t know I felt quite so strongly until someone—Zane—asked me my opinion.

“Good.”

He’s across the room and back before I can ask what he’s doing.

“Don’t move.”

I freeze.

The corset pulls tight at my waist, then there’s a crackle of metal into fabric, and it releases.

“Good girl.”

A blade slides up my spine and I’m breathless. He shifts the scissors, and the point presses into my skin. A shiver goes through me.

“Totally still,” he says sharply. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

Each snip of the scissors slices through the air. Then it’s off, and I’m free and pulling in breath like it had been choking me, which is ridiculous, because I ran in this stupid dress. But the relief is like it was chains not ribbon holding me into it.

“So beautiful.” A single warm finger brushes down my spine. “You’re mine, Willow. Sooner or later, you’ll discover that.” Zane’s kiss at my nape is unexpected, but soft and chaste and possessive in a way I can’t even begin to describe.

Then he’s out of the bathroom, leaving me alone.

As I finish undressing, I’m not sure what I wish had happened. I hesitate before stepping beneath the huge shower head, the feeling of Zane shimmering on my skin again. Then I force myself in, and the warm water soaks me from head to foot. Or at least, I tell myself it’s the shower and the deliciously scented toiletries I find. Every single one is in a thick bottle that states wealth. They smell like Zane, and I close my eyes and breathe it in. The water washes away the sweat and the tension and it’s impossible to feel worry about the future with the clouds of steam around me.

Zane is on the other side of the door, and I haven’t locked it. He could walk in, and I couldn’t stop him. He could get into the shower, naked, trap me between the cool tiles and his massive, hot body, and reach between my legs again.

I’m washing my thighs, and my fingers have found their way to where I’m wet and slick , not just with water. And sensitive. I’m on edge and tingly.

My shower thoughts have taken an inappropriate direction.

Touching myself in his shower… I shouldn’t.

However much I let the water flow there, I can’t stop the image of Zane and how I felt as he held and fingered me against the tree, or even the sweetness of being carried and having my feet washed. It’s as though all my nerve endings have lit up with his proximity.

My clit throbs.

And so do my feet.

Gulping, I move my hand away and dive out of the shower. The towel from the rack is so fluffy and white that it could have been stolen from the sky. It almost drags on the floor when I wrap it around my chest.

It’s only when I see the wedding dress flopped and ruined on the tiled floor like the crumpled tissue of a giant with a nosebleed, that I realise I have another problem.

Clutching the towel, I creep the door open.

“Little bunny.” His voice is a purr from the other side of the room. He’s rubbing his hair with a towel, and it’s messy in a way that makes him look much younger, even as the silver in it glistens. Dressed in jeans and a black-blue T-shirt, he takes me in at a glance.

“Sit.” He points at his bed.

“Woof,” I mutter, but I obey meekly. There is a first-aid kit on the dark, smooth covers.

His eyes are light with amusement as he kneels before me so we’re the same height. He really is absurdly tall.

I have no idea what he’s going to do, and then he takes my foot in his hand.

“You don’t need to…” I begin, only to be silenced by his hard look.

“You’re mine to care for.”

With steady hands, he applies antiseptic and little flexible clear dressings, pausing when I hiss from the sting. He does it all with absolute care and attention, as though he really did love me.

Scary thought. But not as strange as it was when he first said it.

“Thank you,” I say when he sits back, still loosely holding one of my ankles in his big hand, like he’s reluctant to let me go. Or perhaps it’s a cuff to prevent me from running again.

He nods, his brows low.

“I was going to ask about what to wear. Should I put the wedding dress?—”

“No,” he cuts me off. “And as much as I like you in that towel, you’ll be more comfortable in clothes that won’t fall off with a…” He brushes the back of his free hand against the towel, and I cling to it.

He smiles and tilts his head in an “I was right” indication. “Do you want me to pick you something out from my wardrobe, or choose for yourself?”

“I’ll decide,” I say impulsively, then bite my lip. Apparently not choosing my own wedding dress has left a bigger mark than I thought.

“Work clothes are in there.” He points at the massive wardrobe that’s straight out of a kid’s movie. His fingers still lightly hold my ankle, and it’s as though he’s totally forgotten to let go. “Casual clothes in the chest of drawers.”

I blink. “Are you suggesting I pick through your stuff?”

“You won’t find anything that will hurt you. Or me.” He smiles wryly, and I have to stop myself from throwing myself into his arms. “Go ahead. I have a couple of things I need to sort.”

He sinks into an armchair by the window that looks out over the garden where we walked up from the wood, takes out his phone, and begins to tap and swipe as though he’s checking emails.

You can tell a lot about someone by looking at their possessions, I think. I study the contents of his wardrobe. It’s all simple, of the finest quality. There are lots of suits that are in fabric so tightly woven that I can hardly make out the lines, in red-black or dark grey. The shirts are more varied, with white in different weights of fabric, every shade of a red the colour of wine, or blue-green. Then more in greys that range from a thin stripe on white to almost black.

Zane said he had something he needed to do, but despite that, and the lure of the gorgeous view, whenever I peek at him from the corner of my eye, he’s watching me.

That heats me all over.

I move to his large chest of drawers, and while they look heavy, the drawer slides out easily. The ease of quality that’s made to last. I blush when I find that it’s his underwear. Of course it is. It’s the top drawer, silly. But though I’m redder than a strawberry, I don’t close it quickly like I should. I take in the carefully separated piles of smooth, black boxer briefs, plain dark socks in neat pairs, and the cufflinks and watches that are so understated they can only be expensive.

The next drawer has T-shirts, again tidy, and in the same colour palate as his suits. Then stacks of jeans, and some casual shorts. Everything is in its place.

I’m building up a picture of a man who is almost pathologically controlled, but has an affinity for black and deep blues and greens and the red that’s like the berries I saw in his tattoos. I don’t dare ask him about any of that. He’s calm and confident, but observant as I examine every garment he wears. Touching the cloth that sits next to his skin feels safe by comparison to looking at him, and feeds what is rapidly becoming a compulsion.

I choose a T-shirt that’s almost as large as my bedsheet at home and the grey sweatpant shorts, and take both to the bathroom to put on. I leave my knickers folded up within the dress, and observe myself in the floor-to-ceiling mirror.

I’d look sexier with just the T-shirt, or a crisp white shirt. I know this. But I chose the safer option. I don’t have a bra because the corset on the dress didn’t allow one, and my nipples are sensitive against the T-shirt.

“So, what now?” I ask as I emerge back into the room where Zane is waiting.

He looks me up and down lazily, from my still damp hair to my bare feet. He’s not even pretending that he isn’t mentally stripping off these clothes.

All my firsts.

Is that going to include taking my heart?