Chapter 16 #2
He pulls his head back and flashes me a smug grin. “I give you a couple of good orgasms, and you’re fussing over me like a mother hen.”
Damn. I feel warmth creeping into my cheeks, but I do my best to ignore it.
“You’re awfully full of yourself.”
“I like it when you’re full of me.”
So do I, but I don’t say that out loud. God, his mouth. I love it when he talks dirty to me. When he tells me every filthy thing he wants to do to me. It makes me wild for him.
We kiss again. I’m about to lose the towel I’ve loosely wrapped around myself.
I step back, holding the towel firmly in place. “You need dinner.”
“Fine.”
Although I want to kiss him some more, I restrain myself.
If this keeps up, we’ll end up back in bed, and even if I’d like nothing better, now that my brain is functioning again, I’m back to wondering what had him so worked up when he walked through the door.
I know it’s not anything to do with Luna and Priest, or he would have said so.
But the possibility that it’s related to the psycho Russian stalker has unease tightening its hold on me.
I slip past him and head into his bedroom, where our scattered clothing and the rumpled bed are a reminder of everything that just happened. Hastily, I pick up my clothing with as much dignity as I can muster and start heading out of his room with it tucked under my arm.
“Where are you going?” he demands.
“To get dressed.”
His head pops around the doorway. “I want to keep you naked and in my bed all night long.”
Sounds like paradise to me. Also sounds dangerous.
Sternly, I remind myself that if I’m going to do this, cross this boundary with him and stay firmly on the other side until I leave the city or we both grow tired of each other, then I need to keep a good head on my shoulders.
I can’t allow myself to be entirely in the dark about the world he inhabits. Particularly as it pertains to me.
“What was bothering you earlier?” I ask him, shifting gears.
His expression shutters. “Nothing.”
Disappointment laces through me, but what did I expect? That he would suddenly morph into someone he’s not? That he would confess his deepest, darkest problems to me?
“See you in a few,” I say, and then I breeze out of his room.
Thankfully, my walk of shame isn’t far. I make it to the guest bedroom and close the door before slowly exhaling. I have no idea what I’m doing, aside from having mind-bendingly good sex with a man I shouldn’t even be alone with, let alone hooking up with.
Cid is curled up in the middle of the bed, clearly having abandoned his perch in the living room in favor of the king-size in the guest room that he manages to hog here too. He sees me and stretches, giving me a wide yawn.
“Hard life, being a cat?” I ask him.
He blinks at me, about as responsive as Alessio when my questions pertain to anything other than sex. Great. I’m being stonewalled by both of the men in my life right now.
Men in my life?
Gah.
What am I thinking? I’m so not thinking. That’s what I’m doing, and that’s what the problem is. I’m letting my ovaries overpower my good judgment. Falling into bed with Alessio again was a mistake. Too bad I don’t regret it.
And that I want to do it again.
Cid makes a cute cat sound at me and gets up, ambling to the edge of the bed. I give him a few obligatory caresses because he’s adorable and he’s soft, and I need a minute to gather my bearings.
Another scratch of Cid’s soft little head, and I throw on some clothing. Alessio really does need to eat, and I also need to get to the bottom of whatever his sudden change was all about.
By the time I pad into the kitchen in my bare feet in search of him, Alessio is rummaging through the fridge, shirtless and wearing a pair of sweatpants that hug his ass perfectly. He sends a glance toward me over his shoulder, a smile transforming him from gorgeous to drop-dead gorgeous.
It’s easy to forget again that he’s a mobster.
A criminal. A man who breaks the law for a living, using any nefarious means possible.
He looks sexy and accessible right now, like a model posing for a shot, like a man I could have a future with instead of a dangerous kingpin I should avoid like toxic waste.
“Hey,” he says softly.
He’s not scowling at me. Not mocking me. Not glaring.
I don’t know what to do with this gentler version of the man.
He’s giving me major Alessio in St. Thomas, before I knew who he really was, vibes.
But now I know he’s not completely either one of the faces he’s shown me.
He’s not just the charming bartender. He’s also the cutthroat, ruthless Mafia consigliere.
A man who will do anything he has to do.
“Did you find anything to eat?” I ask him, trying to navigate my way.
I don’t know what we’re doing, what we are. I don’t know anything, really, except that whatever it is we have can’t last.
“I need to put a call in for a restock. All I see is some sad, wilted Romaine, expired milk, and a jar of pickles.”
His fridge definitely does scream bachelor pad. Somehow, I’m not surprised that he has a personal shopper. He probably has a housecleaner too, which is why his place is so annoyingly tidy and spotless.
“There’s some leftover Indian takeout in there,” I say.
“Vincenzo told me you ordered from my favorite place.”
He’s been checking up on me. I’m also not shocked at his confirmation.
“It was fantastic. You should heat up the rest.” I lean against the counter, trying to act nonchalant about this, even though I’ve never been a casual, no-strings-attached sex person.
I’ve also never been into mobsters, so I guess there’s a first time for everything.
He cocks his head at me. “You sure?”
For a second, I think he’s talking about the inner battle I’m waging with myself over how to feel about the fact that I just took a major leap I wasn’t prepared for. But then I realize he means the Indian takeout.
“Go for it.”
He takes the remainder of my bounty to the counter and silently busies himself by opening containers and prepping the food to be warmed up.
“We have the same taste,” he tells me, piling everything onto a plate and carrying it to the microwave.
That would have been at least two meals for me, if not three.
Apparently, Alessio has worked up quite an appetite.
When I think of how, I need to cross my ankles and press my thighs together to ward off a pang of desire.
I have absolutely no defenses against the things he does to me, the way he makes me feel. How much I want him.
Think of something else, Isla, I tell myself.
“You don’t mind spice?”
“The spicier, the better.” He finishes at the microwave and turns to me with a cheeky grin.
I know he’s talking about more than the Indian food he’s warming up. I also know my face is on fire. The things he did to me, the things we did together. I’ve never experienced anything like Alessio before.
I swallow hard and try to pretend like I’m unaffected. “Same.”
My clit is pulsing, just standing here. I’m thinking about the suction of his mouth, the light abrasion of his teeth.
My ass tingles from his finger. No one’s ever gone there on me before, and it’s not something I knew I would like until I felt him playing with me.
Any embarrassment or hesitation I might have felt had long since flown out the window at that point, and I’d just given myself over to him.
The microwave beeps, and he hauls out the plate, taking it to the counter where leather-topped stools are lined up. We ate at the formal dining table last night. There’s something laid-back and cozy about him eating at the counter on a stool. I feel like I’m intruding.
“Have a seat,” he tells me, gesturing to the stools. “I’ll go get us drinks. What do you want? Glass of wine? A lemon drop?”
He’s hearkening back to that night I first met him, when I thought he was a bartender. I was so wrong.
“A glass of wine would be nice,” I say as I settle on a stool.
“You got it.”
He disappears for a few minutes, and I know he’s at the bar that overlooks his incredible view of the river. I hear the clinking of glasses, the plunk of a cork being pulled, then the unmistakable sound of wine being poured.
When he comes back into view, he’s got a glass of wine in each hand. He’s so beautiful, his chiseled stomach and muscled chest and arms on display. The bulge in his pants is the stuff of gray-sweatpants-season legend.
I jerk my eyes up to his, but I know he caught me looking by the smirk on his lips as he hands me the glass. “Here you go.”
I take the chilled glass, our fingers brushing. “Thanks.”
Just the graze of his skin on mine is enough to rekindle the fires inside me.
He sits on the stool next to mine and holds up his wine to me. “To doing what we shouldn’t.”
“I can drink to that.”
We clink glasses, and I take a big sip of wine to try to calm my jittery nerves. I still need to figure out what’s going on. Why he blew into the apartment like a hurricane hell-bent on destroying everything in his path.
Alessio tucks into the paneer and chili chicken with gusto. “Damn, I forgot how good this is.”
As he’s chewing, I find my nerve to bring it up.
“Want to tell me what happened today?”
He freezes mid-chew and shoots me a look I can’t define. Frustrated? Annoyed? I’m not sure. Then slowly, he finishes chewing, swallowing the bite with great deliberation, his eyes never leaving mine.
“What happened, tesoro, is that I gave you the proper fucking you deserve.”
Warmth zips down my spine. “Not that. I’m talking about the reason for your dark mood when you got here. You looked like you wanted to tear down the world with your bare hands.”
He takes a sip of his wine. “I do, knowing that Russian prick was after you.”