Chapter 7 Viviana
VIVIANA
Once again, I debate whether this is happening.
The man I haven’t stopped thinking about is my best friend’s brother. His showing up and disrupting my attempt to stop thinking about him leaves me in utter disbelief.
I shouldn’t even consider the possibility of us. It will end in catastrophe, yet I ignore common sense, wanting to see where this thing transpiring between us leads.
With him, I am not Viviana Bertinelli, a Mafia princess, but simply a woman. A woman who has been slowly dying under the pressure—internal and external—is burying me.
There’s a strange connection linking me to him. As if destiny had been resting, it then stirred to inflict mayhem.
What have I even agreed to?
An illicit affair? A secret relationship?
The fact is, it will have to end. But not now. Wishing to live for a while, experience more of the wondrous things he evokes. I’ve been hungering for some passion, and now I might choke on it.
He gazes at me with intense, deep brown eyes that bore straight into my soul, thrusting an anchor straight into my being, roping me in for good—hook, line, and sinker.
I hide my face behind my palms, incapable of understanding my unruly behavior.
“Don’t hide from me,” he says in that deep husky voice that has butterflies clapping their wings erratically in my belly.
Reaching his hand over the table, he pries my hands away, leaving me bare and open for him, vulnerable yet emboldened. Strange how he can peel my layers with such ease, and I can’t do a thing but let it happen.
I hope he’ll be gentle because I’ve been terrified to uncover myself when he craves to see me—all of me.
He offers me his hand, and not for the first time tonight. There’s something hidden in the gesture I can’t pinpoint, but it’s like he draws me more and more to him, making me forget reality.
I take it as if he’s the last strand of my sanity when it’s the exact opposite.
This man has a natural ability to make me feel safe. Nothing could happen to me, yet he’s the very threat that might cause my foundation to collapse.
He smiles at my hand in his, eyeing it with something akin to reverence as he intertwines our fingers. His solitude mirrors mine, reverberating through me.
“Let’s go look at the stars,” I murmur, hoping the chilly air will cool down my system.
He sweeps his gaze over my body, frowning.
Just in a flimsy top and shorts, I understand his reticence.
“You can keep me warm,” I tease, hoping for a flirty tone.
He arches a brow, not seeming persuaded. “If you catch a cold…” he says low, a threat dangling in there as if he will take it up with nature if it dares to harm me.
A hot wave rides through my bloodstream. I’ve caught something—a fever. All my symptoms point toward one sickness. One I debate whether it’s even curable—Tristanitis.
In the hallway, he drapes his coat over my shoulders, and hand in hand, we go outside. Billions of stars flicker above our heads, yet it’s nothing compared to my chest lighting up at his mere presence.
On the chaise lounge, I sit down, and he places a blanket over me. Then he gets the fire started in the pit before hurrying into the house and returning with a bottle of wine and two glasses. Filling both, he sits next to me, cutting every bit of space between us.
He pulls me into the crook of his arm, and I inhale a deep breath, but it’s filled with his heady scent and this overwhelming feeling of belonging. The crisp temperature doesn’t affect me as I burn up in his presence.
I cuddle even deeper into his side, seeking more than his warmth, wanting to burrow myself into him so we merge, becoming one, and I can preserve this moment forever.
Sipping the red wine, savoring the light, fruity, and earthy notes, my gaze sweeps from him to the ocean that laps at the shore.
The breeze blows a biting wind, causing chills to prickle my skin.
Sensing that I am cold, he stokes the flames, causing the wood to crackle in the fire pit and to expel warm air as if in competition with the coldness, counterbalancing it.
Intimacy soaks the silence, carrying a familiarity I’ve never experienced until him, stargazing long forgotten.
“What are you thinking about?” I blurt, overcome by the need to discover everything about him.
“Not thinking.” His brows furrow as if he can’t believe he said that. “Just enjoying some peace.”
“Must be nice. My thoughts run nonstop through my head.”
He chuckles. “I have that effect.”
I nudge his side. “I’m sure you do,” I mumble, jealousy dripping from every syllable.
He grips my chin, tipping my face up to look him in the eyes. “You want honesty. Here it is. No woman has made me feel like you do.”
My heart soars in my chest, feeling elated. I want to believe what he says so badly, but I am nothing special, so I doubt it.
His facial features pull taut. “Hmm, we must work on your confidence. I can’t have my woman feeling anything less than the goddess she is. My queen.”
I giggle, loving the playfulness. “You’ll see I am nothing like a goddess.”
“Then you don’t see what I am seeing. We should go check your eyes,” he says, no trace of amusement in his voice, boosting my confidence.
It’s a heady feeling, seeing myself through his eyes. He makes me feel beautiful. Seen.
I rest my cheek on his chest, doodling. “I like being in your arms.”
“I like that too.”
I am drifting off when he kisses the top of my head and lifts me up. Engulfed in his powerful arms, he carries me back inside, where he helps me out of his coat.
He doesn’t ask; he simply takes me to his bedroom.
“Quite presumptuous,” I say, voice heavy with sleep.
“I didn’t hear a no.”
Something tells me I could not deny him anything, which is terrifying, even though his presence is thrilling. A combination custom-made for the reckless.
As he places me on the bed, I moan, loving the silk sheets caressing my skin.
He undresses, sleep instantly fading away.
Planes of muscles ripple with each inhale, carving his body, skin glowing gold in the moon’s light as if casting a spotlight on such a magnificent male specimen. He looks so hot, my mouth waters.
His eyes twinkle with mischief, aware of his effect.
My hormones bathe in his luxurious presence, viscerally affecting me as he takes his time, oblivious to what it means to rush or hurry—used to things always going according to his plan, his will. He emanates a silent power from having already proven his worth.
It’s quite addictive.
In just his boxer briefs, he slips under the covers. His body emanates so much heat.
I squirm, feeling all over the place—emotionally, physically, mentally. Torn between wishing to stay and needing to leave. Where to flee where he wouldn’t find me. Remaining will ensure I can somewhat control the situation.
He drapes an arm over my belly and pulls me to his side, ending my distress.
“Will you…we?” I stammer, unable to ask. Wanting it to happen again, but terrified of this getting out of hand.
He chuckles, kissing the side of my head. “So eager for me?”
“No.” I hesitate. “I…”
“Don’t lie to me,” he says, flicking a strand of hair back to nibble my neck.
The sensation rushes straight to my toes, curling. My clit throbs incessantly.
“Just curious,” I say breathlessly.
“You have access to my body like I have to yours. Free use.”
This sounds even more dangerous.
“Yeah?” I murmur.
“Mm-hmm,” he says, sounding hoarse and trails a finger up and down my belly. “But I’m in no hurry.”
I whip my head toward him. “Don’t you want me?”
His hand curls around my throat, holding it there. Witnessing that silent warning makes me an even hotter mess.
He rocks his hips, and I feel him hard behind me. “Is this proof enough? I want you not only to want me but to crave me.”
I already do.
In his own way, he courts me, which is so sweet. My heart quickens—a cadence dipping and lifting with every syllable of his name.
I turn in his arms, palming his cheek. “Thank you.”
Gratitude overwhelms me. I don’t even know exactly what I am thanking him for.
He lifts my hand and places a tender kiss on the inside of my palm; I feel it in my chest.
I fall asleep enveloped in him so that by the first sunrays, I conclude that sharing a bed with him is even more intimate than fucking.
Opening my eyes, I find his already fixed on me. Arm propped, he holds his cheek in his palm, watching me.
Heat warms my cheeks, and I drag the sheet over my face, suddenly shy.
He pries it down. “No hiding.”
“How long have you been awake?”
“I haven’t slept at all,” he says, his eyes sweeping over my face as if mapping every inch.
That is oddly romantic, making my heart rate triple. I am afraid one of these days it might take off from my chest.
“Afraid I would slip out?”
His eyes darken. “Never do that again.”
“I won’t,” I breathe out, not shaking the impression that I am agreeing to so much more.
Rolling me onto my back, he settles himself between my legs and runs his nose along my neck, making the throbbing between my thighs pulse, desperate to be eased.
Until him, I had no trouble taking care of the itch when it presented itself, but it stopped being enough. The gratification stake is higher. I need more—more than my fingers, more than a good smut book.
“You smell so good. And you let out these sweet sounds.”
“I snore?” I ask, mortified.
He chuckles, lifting my hand to his mouth and kissing each fingertip.
“You still haven’t answered.”
“Let’s pretend to disagree. You say snoring, I say singing.”
Yeah, right, he’s such a charmer.
Dipping his face, I close my eyes, savoring the press of his lips on mine. Each swipe is a testament to want. Each nibble is a show of desire. Each kiss, an ambrosia-filled ruin.
Locking my arms around his neck, I give in, letting this man seduce me kiss by kiss, which only makes me starved for more.
While I steal moments with him, he steals pieces of my heart.