Chapter 8
Van's hand finds my thigh the moment he shifts into drive, his fingers burning through the midnight silk like a brand.
The simple touch sends liquid heat spiraling through me, and I have to press my lips together to keep from making a sound.
Chicago's lights blur past the window as his thumb traces lazy circles against the fabric, each stroke making my core clench with need.
"This is probably not what Dom meant by 'staying close for protection,'" I say, trying for bright but sounding breathless. "Though I have to say, your hand is very… protective. Very thoroughly protective of this specific part of my thigh."
I should push his hand away. Should tell him this crosses every professional boundary he's so carefully maintained. Instead, I find myself shifting slightly, the silk pooling higher on my legs, giving him more access to the bare skin just above my knee.
"Are you okay?" Van asks, his voice cutting through the charged silence, but his hand doesn't move.
I turn to study his profile in the dashboard light, hyperaware of how his fingers flex against my thigh with each gear change.
Even now, driving me home, he maintains perfect control except for this one point of contact that's making me dizzy with want.
His other hand grips the steering wheel with the same steady precision I watched him use to disable that man who threatened me tonight.
"I'm processing," I admit, my voice breathier than intended as his thumb finds the sensitive spot where my thigh meets my hip.
The age gap between us has never felt more apparent.
I'm twenty-three and sheltered, getting wet from a simple touch, while he's thirty-five and capable of things that make me ache with need.
The way he moved through that chaos tonight, how easily he handled men twice my size, I'm not terrified by what he did.
I'm something else entirely, something that makes me want to part my legs and beg him to slide his hand higher.
"Processing what?" Van glances at me, something dark flickering in his steel-gray eyes as he notices how I've melted into his touch.
His fingers press deeper into my flesh, not quite a caress but far more than professional contact. The tension crackling between us makes the car feel smaller, makes the midnight silk of my gown feel like liquid fire against my heated skin.
"How easily you could have killed him." The words come out as barely more than a whisper, and I press my thighs together around his hand, trying to ease the ache building between them.
His jaw tightens, but he doesn't deny it. Instead, his fingers slide an inch higher on my thigh, the touch deliberate now, claiming. "I probably did," he finally says.
"So you're like a Caravaggio painting," I blurt out, because apparently my brain defaults to art history when processing homicide. "All that beautiful violence in chiaroscuro. Dark and light. Death and salvation." I pause. "That sounded way less weird in my head."
His fingers stop moving. "I killed a man, Carmela. How does that make you feel?"
The question hangs between us like a trap. I know what the right answer should be, horrified, afraid, repulsed. But with his hand on my skin and the memory of his cold efficiency protecting me, all I feel is a desperate need for more.
"Safe," I breathe, then immediately flush at how needy that sounds.
His hand stills against my thigh. "Safe?"
"You probably killed him," I repeat, turning more fully toward him, letting the silk fall away from where his fingers rest against my bare skin. "These same hands that saved lives in surgery, that could end them just as easily, and you used them to protect me."
Van's grip tightens, his thumb pressing against the rapid pulse in my thigh. "You shouldn't find that comforting."
"But I do." The confession spills out before I can stop it. "I shouldn't want the man Dom hired to protect me to touch me like this, but I can't stop thinking about what else these hands could do to me."
The car swerves slightly as his control slips for just a second. When he corrects, his hand slides higher, fingertips brushing the lace edge of my panties through the silk. The contact makes me gasp.
"Fuck," he mutters, but he doesn't pull away. "We can't do this."
"Can't we?" I shift again, letting my thighs fall open just enough that his fingers slip between them. The silk bunches around his wrist, and I can feel the heat radiating from his palm. "Because it feels like we already are."
His breathing changes, becoming rougher as he feels the damp heat of my arousal even through the layers of fabric. "This is a bad idea."
"The worst," I agree, but I'm already aching for more pressure, more contact.
Van doesn't answer, but his fingers press more firmly against me, finding my clit through the silk and lace. The touch is electric, and I can't stop the soft moan that escapes.
The silence stretches until he pulls into his building's underground garage, the engine's rumble dying away.
In the sudden quiet, I can hear my own breathing, can feel the weight of everything unsaid hanging between us.
His hand is still between my thighs, still making me tremble with need, and we both know there's no going back from this.
"We just declared war on the Torrinos," I whisper, but even as I say it, I'm arching into his touch.
"I know." His voice is rough with want as he finally, slowly, withdraws his hand from beneath my dress. But his eyes stay locked on mine, dark with promise. "And right now, all I can think about is how badly I want to fuck you until you forget your own name."
The crude words send liquid heat straight to my core. I've never heard him talk like this, raw and possessive and absolutely filthy. Instead of shocking me, it makes me desperate for more.
"Then why are we still sitting in this car?" I challenge.
Something snaps in his expression. Before I can take another breath, he's out of the driver's seat and pulling my door open, hauling me against him with desperate hunger. The kiss is nothing like our last one. It's raw need and days of building tension finally breaking free.
We stumble toward the elevator, hands roaming and mouths clashing, the midnight silk of my dress creating friction between us with every movement. By the time we reach his apartment, we're both breathing hard, both past the point of pretending this is just professional duty.
"You shouldn't have been there tonight." Van's voice is clipped as we step into his apartment, all exposed brick and industrial shadows. He strips off his bow tie with sharp movements, the formal black fabric falling forgotten to the floor.
But now his words feel different. Not dismissive, but protective. Possessive. Like the thought of me in danger affects him on a level that has nothing to do with his job.
"Don't." I turn to face him, my midnight blue gown suddenly feeling like armor between us. "Don't dismiss what happened like I'm some child who wandered into adult business."
"You could have been killed." He shrugs out of his jacket, tosses it over the back of his leather chair. The violence in his movements makes my pulse spike and my nipples harden against the silk of my dress.
"So could you." I step closer, silk swishing around my ankles. "That's your job, isn't it? To protect me, even if it gets you killed?"
Van goes still, his gray eyes flashing dangerous. "That's exactly what it is. A job."
But I see right through that lie now. Not after the way he touched me in the car, not after the way he's looking at me like he wants to devour me. "You act like your life is disposable. Like I shouldn't worry whether you come home alive."
"You shouldn't." He stalks closer, backing me against the exposed brick wall. "Worrying about me isn't part of this arrangement."
"Oh good, another rule. You should write them all down—maybe in a nice bullet-point list? I could laminate it. Make it official. 'Things Carmela Is Not Allowed to Feel, Volume One.'"
He grunts. Typical.
I laugh, but there's no humor in it. "The way you looked at me tonight, the way you touched me in the car. Was that part of this…this arrangement?"
"You don't know what you're talking about." His voice drops lower, more dangerous.
"I know you want me." The words hang between us like a challenge. My heart pounds so hard I'm sure he can hear it. "I know you think about me when you shouldn't. And I know you're lying to yourself about what this is."
Van braces one hand against the brick beside my head, caging me against the wall. The midnight blue silk of my gown creates a barrier between us, but I can feel the heat radiating from his body, can smell his expensive cologne mixed with something darker, more primal.
"You have no idea what I think about," he growls, his free hand fisting in the silk at my waist. "No idea what I want to do to you."
"Then show me." The words slip out before I can stop them, and I see something snap in his control.
His mouth crashes against mine with desperate hunger, all pretense abandoned. The kiss is raw need and days of building tension finally breaking free. His tongue invades my mouth, claiming it like he owns it, and I melt into him with a moan.
I fist my hands in his shirt as he pins me against the brick wall, the rough texture scraping against the silk of my dress. He tastes like whiskey and power, and I'm drowning in it. My core throbs with each stroke of his tongue, and I can feel myself getting wetter by the second.
"Fuck," he breathes against my lips, one hand tangling in my curls while the other gathers bunches of midnight silk in his grip. "I've wanted this for days. Wanted to bend you over my desk and fuck you until you scream my name."
The confession sends liquid heat spiraling through me. His words are filthy, possessive, and they make my core clench with need. He's rough and commanding and absolutely fucking dirty.