Chapter 12 Santino #2
Not when she feels this fucking perfect.
I can smell her, and my mouth waters. My cock throbs again, a heavy, insistent pulse that demands more contact.
I’m hyperaware of every inch where we touch, her thighs spread over mine, the hem of her dress riding higher with each tiny shift, the way her spine arches slightly so her breasts push forward.
If she rocks just a fraction more, the head of my dick will be nestled right against the cleft of her ass.
Then she slowly crosses her legs.
The motion drags the silk another dangerous inch up her thighs, and the new angle presses her bare cheek directly against the rigid line of my erection.
No fabric between us now except my slacks.
I feel the heat of her skin, the soft give of flesh, and my brain short-circuits.
A low, involuntary sound catches in my throat, half growl, half groan, and I pray no one else hears it.
Then the truth slams into me.
She’s not wearing panties.
The realization detonates behind my eyes.
I slide my hand lower, pretending to steady her, but really to confirm.
My fingers brush the underside of her thigh, then higher, until the pads of my fingertips meet nothing but smooth, bare skin where underwear should be.
No lace. No silk. Just her. Wet heat radiating against my palm as I stop a breath away from her pussy.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
I want to sink two fingers into her pussy right here, right now, feel how soaked she is for me, how her walls flutter and clench the second I breach her.
I want to pump them in and out, slow at first, then faster, curling to stroke that spot to make her gasp my name.
I want her juices coating my knuckles, dripping down my wrist, marking me as thoroughly as I’m marking her.
My palm itches to slide higher, to push that hem up the last two inches and cup her bare pussy in front of them all.
I want to part her lips with my thumb, circle her clit until her hips jerk, until she’s riding my hand shamelessly while I deal the next hand with the other.
I want to feel her come on my fingers, her thighs trembling around my wrist, her breath hitching against my neck as she tries to stay quiet and fails.
I want to pull my fingers free, slick and shining, and lick them clean while Dmitri and Alexei watch, jaws clenched, knowing they’ll never taste what’s mine.
Then I want to stand her up, spin her around, and drop to my knees behind her. Spread her open with both hands and bury my tongue in her until she’s sobbing, until her knees buckle and she’s braced on the table, chips crunching under her palms.
Fuck, I’m going insane.
My fingers flex against her thigh, a fraction from where I need them. One shift, one slide, and I could have her. One flick of my wrist and she’d be open to me, wet and ready.
The restraint is agony, a white-hot wire pulled taut across my spine.
My cock jerks again, trapped, aching, begging for the slick heat I can feel radiating against my palm.
I’m one breath away from losing it completely.
Every drop of blood in my body is now in my cock, which is leaking precum into my boxers, the damp spot growing with every heartbeat.
But we’re surrounded by five of the most dangerous men in the city, and every single one of them is watching her like she’s the pot they plan to win tonight.
I force my hand to still, fingers splayed possessively over the tops of her thighs, shielding her from view. My voice, when it comes, is rough and firm.
"Liana," I say quietly, urgently, my voice strained. "Get up. Now."
"But there's nowhere else to sit!" She shifts slightly, getting comfortable, and the movement sends a jolt of sensation straight through my body. "This is fine, right? We're engaged. Everyone knows we're together. It's not weird."
She settles in more comfortably, one arm draping around my neck with casual intimacy. Like we do this all the time. Like sitting in my lap during a high-stakes poker game is perfectly normal behavior.
"So!" She looks down at my cards with obvious curiosity. "What are we playing? Texas Hold'em? I've watched it on TV."
"We're not playing anything. I'm playing. You're just sitting here."
"Right, right. What cards do you have?" She leans forward to see the cards better, and the movement presses her more firmly against me, her back against my chest.
"That's a good hand!" she announces to the entire table. "You should bet more money!"
"Stop looking at my cards," I say.
"Why? I'm just trying to help." She shifts again in my lap, and I honestly can't tell if it's deliberate provocation or genuine obliviousness.
"Your deal, Marcello," Carlo says, his eyes fixed on Liana rather than the cards. Everyone's eyes are on Liana, drinking in the sight of her.
I try desperately to focus on the game. Try to think about strategy and probability and reading other players. Try to remember why I'm here and what's at stake.
It's completely impossible when she's wiggling restlessly in my lap, her body moving against mine with every small adjustment. Sweat is beginning to form on my forehead and my shirt is getting damp underneath my jacket.
I deal the cards with hands that are steady despite the chaos happening in the rest of my body.
Years of practice allow me to go through the motions mechanically.
The round continues around the table. I fold immediately, unable to concentrate enough to play the hand properly.
The cards might as well be blank for all the attention I can give them.
Liana pouts prettily, her lower lip pushing out. "Why did you fold? You had good cards! I saw them."
"The cards weren't good enough to continue," I lie.
She shifts again, and I grit my teeth to keep from groaning. "Liana," I say very quietly, leaning close to her ear. "We need to talk. Outside. Right now."
"But the game just started—" she protests.
"Now," I repeat, my voice carrying an edge of desperation and anger and desire all mixed together.
She looks at me over her shoulder, and something flickers in her dark eyes. Recognition. Awareness. She knows exactly what she's doing to me, exactly what she's discovered when her ass shifted on my hard cock. She’s known the entire time.
"Okay," she says sweetly, all innocence.
But when she tries to stand up, I stop her with my hand on her hip.
Because if she stands now, everyone at this table will get a clear and unobstructed view of what I just discovered.
They'll see everything uncovered between her legs. Her dress has slid up in the back and there’s no way she can stand without flashing the men at the table.
"In a minute," I correct, pulling her dress down as far as the limited fabric will go, which isn't nearly far enough. "After this hand finishes."
"Okay!" She settles back against me with another shift of her weight, more pressure, more contact.
Goddamn.
My arm around her hip is the only thing covering her ass at this point. I'm going to completely lose my mind before this night is over. Or lose my control entirely.
Probably both.
The hand plays out with agonizing slowness. Dmitri wins the pot, gathering his chips with a satisfied smile. But he's watching Liana the entire time with an intensity that makes my fist clench involuntarily, makes my hands tighten on her possessively.
"Your fiancée is very... distracting, Marcello," he observes with barely concealed amusement.
"Yes. She's leaving now."
"What’s the hurry?" His eyes travel down deliberately to where my hand is gripping her thigh possessively, where the dress has ridden up to reveal far too much. "She seems quite comfortable where she is. She can stay as long as she wants."
"We're engaged," Liana says brightly, turning on the charm. "Of course I'm comfortable! Why wouldn't I be?"
She uncrosses her legs to stand up, and the movement reveals everything to everyone for a split-second.
Alexei's eyes go straight to the motion, tracking down to her thighs, to what's between them—or rather, what's conspicuously absent. His expression changes dramatically. Understanding and realization dawning across his face.
He looks directly at me and grins wolfishly, like he's won something. "Your fiancée is very bold, Marcello. Very adventurous."
"She's leaving right now," I repeat.
"Why? The game is just getting started." Dmitri is looking now too, both brothers staring at her with far too much interest, far too much appreciation.
My free hand moves toward my jacket, toward where my gun rests in its holster. A clear warning.
"Gentlemen," I say very calmly, in the tone that normally makes people nervous. "Eyes on the table."
"We're just admiring—" Alexei starts to say with that insufferable grin.
"Now," I repeat.
Something in my tone—the genuine threat—makes them both look away immediately. Smart men who know when they've pushed too far.
Carlo is watching this entire exchange with interest, probably wondering if violence is about to erupt at his poker table. If he needs to clear the room or call for additional security.
It very well might erupt. I'm barely holding myself back.
"I think we should take a break from the game," I announce to the table, standing abruptly and pulling Liana up with me in one smooth motion. I keep her positioned with my body blocking the view from the others.
"So soon?" Dmitri sounds genuinely amused by this entire situation. "The night is still young, Marcello. Plenty of time for more hands."
"I need to handle something urgent."
"I can see that," he says, glancing at my pants with obvious implication.
I guide Liana toward the door with my hand firm on her lower back, controlling her movement entirely, not giving her any chance to reveal more. Behind us, I hear Alexei laugh and say something in rapid Russian that I don't quite catch.
I spin around to face them, my hand still on Liana. "What did you say?"