Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
Nico
My hand rests possessively on her hip as I lead her away from the miniature golf course. The one-night stipulation weighs on me, though it shouldn't. She's essentially a stranger. Why should I care? That ought to be my attitude. But can't a man be intrigued, curious, perhaps slightly obsessed?
"Are you hungry, Sienna?" I inquire.
She turns with a dazzling smile. The miniature golf awakened her adventurous spirit. Yet occasionally, that look dissipated. As if reminded, she resented me or what I stand for. Now, her mask is firmly in place. A captivating mask.
"No," she replies. "I think you should take me home."
"Are you concerned you'll feel guilty for grabbing a bite with me?"
I speak without thinking. I only recognize how deeply I've wounded her when I notice her glaring across my car's roof. "I don't think you're in any position to use that against me."
"It wasn't us," I snap, slamming my palm against the roof. "It wasn't me. It was the old Family, the old Bratva. I wasn't at the helm then."
I get into the car, already lamenting my loss of composure. I typically maintain control, but not with Sienna, my vignette. She slides in and says, "So you know who it was, then."
"I know who was engaged in conflict, but not which specific crews were involved."
"You swear you weren't involved?"
I clench my teeth. "We’re done speaking about this."
"Says who?"
I pivot, gripping her leg, and squeeze her voluptuous thigh with savage pressure to eliminate any question about dominance. She attempts nonchalance, but desire floods her face. I press my lips against hers with unparalleled conviction.
"I want to believe you," she moans, gasping between fervent kisses.
"I've already told you. I've said enough."
I kiss her lips, then her cheek, then her neck. She surrenders, tilting her head to provide better access for my kisses. Though not an artist, desire guides my actions. I kiss, then gently bite her neck, sliding my hand higher along her thigh.
"Not here," she whimpers.
"But somewhere," I groan.
"Just take me home."
"Why don’t you try saying that without moaning?"
"T-take me..."
She moans when I kiss down her neck, gliding my hand toward her enticing sex. Only the possibility of someone watching us deters me. Despite tinted windows, this is still reckless.
"Please." She adjusts her shirt. "I want to go home now."
"Okay. Let's go. Punch your address into the GPS." I pull away, winking. "And tough luck."
"Tough luck?" she retorts. "I kicked your ass."
"But failed to beat my record."
She laughs. "There's still time."
"No, there isn't. One night, remember?"
"Says the man who dropped a bombshell, then refused to elaborate."
"I can't."
"You're a mob boss. You maintain a facade. You weren't involved, but maybe you can identify who was. Stop me when I get something wrong."
I grind my teeth again. Discussing Family matters with outsiders violates my every instinct.
"I... strive for improvement," I growl. "But that's enough."
"You're not the Don of me , Nico."
One hand on the wheel, I return the other to her leg. "Tell that to the sound you just made," I groan. "That exquisite moan, suggesting you yearn to belong to me, despite knowing you shouldn't."
She gasps as I ascend her leg. A moment of hesitation passes, her muscles tensing, before she sighs and relaxes. She's offering herself, perhaps because she believes me or simply can’t resist.
I press my palm against her crotch, feeling her warmth through the fabric. She gasps and shifts her hips, her moans like strokes of desire against my rigid arousal. Desire seeps from me as I intensify my ministrations.
"Tell me I'm not in control now, piccola pittrice ."
"You're... not..." She gasps, synchronizing her movements with my hand's rhythm, seemingly involuntarily. I struggle to maintain focus on the road. This is reckless—not merely because of traffic, but because of us. How can I experience her perfect, responsive body, then forget her?
I need to keep this casual. One night.
She grips my wrist. Initially, I think she’s going to push me away. We're driving down a quiet street, but she's still trying to be subtle. Her body trembles as her climax approaches. She subtly adjusts my hand, and I respond with increased fervor.
Her moans transform into gasps, as if oxygen eludes her. She turns aside, biting her shirt collar to suppress a scream. I continue relentlessly, only withdrawing when we run into traffic.
"That was... unexpected," she murmurs.
"Indeed," I snarl.
"Don't apologize," she says.
"I had no intention to."
"Oh—good. Some men might."
"I don’t care what your other men did."
"I didn't specify my men ," she replies. "But yes, that was... satisfying. A memorable way to remember each other."
"We'll meet again."
She adjusts her clothing. "But not like this."
I touch her leg again, but at the knee. I don’t want anyone else to witness her complete surrender to pleasure, her full-body tremors. My arousal rises at the mere thought.
"If you insist," I say fiercely. "But I suspect you'll miss being bad."
"Why this sudden tough act? Is this your Don routine?"
"This is who I am, Vignette, with everyone."
"I thought the nicknames were confined to miniature golf. You should probably drop them."
"I would if you didn't clearly relish them."
"Pfft. You flatter yourself." But she's lying. She can’t hide it from me. Our minds may be adversaries, but our bodies communicate with perfect clarity. "So, you don’t believe this one-night thing is real?"
"After kissing you, touching you, forgetting is impossible."
"You have to. This was just casual fun."
"Fine, maintain that pretense. But don't rule out more 'casual entertainment.'"
"No—rule it out."
“We'll see," I say, squeezing her leg. "But when I touch you thus, even at the knee, you quiver. Your body heats. For me, piccola pittrice ."
"N-no," she stammers, convincing no one. She pushes my hand away. "If you’re not going to be straight with me, at least acknowledge when I say we've gone back to square one. Just like that." She snaps her fingers. "Now, you're just the hedge fund executive, and I'm simply the artist."
"I refuse to go back. I won't forget what your perfect body feels like. Or how you light me up. I certainly won't tonight."
She regards me with intrigue, excitement, feigning indignation. "What do you mean—tonight?"
"Care to speculate, Vignette?"
"Are you saying you'll think of me and..."
"You've already driven me to distraction."
"Have I? Not that I care..."
"Sure," I say. "I mean it. From our first encounter, I was captivated, Sienna. Completely enthralled by you. You're beautiful, unique, artistic, quirky... and profoundly sensual. Incandescently sensual."
"Incandescent?" she murmurs.
"I think you know. You like it."
She bites her lip, shaking her head. Either she's reading my mind and knows my triggers, or she's naturally this alluring. "Perhaps," she says softly. "I might have fantasized about discovering someone... and maybe, recently, since seeing you, I embellished those details. I might have entertained some silly notions because talking with you feels easier than it should. But that was before, Nico. Be. Fore."
Her expression hardens with resolve. " You know what I’m saying. You understand my reasoning."
"We should exercise restraint," I tell her.
Not solely due to her convictions. I'm escorting Anya to an upcoming gala. I can’t risk offending the Russians, despite my growing weariness with appeasement. I feel my darker impulses surfacing.
"We should ," I reiterate. "But your presence brings out a new side of me."
"That's flattering. Truly. But put that aside. One night—and it's over."
"The night hasn't yet ended."
She crosses her arms defiantly. "Yes, it has."