15. Chapter 15
Tony wasn’t sure what the hell had just happened.
He’d certainly had sex before—more times than he could count, with women who had come and gone from his bed without leaving a mark.
But never like this. Never with this mind-altering, soul-shaking intensity that had left him gutted, undone, and somehow put back together again.
Even afterwards, when he’d pulled himself together long enough to grab a towel, clean up, and bring her some water, his body still thrummed from it.
His mind refused to believe it. Then she curled against his chest, and every instinct screamed at him to push her away, to send her home before he destroyed her.
But he didn’t.
He wrapped his arms around her instead, holding her close, stroking her back, her legs, the silken tumble of her hair.
Her hairband had vanished at some point—lost somewhere between the kitchen and his bedroom—and he didn’t give a damn.
He liked it this way, wild and messy, like her trust in him had shattered the control she kept up.
His fingers tangled in it, and that chaos only deepened his satisfaction.
He rolled onto his back, tugging her more firmly against his side, smiling ever so faintly when she sighed and molded her body to his. Her breasts pressed against him, her bare leg sliding naturally over his hip and thigh, fitting like she had always been meant to be there.
Exactly where he’d wanted her since the moment he’d first laid eyes on her.
But he hadn’t dared imagine it could feel like this.
Hell, talking with her over dinner had been good. Too good. Watching her lick sauce from her lip, hearing that soft moan of appreciation for his pasta—it had rattled him more than a fist fight ever had. Everything about her stirred something inside him he thought had been burned out years ago.
When he was a teenager, sleeping in roach-infested rooms and running deals with Sal just to survive, he’d dreamed of this.
A safe, protected home. A woman who wasn’t jaded, wasn’t cruel.
Someone who could balance the darkness inside him, soften the edges of the man he’d been forced to become. Who could bring a little sunshine.
And here she was, snuggled against his chest, her warmth seeping into places of him he’d thought were frozen solid.
He knew the exact moment sleep claimed her—the subtle shift in her body, the way her breath deepened and evened out. The trust in that surrender cut him deeper than any blade.
This, Tony thought, was what contentment felt like.
And he didn’t deserve a moment of it.
His past was carved into him—blood, lies, violence.
He’d buried bodies. Built up businesses with merciless methods.
He’d blackmailed, bribed, threatened, even killed some really bad people.
His hands were not clean, never had been.
Naomi was too good, too sweet, too damn pure to be tangled up with a man like him.
Every part of her shone in ways he could never touch without leaving a stain.
The right thing—the only decent thing—would be to slip out of bed, drive her home, and never touch her again.
But Tony Mancini wasn’t a decent man. He was a selfish bastard who always took what he wanted. And right now, what he wanted was her.
So, instead of doing the right thing, he pulled her even closer, pressed a kiss to the top of her head, inhaling her sweet scent deeply, and let his eyes drift shut.
If this was wrong, he decided grimly, then he’d just have to live with the sin.