25. Chapter 25
Tony brushed his lips over her shoulder, lingering there a moment as if he could brand her with the heat of his mouth. “You’re mine,” he murmured against her skin, his voice low, rough. “I know you don’t know what that means yet.”
Naomi shifted closer, curling into him like she belonged there, her cheek pressed to his chest. She breathed him in—his strength, his steadiness, that mix of spice and soap that clung to him. “You’re mafia, aren’t you?” she whispered.
Tony didn’t answer. He didn’t know what to say. If he spoke, he’d have to admit the truth, and right now all he wanted was for her to think of him as the man who held her when she shattered, not the monster who controlled Chicago’s underworld.
She pulled back slightly, squirming in his arms, and he almost cursed out loud at the surge of hunger that shot through him.
He forced his hands to still. She was hurt.
That bastard down the street had tried to take from her what was his to cherish.
She was shaken, bruised, fragile. Remember that, he warned himself.
But then she looked up at him, and her words shattered his restraint.
“You’re a wonderful, amazing man,” Naomi whispered. She reached up, cupping his face as though he was something precious. She kissed him, a soft brush of lips that undid him more completely than any gunfight, any war. Every time she touched him, his mind emptied of everything but her.
What was it about this woman? He didn’t understand it, but he knew one thing: when she’d been terrified, when she needed safety, she had come to him.
She’d chosen him.
That knowledge was heady. Fierce. He hadn’t been able to protect his mother, hadn’t been able to stop the violence that stole her from him. But Naomi—she was here. She trusted him. He could protect her. He would continue to protect her.
“I love you, Tony,” she whispered, brushing her lips over his again with a tenderness that melted his heart.
The groan tore from his chest before he could stop it. He kissed her back, careful of her bruises, desperate not to hurt her but unable to hold back the tidal wave of need.
“Make love to me, Tony,” she begged against his lips. “Please?”
Every last shred of his discipline crumbled.
He knew he should be storming to the hospital where the ambulance and police had taken the bastard.
He should be ending Tom Peterson once and for all.
But Naomi’s hands kneaded his shoulders, pleading softly against his mouth, and nothing—nothing—mattered more than being here with her.
She tugged at what was left of her torn tee-shirt and slipped it off, her courage stealing his breath.
“Naomi, maybe we should wait…” His voice was hoarse, noble words stumbling awkwardly out of a man who had never been noble in his life.
Her answer was to catch his hands, pressing them to her breasts. “I need you to touch me, Tony.” Her eyes shimmered with vulnerability and stubborn resolve. “I don’t want to think about that man touching me. I want to think about you. About your hands. About your body.”
She kissed him again, fiercer this time, then whispered against his lips, “I want to feel you inside me. I want you to wash everything else away.”
Her fingers slid down, fumbling with his fly.
“You’re hurt,” he tried again, his last attempt at sense. “You should be seen by a doctor. Just to be safe.”
But his hands were already on her waist, already aching to claim every inch of her.
“You make me feel safe,” she said, then started to scramble down off of his lap.
He knew exactly what she wanted to do, but that wasn’t going to happen.
Instead, he lifted her up off of her knees, placed her on his office’s sofa.
They changed positions and he pulled her leggings off, watching her eyes to make sure that she was truly okay with this.
He wouldn’t make love to her. He’d pleasure her, then try again to convince her to see a doctor.
He had several on call that were private.
Then she shoved her panties down. He really needed to buy her new lingerie. This white cotton stuff was driving him wild. Every time he saw it, his head spun with desire.
Once he’d stripped her clothes off, gently, he spread her legs wider. He didn’t have to try hard. As soon as she knew what he was going to do, she opened her legs for him.
With his tongue, lips, and his fingers, he made love to her, feeling her hands in his hair, then her body shifting against his mouth.
It was hot and he had to fight to control his need to slam into her.
He was still fully dressed, but his woman was hurt and needing him to make her feel better. He would control himself.
At least, that’s what he told himself when she cried out, her hips lifting as her first orgasm rolled over her.
He eased the pressure, slowing down. Then tried to take her into his arms. But Naomi had other plans.
She pushed him back, laying him down on the carpet.
She didn’t bother to take his clothes off.
Instead, she unzipped his fly, taking his erection in both hands.
She stared down at him as she held herself over him, hovering, taunting him.
Tony forced himself to hold still, to not take control. He stroked her thighs, waiting for her to do what she needed.
Slowly, too damn slowly, Naomi lowered herself onto his shaft, taking him completely into her heat. It was erotic, demanding, and so damn hot, he nearly gave in to the pleasure.
But his woman needed something. Control? Cleansing? Whatever she needed, he was going to give it to her. He was going to lay back and let her have control.
She lifted up, then slid down his shaft, stroking herself with him.
He watched as she closed her eyes, placing her hands on his chest to brace herself.
But in this position, her sensitive nub was too far, not able to enjoy the friction that she needed to accomplish her goal.
So, he helped her out. Pressing his thumb against that nub, he stroked her, moving with every thrust, showing her how to pleasure herself.
He even took her other hand, placing it over his so that she could guide him.
By this point, she was too far gone for inhibitions and she moved his thumb, putting it exactly where she most needed the stimulation.
He could tell when he got it “right” because her moans increased, her head falling back as she rode him to a climax that had her shuddering with release.
Afterwards, he wanted to deny himself his own pleasure, wanting her to relax, but watching her pleasure herself like that was too hot. He rolled her over, thrusting into her faster and harder until they both shuddered with release.
Only then did he roll onto his back, carefully pulling her onto his chest.
“We need a bed,” he mumbled, trying to remember how to breathe. He lifted a hand, smoothing her hair back from her face so he could look at her.
“This is pretty nice,” Naomi whispered as she snuggled closer.
“Marry me,” he blurted out.
That surprised them both. He hadn’t thought about marriage, per se.
He’d thought long and hard about ways to keep her in his life.
He’d paid off her student loans, built a closet just for her, and made love to her every night so she was too exhausted to think about driving back to her apartment.
She was, for all intents and purposes, living with him already.
Sure, there were still some clothes back at her place, but they were the pieces she didn’t wear anymore.
So, it felt right to propose—even if he hadn’t been smart enough, or romantic enough, to do it with a ring in hand.
Still, Naomi lifted her head, staring at him as if he’d just blurted out something completely absurd.
“Excuse me?” she whispered, her lips parting, tongue darting out to wet them nervously.
Tony’s first instinct was to get up and get her something—water, maybe that wine she liked from two nights ago.
Something to distract her from the fact that he was terrible at this.
But damn it, she felt too good pressed against him, her warmth sinking into him, tethering him here. He wanted this for always.
“Marry me,” he repeated, this time with more conviction. He brushed her hair back so he could see her eyes—those eyes that undid him every single time.
Her lips curved slightly, caught between disbelief and wonder. He saw it—the spark—and it tugged at the corners of his own mouth. Almost a smile.
“But…you’re…” she faltered.
“I’m what?” he asked, tensing up.
“You’re mafia,” she breathed, her words feathering across his chest before she kissed the center of it.
Her gentle touch, the way she lingered against him, scattered his thoughts completely. Until her words sank in.
Mafia.
The word landed like a weight in his chest. For the first time in years, Tony felt something close to fear. A sharp, crushing fear that had nothing to do with bullets or blades.
“Excuse me?” His question came out rougher than intended.
Naomi slid off of him and stood, her movements graceful but flustered, and he couldn’t help admiring the sight of her bare, glowing skin. Was she trying to distract him? She didn’t need to. She always did.
Then she disappeared into the bathroom. Seconds later, she returned, still naked, only to gather her clothes and begin dressing in quiet efficiency.
Her voice was barely a whisper. “We didn’t use protection.”
Tony froze. For a man who could plan, implement, and anticipate any issue or obstacle in the path to success, that single sentence had him reeling. He stood, cleaned up quickly in the bathroom, and when her words hit him fully, his stomach dropped.
No protection. No condom.
Holy hell.
He walked back into the room, bracing a hand against the wall as his thoughts scrambled. “Naomi!”
She turned, her smile soft, her eyes bright—not panicked like his. She was radiant, glowing in his shirt and her leggings. “Did you mean it?” she asked.
He blinked. “Mean what?”