Chapter 36
Chapter Thirty-Six
VIOLA
That look. God, that look. I didn’t expect it to hit me this hard.
Suddenly, every breath I take carries the scent of him.
My thighs press together on the leather seat, trying to ease the sudden, insistent ache that’s building in my belly.
I’ve never thought of myself as sexual. Never the kind of woman who gets wet just from sitting next to a man.
But right now, all I can think about is riding him.
Sliding my hand over the hard muscle of his thigh, feeling the strength of his gorgeous, thick, hard cock inside me, stretching me until I scream his name.
Fucking. That’s what I’m thinking about. Crude, raw fucking. Nothing soft. Nothing romantic. That’s good, because the softer version is more dangerous. The softer version makes me want to crawl into his lap right here in the middle of traffic and beg him to love me.
I stare out the window, trying to focus on the buildings and taillights, but my eyes keep drifting back to his hands.
The way his fingers wrap around the wheel, veins standing out, knuckles flexing every time he shifts lanes.
I remember those fingers curling inside me, stroking that spot that made me see stars.
My breath catches. The car suddenly feels too warm, too small.
I almost reach for the window to roll it down, but I stop myself.
If I do that, he’ll know. He’ll see how badly I’m unraveling.
Thankfully, before I can embarrass myself completely, we pull into the parking lot of a grocery store.
The sun is low in the sky as Ricci parks smoothly, kills the engine, and turns to me.
His eyes catch mine for a second, and I feel that pull again — sharp, electric, almost terrifying in its intensity.
He gets out and, before I can even move, he has come around to open my door.
I step out and the cool evening air hits my flushed cheeks like a relief.
Wordlessly, he offers his hand, and I take it.
His palm is warm and calloused, and the moment our fingers lace together my heart does a stupid little flip.
We walk toward the entrance like that — hand in hand.
Inside, the store is bright and quiet, the kind of place where it smells faintly of fresh bread and herbs.
Ricci grabs a cart, but I can feel how vigilant he is.
His gaze moves constantly, scanning the aisles, the other shoppers, the exits.
When I start to stray a little too far to look at a display of olive oils, his arm slides around my waist and pulls me back against his side, firmly and protectively.
“I don’t have my men with me,” he says quietly, voice low against my ear. “So stay close.”
I understand. In our world, you never let your guard down, especially not the new Don.
I nod and press a little closer, letting the solid warmth of his body steady me.
We move through the aisles together, him pushing the cart with one hand while the other stays on me, sometimes at my waist, sometimes brushing my fingers. It feels… good. Strangely good.
I find myself watching him closely, at what he’s choosing. I notice he is going for the cheapest brands. Not guided by the price, but what he remembers buying a long time ago when he had no money. As he said earlier, he is making poor people’s food.
I catch myself laughing softly when he teases me about my “fancy” taste in butter, and the sound surprises me.
For a little while I forget that I’m the widow who married her husband’s second-in-command before the gravestone was erected.
I forget everything except the way Ricci’s arm feels around me and the way he looks at me.
Like I’m the only woman in the world worth looking at.
Eventually the cart is full, and it’s time to leave.
He pays, and the cashier smiles in a bored fashion at us as if we’re any normal couple.
As we walk back toward the car, I spot an ice cream vendor near the exit.
A small tub of salted caramel catches my eye.
I want it, but I hesitate. I don’t want to pull him out of his way or make this trip take longer.
He notices. “You want that?” he asks, voice gentle.
I nod, cheeks warming. “Yes… but only if it’s quick.”
He smiles and steers the cart over. We stroll together, his arm still around my waist. He doesn’t get any for himself — just watches me pick the pint, his thumb brushing slow circles against my hip. The simple touch sends heat racing across my skin again, but I breathe through it.
Back at the car, I insist on helping him load the bags into the trunk, our hands brushing every time we reach for the same bag.
The sun is setting now, painting the sky in deep oranges and pinks, and the air is cool and golden.
It feels unreal — this beautiful evening, this beautiful man, this beautiful little slice of normal.
He opens my door first, waits until I’m settled, before going around to the driver’s seat. I click my seatbelt into place as he slides behind the wheel.
“Ready to head back home?” he murmurs.
I look at him and feel that pull again, stronger than before. Home. The word feels different when he says it.
“Yes,” I whisper. “I’m ready.”
The car pulls out of the lot, carrying us back toward the penthouse, toward whatever comes next.