Chapter 6
LUNA
“Miss me, baby?”
I spin around, the sole of my shoe clattering to the polished hardwood at my feet.
And there he is, hot, dark, and deadly. Priest Andriani. Standing smugly in front of a locked door I didn’t even hear him unlock, let alone open and close again.
“You,” I snarl, bending down to pick up my fallen weapon.
“I wouldn’t if I were you, topolina .”
The warning menace in his voice has me hesitating a second too long.
Before I can reach the heel, he’s on me, somehow tackling me with a sudden grace that takes me by complete surprise.
Nothing hurts. This isn’t a violent assault.
He’s simply outmaneuvered me, pinning me to the floor with his body, his knees on either side of my hips.
My wrists are over my head, his fingers encircling them in a grip that’s firm but not painful, holding them to the floor.
His face hovers above mine, starkly beautiful, the dark shadow of stubble lovingly covering his jaw making him look even more dangerous.
And sexy as fuck too. He’s ditched the suit and is wearing only black trousers and a white shirt, his black silk tie rubbing sinuously between my breasts.
His scent curls around me. I want to breathe him in deep and never let go.
It should be criminal for a murdering psycho to smell this good.
“Let me go,” I grit out.
His smile is feral. “Not yet.”
The weight of him on me is primal and masculine.
Intimate too. His cock is a blatant bulge I can feel against my lower belly.
Heat snakes through me, unexpected and undeniable.
I’ve got a serious case of swooning ovaries syndrome, and that’s a problem.
Because right now, what I need to focus on is escaping the gangster on top of me.
“What took you so long?” I demand, struggling against his hold, to no avail.
“So you did miss me, then.” His grin deepens, creases appearing in the corners of his eyes, and—I swear to God—the man has dimples.
But fuck him and his dimples. I need to get out of here.
I need to return to my life. To my MFA. To the poetry book I’m working on and the future that’s waiting for me.
A future where there aren’t any hot, insane mobsters trying to force me into marrying them or holding a gun to my head and a big, hard dick to the rest of me.
“I missed you like I’d miss the stomach flu,” I say, struggling to knee him in the balls.
It doesn’t work, of course. He’s made certain there’s no way I can injure him. He’s stronger than I am, bigger than I am, and he had the element of surprise in his favor. Plus, he’s definitely no stranger to fighting.
He laughs, his breath coasting over my cheek, and it’s fruity and tart, like an apple. “I’m touched.”
There’s something ridiculously ludicrous about the thought of him snacking on an apple while he’s kept me trapped in this room like a prisoner.
“You smell like apples,” I say, struggling against him some more.
Is it just my imagination, or is his cock somehow growing larger? Harder?
“I was eating one.” He’s still smiling down at me, not at all winded, while I’m breathless, and his amusement is seriously pissing me off.
“Aren’t apples too wholesome for psychotic murdering mob bosses?” I demand, wanting to wipe that grin off his lips. “Shouldn’t you be eating the livers of virgins or something instead?”
“I guess I could try. Are you a virgin?” He leans down, rubbing his cheek against mine, the rasp of his five-o’clock shadow making my nipples tighten. His lips find my ear. “But then, it isn’t your liver I’d want to eat, sweetheart.”
I jerk against his hold on my wrists, wanting to slap that conceited expression off his face. “Let me go.”
The hot, wet glide of his tongue on my ear, tracing the whorl, makes me gasp. My clit throbs, wishing it were receiving this same treatment.
“Hold still, or I’ll fuck you here on this floor, right here, right now.”
“A rapist and a murderer,” I bite out, breathless. “What a lucky girl I am that my heartless father landed me such a catch.”
His tongue finds a sensitive dip just below my ear, and I have to bite my lip hard to keep from making any sounds. So hard, I taste fresh blood.
“It wouldn’t be rape, and we both know it, bella ,” he murmurs into my ear. “You want me.”
He’s not wrong. Unfortunately, I can’t control my body’s attraction to a despicably handsome man, despite the fact that my rational mind knows exactly what and who he is. Dimples, five-o’clock shadow, and an eight-pack, and I have no morals.
“Go to hell,” I tell him, tugging at my wrists.
“One day.” His lips glide over my neck. “But not yet.”
“I’m not going to marry you,” I warn him, “and you can’t keep me here like this. Let me go.”
“You are going to marry me, and I have no intention of letting you go.” He raises his head, looking down at me, his startlingly blue gaze dipping to my mouth. “You’re bleeding again.”
“You probably caused it to reopen when you tackled me,” I lie, wanting him to feel something.
Compassion? Contrition? I’m not sure what.
“Let me make it better,” he says, and then he dips his head and licks the blood from my cracked lower lip.
This man is insane.
He kisses me lightly, his lips fluttering over mine. For a moment, I forget to breathe. Forget to think. The sheer dichotomy of such a tender caress from a man so deadly and venomous is something I can’t wrap my head around.
But then I remember.
I’m on the floor. I’m powerless. I’m his captive.
I remember, and I sink my teeth into his lower lip, biting him as hard as I can.
He stiffens over me, but he doesn’t make a sound.
Not a howl of pain. No reaction but lifting his head to stare down at me, blood forming on his lip.
I watch the bead grow, ruby-red and ominous, until it spreads too far and drips down onto my mouth.
His head swoops, his lips crashing on mine, sealing our mouths together.
It’s not so much a kiss as a brand, a claiming.
There’s pain and pleasure in it, force and might and warning and the coppery tang of blood, mine and his mingling together.
Above my head, he moves my wrists so that they’re pinned by his forearm, and then his hand is on me, sweeping over my sides, checking my pockets. I turn my face to the side, struggling for breath, severing the connection of our mouths.
“What are you doing?”
“Checking you for a gun or a knife,” he says simply, as if it’s totally normal to tackle me, kiss me, and then frisk me.
I turn back to him, unable to look away. There is blood smeared on his sensual lips. Our blood.
“I don’t have a weapon,” I force out. “I’m a writer. The closest we get to weapons is our pens and keyboards.”
He shifts, finishing his search of me, and I try to remain numb to that traveling hand, telling myself it doesn’t affect me. Not at all.
Lying, basically.
He quirks a brow. “I’ve seen what you can do with shoes. We need to talk. I’m going to release you. But I need you to understand something. If you strike me or attack me in any way, it won’t go well for you.”
“I already bit you,” I point out, because clearly I’m asking for trouble.
“Yes, but I liked that. It was hot as fuck.”
God.
His words send more heat zinging through me.
Heat I should not feel. I don’t want to marry this man.
I don’t even want to be in the same room as him.
And yet, deep down, a primitive part of me wants him.
What the hell is wrong with me? It’s got to be shock from everything that’s gone down today. Maybe Stockholm syndrome?
“Your promise,” he presses me.
“I could lie,” I point out.
“Yes, and then I’d tie you to the bed like I warned you. Or I’d send Saint or Scorpion or Lucky in here instead. And believe it or not, topolina , none of them is as patient as I am.”
“Don’t call me little mouse,” I snap.
“We’ve been over this.” His grin turns a little nasty. “I call you whatever I want. Now, do you play by my rules, or do you get tied to the bed?”
I don’t want to be tied to the bed.
I also don’t want a visit from any of his crazy brothers.
I definitely don’t have the upper hand in this scenario.
So I have no choice but to nod. “I’ll play by your rules.”
“Not so fast. Repeat after me: I, Luna Revello, promise to play by your rules, Priest Andriani.”
“You bastard.”
He stares down at me, waiting. Silent. His cock is an insistent ridge against me, his scent enveloping me in a poisonous cloud of stupid lust. This power dynamic between us is turning him on. But weirdly, he’s not the only one.
It’s official. He’s certifiable and so am I, but more than anything right now, I just need some distance between us. I need to be able to breathe without thinking about his monster dick.
“I, Luna Revello, promise to play by your rules, Priest Andriani,” I grit out, half mumbling, annoyance coloring my words.
And just like that, he moves, rolling off me and rising to his feet with the same sinuous grace he used to trap me on the floor. He holds out a hand to me.
I eye it like it’s a rattler poised to strike. But in the end, I’m shaken. The last thing I want to do is make a fool of myself struggling to my feet. So I settle my hand in his much larger one. He hauls me to my feet with one tug.
Our hands are still entwined, and I stare at them stupidly, intrigued by the ink swirling over his skin, my heart racing. But then he releases me just as quickly as he lifted me from the floor.
“How much do you know about Amedeo Revello?” he asks, and all the heat burning through my veins is cooled by icy dread.
Priest
“Enough to know he’s dangerous.”
Luna’s voice is flat when she makes the pronouncement.
And that alone tells me more than mere words ever could.
Because I’ve witnessed her battling me toe-to-toe ever since she showed up at Club Venere.
She’s been fearless and badass. But unless I’m mistaken, Amedeo “the Animal” Revello terrifies her.