Total pages in book: 56
Estimated words: 54103 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 271(@200wpm)___ 216(@250wpm)___ 180(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 54103 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 271(@200wpm)___ 216(@250wpm)___ 180(@300wpm)
"Guilty for being with me," he says fiercely, reclaiming my hip as if asserting ownership: this piece of me and my entirety. He draws me closer. "When you want to be with me."
"This version. This facet. This nuance." I pull away despite my reluctance, grateful for the other families' presence to maintain our propriety. "This moment."
He stares meaningfully as I turn to take my shot. I'm perplexed by his mounting frustration. I was transparent about this earlier. Besides, what does he expect from me? A relationship?
When I used to envision my ideal mystery man, of course, I'd contemplate what a relationship might be like. I'd imagine a vague yet bright future filled with painting, living, laughing, and loving like that clichéd poster—clichéd precisely because it epitomizes what authentic life should be like.
My ball strikes the rotating windmill blade and rolls back several inches. Nico grins, and I reciprocate. Somehow, it's that effortless. With the versions of ourselves capable of burying everything else.
"Let me help," he offers, positioning his ball.
"I doubt you can."
"Don't be so pessimistic, Vignette."
He strikes his ball, so it collides with mine, propelling it beneath the windmill and out the opposite side. I watch incredulously as it rolls into the hole. I rush to him, laughing, bouncing excitedly. "Does that qualify as a hole in one? What's your verdict?"
"I think if I don't kiss you immediately, I'll die."
He enfolds me in his arms. The kiss is swift and respectful yet simmering with desire.
The quickness of the kiss intensifies its illicit allure.
"And yes, Vignette, that was indeed a hole in one."
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.