His Mafia Queen

Depraved and Desperate

RILEY

I should break away from him, should run out of this house. But I can't concentrate on anything but his lips and what they're doing to me—melting my normally hard, rational insides into a thick, needy goo.

"Riley," he whispers against my mouth.

I lunge for another kiss, not wanting to break this intense spell. His mouth is hot and wet and greedy, and his tongue is a velvet swipe across my lips. The taut muscles of his arm circle my body, and I can feel the scorch of his skin. The way my body fits into his, like a perfect puzzle piece, makes me want to cry out from both terror and recognition.

It's frightening to feel what I'm feeling right now. To feel what I shouldn't.

"Gabriel, no," I pant, squirming away.

He allows it, although there's a fire in his molten, dark eyes. A scowl on his brow, too.

"I'm sorry, I can't..."

"Don't apologize. Your reasons are your reasons. I'd never force you to do anything like—"

"I need to sleep." I flap my hands in the air, flustered to find that somehow he's given me the key and I'm holding it. "I'm just...tired."

He steps back, running a broad hand through his black hair. He's built like a god, his broad shoulders and carved cheeks, his chiseled jaw and full lips. He's got a raw, animalistic energy about him, a change from his amused, polite expressions. Right now, he looks like a warrior out for blood, yet all I want is to bring him to his knees.

That might be the worst impulse I've had. No one brings Gabriel Greco to his knees, and I'm in no position to right now, or ever. Probably because I know he would break me, physically, mentally and emotionally, cracking my heart in two and licking out whatever love I have left to give.

"Of course, you should sleep," he grinds out.

"Thank you for dinner," I whisper, unlocking the door.

"See you tomorrow." He seems like he's having trouble catching his breath. I am, too.

I slip behind the door and shut it, making sure it's locked to the fullest extent possible.

"Oh, fuck," I whisper, collapsing on the giant bed. My insides are quaking, my breath is coming in short, shallow gasps, and I'm drenched between my legs. My chest feels tight and I don't know why. I want Gabriel so badly, and I'm scared that I'm going to fall apart at any moment. This man kidnapped me. And yet, I came so close to dragging him into this bedroom and fucking his brains out.

This isn't me! What is happening here? Am I under some kind of spell?

I can't answer any of these questions, because my mind is only on him. On his intense kiss, his insistent touch. The way he stared at me possessively, and the way he politely stood aside when I said no, knowing it must have taken herculean restraint.

There are only a couple of things that will alleviate this desperate, needy feeling building inside me. One of them is walking down the hallway now—thank god—and I can hear his footsteps fade.

The other is in my hands, literally. I shove my fingers down the waistband of my pants, between my legs, to that wet and throbbing place.

I imagine him taking me upstairs to his bedroom, which would be as starkly beautiful as his office. He would take what he wanted from my flesh, because that's the kind of man he is. He would pin me down, trap my wrists, clasp my slender throat in his big hand.

And he'd praise me. He'd tell me I was a good girl while clutching a fistful of my hair. He'd make me deep throat him, forbid me to touch myself, tell me that I was the best at sucking cock.