His Mafia Queen

Teasing

Teasing

GABRIEL

Riley's trying to hold it together, taking measured, deep breaths and not meeting my gaze here in the back of the limo. But she's doing a terrible job of it.

And frankly, so am I.

Back there, in the darkened hallway at the party—I hadn't planned on that. Hadn't plotted to kiss her silly and finger her until she was dripping wet. No, I'd merely been worried when she was gone so long. For some irrational reason, I thought something awful had happened to her, and that sent me into a frenzy. Then I thought she might have left, and that made me feel even worse.

That was when I went down the hallway myself. When she came out, looking so beautiful, almost lost, I had to kiss her.

Had to touch her. Had to tease her.

And oh my, she was so fucking glorious. Wet and willing, begging and wanton. Something about her desire was also lacking in calculation, like she hadn't planned any of it. I'm sure she hadn't, because I hadn't planned all this either.

But I'm damned glad it's unfolding the way it is.

The sensation of her wetness remains on my fingers, her taste in my mouth. And all I can think of is what I'm going to do when we get home.

The car pulls away from the curb and we ride in silence for a few long beats. I'm lost in thought, in that fog of foreplay, hard as a rock.

"Gabriel?" she says, still looking out the window.

Her hand is on the seat between us, and I cover it in mine. "Yes?"

She twists to face me. "I know I'm not your usual type."

This rips me out of my fantasy. What is she talking about? "I don't have a usual type."

Her eyes take a slow roll. "Sure. I'm certain you do. Virgins, most likely."

A chuckle slips from my mouth. "Where do you get these ideas?"

"I've read things."

I lift her hand to my lips and kiss her fingers. "Tell me about these things."

"Men like you prefer younger women." Her tone sounds wounded, and all I want is to soothe her concerns.

I gently bite her knuckle. "Hmm. I wouldn't say that's true, but in your particular case, it is."

She makes a harumph sound, an adorable squeak of indignity. "And I've read that powerful men like virgins. It's an outdated, sexist notion that an untouched woman is pure and preferable. I need you to know that I'm not a virgin."

"I guessed that from the way you kissed." I fight back a smile and trail my lips up her hand, toward her wrist.

"I'm experienced." She lifts her chin and stares at me haughtily.

"Good," I say in between kisses. "I like that in a woman. I'm not here to teach, and I'd much rather learn something from a woman who knows what she's doing."

This seems to stump her, and she's silent while I kiss and nibble at her skin. She shivers under my touch.

"I'm also not Italian."

"I know. That's fine with me." Preferable, in so many ways. My lips are on her forearm now and I'm scooting closer.

"I'm not wealthy."

"Okay. No problem."

"Or famous, like Lexi."

"I can handle that." I'm at her neck and my nose is skimming along her soft skin. Somewhere in the back of my mind I wonder where she gets the notion that I want to date someone famous, like Lexi. That's a discussion for another time.