Page 90 of Mila: The Godfather

The current Parisi boss included.

Message from M

Dear, C

Did I say something wrong?

I am sorry if I made you uncomfortable. I miss your messages.

I hope you’re okay. - M

Dancing in the Rain

MILA

“Kill them with kindness, she said. Nah, how about with a bullet?” – R

The next evening, I find myself laid back on the bean bag next to the mini bookshelf, reading the book I was halfway through before I left Detroit and got caught up in Riagan O’Sullivan’s world. The book is an enemies-to-lovers, age-gap romance with praise kink. I know, I know. I don’t seem like the type of bookworm who would enjoy the darker themes in books, but I do. In fact, I much rather read a taboo romance than your typical vanilla read. It’s not that I don’t enjoy sweet romance because I do very much, but there’s something about the anti-hero falling for his woman with all those emotional moments that I enjoy.

I am clueless when it comes to men and how their mind works, aside from what I read on the internet. I probably shouldn’t use fictional books written by women to try and understand the male brain when it comes to love and romance, but it’s a good source of distraction, and I am not ashamed of it. My books gave me unique and exciting worlds to escape to when my own was dark and scary. I got lost in the words the authors wrote for hours on end, and for the amount of time it took me to read the stories, I felt happy and safe.

But now, I am here in a world that is not my own and feels much like the ones of my books.

But it’s not fictional at all.

It’s real.

Riagan’s world.

He’s a man with his own demons that I do know. I see the same darkness in his eyes that I did in my sister’s. Both of them. I can recognize it anywhere. It should scare me, but it doesn’t. It somehow beckons me forward until all I want is to peel each and every one of his layers and find out all that he is. And then there was that kiss.

I’ve read a thousand first kiss scenes, but nothing could’ve prepared me for the moment my lips touched his. There was a current of electricity that struck me and traveled through my body, covering me in heat.

His heat.

Even now, thinking about it makes me feel warm all over. Another new reaction that only he provoked in me.

His lips were soft.

Softer than I initially thought by the looks of them. His kiss was gentle at first until I responded. That’s when he touched my neck, pulled me closer, and stole the air right out of my lungs.

It was earth-shattering.

Kissing him felt just like freedom tasted. Like basking in the sun when you’ve been cold for so long. It felt like nothing I’ve ever felt before and thought it would.

Now, my mind is in shambles.

He doesn’t want to be friends. That much I know. Do I dare hope that he wants more?

Friends don’t kiss each other like we did, do they? No, I don’t think so. The lines are blurring, and my mind is becoming a mess when it comes to him.

I hate messes, but I’ve come to crave his sweet chaos.

When I’m right in the middle of a scene where the hero is giving the heroine cunnilingus in his office desk while holding her down and calling her his good girl, there’s a knock on the door.

Heat creeps up my neck to my cheeks.

It always does when I get to the intimate parts of a story.

---