Page 91 of The Mafia's Broken Vows

“Was that too much, tesoro?” I murmur against her skin as I massage the jagged scar on her hip.

“No, it was . . . good.” She finishes in a throaty whisper that tells me just how good it must have been for her.

“And my weight?” I ask just to distract my wayward mind from conjuring hundreds of other ways to deliver on the pleasure-pain edge she loves, but it’s the wrong thing to focus on because the thought of her delicate frame under my two hundred pounds of muscle triggers a fierce sense of protection . . . and another wave of lust inside me

“You are heavy.” Her fingers stroke down my back. “But your bed is glorious. It feels like being pressed into fluffy clouds. Although I think my ears are bleeding. Do you need to have it on so loud?”

“Yep. I was going a little bit mad. I’ll turn it off as soon as you stop gripping my cock so tightly, and it’s safe to pull out without risking a penile degloving.”

She giggles. “Ew, Dante, your pillow talk needs serious work if you think that was even remotely romantic.”

I trace the thin scar between her breasts. “You don’t do romantic, tesoro. You’re a fucking cesspit of a thousand ways to die.”

Addy’s chuckles dissolve into full-on belly laughs, the sound vibrating from her small frame and through me.

“You ever think that something in your subconscious sensed that your life with Benjamin O’Shea was a lie? That maybe you need for answers may have led you down this forensics path?”

She nods, although her eyes appear shuttered. “For as long as I remember, I’ve had nightmares. They seemed so real, so graphic. I just didn’t understand why I kept having the same dream. In time I accepted it. Embraced it even.”

Addy lifts her gaze to meet mine. “Then I started to wish they’d go on for longer, so that I’d see more details, like the face of the masked man. Or glimpse the title of any books covering an entire wall. The woman had red hair like me, you know. I used to think it was the blood that made it red, but now I know.”

I turn onto my back, taking her with me so she’s sprawled on my chest, her ear against my pounding heart. “That was too much to deal with at that tender age.”

“I know. I was about six or seven when I told my dad about the woman and the masked man in my dreams, but he brushed it off. He showed me pictures of my mom—a blonde woman—and my dad—a ginger like him. And in time, I started to see more photos around the house, and then we visited gravestones every year . . .” she trails off.

I shut my eyes against the rage churning inside me. What kind of sick bastard treats a child like that? I want to kill him almost as much as I’m grateful that he saved Addy’s life.

She shrugs as if it’s not a big deal and changes the subject. “Seriously though, Dante, do you have the music on so loud so people wouldn’t overhear us? You didn’t even scream all that much. I mean, yes, you yelped now and again, but on the whole—”

“Yelped?” I ask, suppressing a chuckle.

“Fine.” She sighs. “I’ll tell the truth then. It sounded more like screeching.”

Suddenly, I shift her to the bed, rolling her to her stomach. Then grabbing her wrists in one of mine, I smack her ass. Hard. She yelps, glaring at me in mock indignation, but I already caught the lust swirling in her eyes the moment my palm hit her ass.

God help me with this woman.

I spank her until her ass cheeks are red with the imprints of my palms and she’s moaning into the pillow, then I let go of her wrists and start to stroke the sting away.

“I sometimes need the music to anchor me, keep me from spiraling out of control when things are a little . . . tense.”

She goes still, then turns on her side to look at me. “Is it like Kira, you know how she has a hypersensitive sense of hearing, smell, and touch? Do you feel too much sometimes?”

“It’s not so much how I feel as how I sometimes process information.”

“I have no clue what that means, Dante.”

“I know, tesoro. I’ll explain later.” I glance at my wristwatch. “Right now, I need to go. Work calls.”

I press a tender kiss to her neck, then reluctantly stand. As I shut off the speakers and dim the lights, I feel Addy’s eyes following my movements. “You should get some sleep, Addy,” I call over my shoulder, heading to the bathroom.

When I return, shrugging on a fresh shirt and carrying my suit jacket, Addy’s still awake. She turns to watch me, her brows furrowed in concentration, fingers fidgeting with the edge of the blanket. Something’s bothering her.

“So, I trust I won’t see you for the rest of the day,” she says, aiming for nonchalance but missing by a mile.

I can’t help but smirk, “No, you won’t. I wouldn’t dream of boring you to death, so I’ll go home after work.”

“Where’s home?” She sits up straighter.

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