Page 38 of Mafia King's Forbidden Obsession

“Needle and thread,” I remind myself of my next task and move to grab it when my hand comes in contact with his hand that’s already on the plaster. Familiar sparks shoot through my veins, and when it gets too much, I quickly retract it. I see his lips part like he wants to say something as I take the plaster with me and begin to cut it. But he doesn't say anything.

My fingers suddenly become unsteady as I tear the scissors through the plaster in silence. Why do I seem to lose all sense of control around him? I quickly shake my head. No, thinking about that will only worsen my jittery state.

But speaking helps. It always does, so I start.

“I freaked out because that guy was already dying.” From the way his shoulders tense, I know he understands that I'm referring to yesterday. “I don’t do well under that kind of pressure,” I add, digging the needle through his skin. He doesn't flinch. His lips don't even purse in pain… hurt, or whatever.

As I begin to stitch the cut, I wait for a response. His skin is tough, like it has been to hell and back, although that isn’t shocking. The man still doesn’t flinch.

I wonder if he's normally like this or if his line of work has made him so. Does he really feel nothing? Has he never felt love? From family? A spouse? Does he even have one?

I ignore the slight tug in my heart at the thought and continue sewing. If he is truly emotionless, then my plan will be much more difficult.

“The dead man…you were desperate to save him. Why?” My voice is softer this time as I try again, pushing the thread through a new loop I’ve made with the needle.

There’s more silence as he only clenches his fist until he replies. “You ask too many questions.”

There's no emotion in his voice, so I can't tell if he's mad or not.

“Is that a good thing or a bad thing?” I push my luck. I'm now done with stitching his wound but I don't move from my spot. Something in my hands still wants to feel his skin a little longer.

His lips part, and a sound leaves it. I freeze in my spot at the short, melodious chuckle that reverberates through my chest. Fuck. It's the first time I’ve heard him laugh, and God, it's addicting.

I want him to do it again… I want to hear it again. But my wishes don’t come true when he shakes his head.

“Another question.” He lifts his gaze to mine, and his tongue darts out to run over his bottom lip.

Instinctively, I lick mine. Images of his tongue against my clit are running through my mind when he repeats the motion again, this time slowly and with a bit of… tease? Is he doing it intentionally? Or am I just imagining things?

“How do you feel?” I suddenly cut our… moment short to talk about the stitches instead.

He replies with a grunt, his lips pulled back in a deadpan expression. I can't tell if his response means distaste for the wound or for cutting him short?

To be fair, I’m only analyzing every bit of his actions because of my plan.

I look up again and catch his mesmerizing green eyes darken as he studies me. His brows scrunch lightly then he adjusts himself on the operating table. I know it's an attempt to hide the bulge I see in his pants.

My face heats up. I'm sure he can see how red I am. I bite my lip when the air becomes too thick for me to breathe.

I need to play my cards right. I don’t want him rejecting me and throwing me back into that room again.

Garnering courage, I slide my index finger from his shoulder to his chest. It feels good to finally trace the indents that mark his chest. His taut muscles move in response to my touch, even though I feel him refraining a little.

“What are you up to this time?” His voice is low as he stares at me through hooded eyes.

I did hold a nail to his neck the last time I made a move like this. I’ll have to do more to earn his trust, especially here where we’re surrounded by surgical knives and needles− potential weapons I would’ve dived straight for if I hadn’t given up my old tactics.

“Nothing,” I breathe, with a low voice, not halting my movements. “Just intrigued by your… tattoos…”

We both know that’s a lie, and I half expect him to stop me in my tracks, but he doesn’t.

My fingers trace the hard planes of his torso, brushing his nipples and going lower until they linger just above the waistband of his pants.

My breath hitches, and I can feel my nipples tightening painfully against the fabric of my pajama top. His eyes remain trained on mine as if to decipher something.

Biting down on my lower lip, I slowly pop the button of his pants. My right hand disappears below his defined V-line, sliding beneath the waistband.

A deep groan ripples through his chest when I cup his growing arousal, my gaze never leaving his.

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