Page 27 of Auctioned To Her Dad's Mafia Enemies

Her hips flare wide, a woman’s hips. Her mouthis sweet but desperate with a woman’s desire. She moans softly; a woman’s need.

The water washes us both, but it’ll neverrinse away the stain of my past. Hopelessness surges inside me, taking thestrength from my knees.

What the fuck am I doing? This isn’t me? This isn’t who I am.

I drop down in front of Aemelia, pressing myface to her stomach, and wrapping my arms around her hips.

I have to stop this before it’s too late, butI can’t. Desire is a flood that’s impossible to outrun.

I kiss her stomach through the sheer fabric ofher nightgown, fever tearing at me with flaming hands. I’m a bad man, throughand through, and this girl is so sweet and pure. Touching her isn’t enough. Ineed to be inside her so her purity can wash me clean. But I won’t do that. Notjust because Luca would skin me alive but because Aemelia deserves more than Ican ever give her.

She deserves a good man who loves her, awedding filled with white doves and classical music and a honeymoon of romanceand soft touches. She deserves pure memories that will last a lifetime andcolor her family with joy.

But maybe there’s something else. Another way.I slide my hand from her knee to her thigh, pushing the soaked nightdressfabric higher. I wait for her to slap my hand away, but she doesn’t. Higherstill, my fingers touch the edge of her panties. Still no resistance. I look upand find her staring down at me, eyes bright, hands pressed to the tiled wall.Ihookmy fingers and pull just a little, our eyesstill locked. She’s breathing hard but there’s no fear in her expression, justa calm acceptance.

“What do you want from me, Aemelia?” My throatis nothing but gravel. It would be easy to take, but I want her to give it tome.

“I don’t know,” she whispers. “I don’t know.”

“Tell me to stop.”

She shakes her head, so I continue, using bothhands to ease her panties down her smooth thighs. I press my face lower, stillover the fabric of her night dress, breathing her in.

“Wash me,” she whispers, but I shake my head,the scent of her driving me fucking crazy.

She’s so natural, so perfect, exactly how awoman should be. Soft dark curls at the apex of her thighs, sweet musky scentthat makes me want to rut like a fucking animal. I caress over the seam of hersex, relishing the way her body shudders and her breath comes in soft pants,then I open her with my thumbs and press my lips to her clit.

I’m lost. Drunk. Stumbling in the dark.Wanting. Stealing. Craving.

Her knees tremble, and I wait, warming herflesh with my breath, letting her get accustomed to something she may not haveever done before, but mostly, I linger because I’m selfish. I want to burn thismoment into my brain. I want my first taste of Aemelia’s sweetness to hit melike a drug. I touch her clit with the tip of my tongue, and her hands leavethe wall to grip my head. It feels like she doesn’t know whether she wants topush me away or hold me against her. With slow teasing licks, I make her kneesshake. I stare up at her over the perfect arc of her body, meeting herheavy-lidded eyes. As I lick her, I remember how she looked at the wedding,vibrant and beautiful, a rose among thorns. I recall the fire in her eyes, herchin held high, her regalness. She’s so young but so strong.

Even in a room with three dangerous men, shecould hold her own.

Maybe she’d be strong enough to return to thelife that she grew up in before her father destroyed it all. A mafia princessinstead of a Maryland waitress. Maybe she could be mine, but would I even wantthat for her?

If we let her go—when we let her go—she’ll befree to return home. She could meet a kind man named Brad who’ll take her forearly-bird-specials and treat her kindly so that she can live out an ordinary,average, uneventful life. But even as I try to picture her there, I can’t. Idon’t want to. I’m jealous of a fictional man I created with my own mind.Thinking about her with anyone else makes me sick, even though all I can giveher is the darkness of the underworld.

“Antonio,” she gasps as I rasp my tongueharder and faster over her slick flesh. I reach up, taking her tight littlenipple between my thumb and forefinger and twist it just slightly. She groans,her grip in my short hair flaring painfully, then she spasms, her bodycollapsing with her orgasm until she slides down the wall into my lap.

I kiss her open mouth, tasting her whimpersand holding her to me like I’m drowning and she’s the only chance of savingmyself.

“Antonio,” she whispers.

“It’s okay,” I tell her. “It’s okay.”

But even as I say the words, I know I’m aliar.

11

AEMELIA

WASHED AWAY

Antonio Venturi, brutal killer, enforcer forhis corrupt mafia family soaps my hair like my mother used to when I was achild. He washes me gently, touching my body in a tender methodical way thatisn’t meant to be erotic but feels that way anyway. Sitting on his soakedpants, his erection is obvious, but he doesn’t push me to touch it. He doesn’teven hint that he expects something from me in return for what he gave—pleasureso beautiful I now understand why the French call orgasms a tiny death. I watchhim concentrate on soaping my feet, sliding his thick fingers between each ofmy toes like he doesn’t want to leave even an inch of me unwashed, and I can’tunderstand what’s happening to me.

How is this man so different from my firstassumptions?

He could force me to do anything, such is hisstrength, and I’d have no choice but to bend to his will, but instead, hepampers me, not like a captive but like a princess.

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