Page 8 of I Would Die For You

He’s got such a beautiful laugh, rich and deep and silky, I’m finding myself having the inane thought that I should bottle this sound and replay it to my heart’s content for the rest of time.

He sits down and takes a long sip of champagne. Then his intense gaze alights on me, and instead of making me want to squirm, it’s making me blush. Imagine if this is how he looks at a lover in the bedroom…

“Whose idea was it to give me a lap dance tonight?”

I can’t throw the Don under the bus. Plus he never did say this expressly.

“Mine.”

“No, it wasn’t.” He’s smiling as he says this, though. “Don Giacomo put you up to this, didn’t he?”

“He means well.”

Stefano’s hauntingly beautiful face goes somber for a second. “I suppose so.”

I can’t let bad blood settle between these two because of me. “It was my fault.”

“No, it wasn’t. When a woman comes to me, Kaya, she does it of her own free will.”

My eyelids flutter at the conviction in his words. He’s right—he doesn’t need to coerce or bribe or pay anyone to be with him. Any other man in his position earlier would’ve had his cock buried inside my pussy and pounding away without a care before that song had been over. Not Stefano. He requested my consent then didn’t go further when he wasn’t convinced.

Now I understand why he’s got a reputation as such a lady-killer. Respecting a woman is super-hot.

“So you don’t like classical music, Kaya.”

The change in topics is welcome. “I never said that. I don’t know classical music enough to have an opinion.”

“Hmm. Do you waltz?”

My eyes must be about to boggle so wide they’re now open. “Uh, I don’t even know classical, remember?”

“Come on, I’ll show you.”

He’s up in a flash, the music changing to a pitter-patter rhythm that gets a little familiar a few beats in. He’s pulling me out of my seat next, placing one of my hands on his shoulder, the other clasped in his grip. His right palm finds its way onto my left shoulder blade.

“Elbows wide and shoulders up. Follow my lead.”

He steps in one direction, and it’s not hard to flow along with him. Back and forth, a bit to the side each time, until we’re cruising around the small expanse without either of us stepping on the other’s toes. I don’t know for how long we dance—it feels like a long time—but time seems to suspend itself during this track.

When it comes to an end, I’m breathing a tad heavily. Even in my heels, and I’m not petite or short by any definition, I still have to tilt my head back a little to peer into Stefano’s eyes.

Our gazes lock, then his travels to my slightly open mouth and down onto my heaving chest. His lips part, the tip of his tongue coming out to wet the smooth flesh of his full lower lip. I’m suddenly dying to feel that wetness on my own mouth, to have his tongue caress along the seam of my lips while seeking entry to then plunder my depths.

“This won’t do,” he breathes out.

“What?”

“We broke the rules.”

“We did?”

He nods. “Less than a hand’s breadth between us. This is a no-no.”

I can’t detect the slightest hint of humor in his tone. “Seriously?”

My breasts are tight and hurting, my nipples pebbled peaks straining against the leather of my bustier in their bid to be pressed against the expanse of his strong chest which is right there just an inch or so away. Pure torture.

When Stefano hitches in a breath, I inhale sharply, too. His gaze has tracked back to mine before returning to the heaving mounds above the line of my corset. I can almost see temptation warring over his taut features as he seems to debate whether to sink his lips and teeth into my willing flesh or stay put.

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