Page 96 of Mafia and Gold Digger

The group shares a smile before Amanda asks the next person to tell their story. The meeting goes on, and my focus goes in and out as they all talk about different coping strategies as well as doing exercises to help them pinpoint what triggers them to steal. Emerald is fully engaged in it, coming out of her shell a little more as the minutes go by.

The meeting flies by, and when we get to the end, Emerald shocks the hell out of me by signing up for next week's meeting.

Amanda approaches her. “I always give these to newcomers.” She hands over a bunch of pamphlets and drops her voice to a whisper. “I personally found the top one very useful.”

Glancing down, I see the top pamphlet is about OCD, and I find myself hoping that Emerald has a read of it later. I look around the room as everyone heads to a refreshment table on the opposite side. “Ready to head out?”

She almost looks disappointed, but she nods. We walk toward the exit, and I hold the door open for her.

“So?” I prompt her.

A smile tugs her lips up. “It was...okay.”

I follow behind her, a hand pressed to the small of her back, feeling the warmth of her seep into me as I guide her to my car.

She lingers against the door. “Thank you, Saint.”

I look down at her and something warm skitters through my chest again. “I’m just glad it helped a little, Emerald.”

She looks at me, a thoughtful expression in her eyes. “Why do you care so much?” she asks suddenly.

My confusion must show on my face.

“I mean,” she explains, “most men would run a mile from a woman who’s responsible for three young kids and who’s got a stealing problem. So, why?”

Is it so that I can watch over her and keep her safe? I don’t know how to explain it beyond that. So, I simply shrug. “We’re friends, right?”

“I guess,” she says slowly.

It’s hard to keep the slight smile from my face as I look at her. What is it about this woman that just hits me right where I feel so exposed and open? Like she’s seeing some side of me that really doesn’t exist. I’m not a man who usually helps anyone, so why do I want to help this woman…and why do I want so goddamn much to protect her?

“It was...kind of nice to talk to people who get it.”

“Good,” I say, unable to stop my hand from brushing the falling strand of inky hair from her face to behind her ear.

The hitch in her breath and the electricity that flows through my body make my chest ache. My pulse drowns out the noise of the city all around us. And my hand remains against her cheek.

All I see is her.

She’s beautiful. No, she’sfucking breathtaking. Stealing the air from my lungs without even doing anything.

The way her hair is lit by the golden hues of the sun setting behind her. The way her green eyes search mine, some emotions flickering behind them, making them sparkle. The way her lips part just slightly, the hint of pink from her tongue darting out to wet them. I zero in on that motion, tracking it with my eyes.

This is a bad fucking idea.

I need to keep my distance.

The alarm bells are ringing.

The sign is a big neon flashing red that says, ‘Stop!Danger Ahead!’

But my body and brain have lost communication. The chocolate scent that clings to her fills my nostrils as the heat of her cheek fills the palm of my hand. I lean down slowly, inching down until I capture her lips, my body moving on its own accord.

And damn, does she taste good.

Her eyes slip shut and mine follow before I press my body into hers, trapping her beneath me against the car. Her fingers curling into the fabric of my T-shirt. The heat of her against me short circuits the rational part of my head.

My tongue swipes over her bottom lip, begging for entrance, needing to taste all of her. Like I’m a starving man, and she’s my salvation. I devour her.

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