Page 52 of The Merciless Don's Bride

“Because… I can’t seem to place it. Your age.”

I shrug. I suppose there’s nothing wrong with telling her.

“I’m 36,bella.”

Her eyes widen, “Holy shit. You’re like 15 years older than me.”

“14,” I correct gently. “Does that bother you?”

She considers the question for a moment before shaking her head.

“No. I’ve always had a thing for older men.”

Fucking hell.

“You’re dangerous too, Cassandra.”

She laughs, “Dangerous enough that you want to take me home?”

I shake my head, “No. Not quite. Or maybe not yet.”

Her brows furrow in confusion. I raise her hand to the side of her head, brushing back some of her hair. Standing this close to her feels like a drug. One I need injected into my veins.

“I’m going to have to leave you tonight. Before I do something I’ll regret.”

“But doing bad things is so fun, don’t you think?”

“There’s lot of bad things happening in the world, you don’t need to be a party to that.”

“I don’t normally do this, but there’s just something about you. Besides, everything happens for a reason. Even bad things,” she retorts.

I swallow softly. “I have to leave, alright? Goodnight,bella. I head back into the private VIP lounge that was reserved for us and she follows me.” This girl has no idea what she’s getting herself into.

“Bella, leave,” I command. She doesn’t back away.

Instead, she walks toward me. Like a lioness stalking her prey.

“No,” she says, voice low, smoky. “I think I feel empty… and I want you to fill me up, Mr. Italian.”

She stops in front of me, so close I can feel the heat rolling off her skin, smell the hint of something wild and sweet on her breath.

“Cassandra,” I rasp, already hard just from the way she’s looking at me. “If I fuck you… you’ll be ruined.”

She leans in, her lips brushing my jaw like a dare.

“Well, maybe I want you to ruin me.”

Then she licks her lips—slow and sinful—and I snap.

I grab her hips, slam her back against the wall, and crush my mouth to hers. Her moan vibrates through me, raw and eager, as my hands slide up the curve of her body. I hike her dress up around her waist and groan when I find she’s not wearing a bra. One perfect breast fits in my palm like it belongs there. The other, I take into my mouth, sucking hard, biting just enough to make her cry out, not from pain—from pleasure laced with the threat of more.

She’s gasping, writhing, already drenched.

I slip a finger inside her.

“Fuck,” I growl. “You’re so wet for me,bella.”

Another finger. Then a third. She arches, crying out, grinding against my palm like she’s desperate for more.

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