Page 3 of Mafia Men Need Love Too
Chapter 2
“Yes.”
River Lang had not been prepared for the speed with which he answered her clumsy proposition. She was so surprised, in fact, that she felt the need to clarify, “I mean with me. Sex with me.”
One corner of his mouth tipped up. “That was my assumption.”
“Oh. Well. Um…now?”
His gaze dropped to her mouth. “Anytime,” he murmured.
Sweet baby Jesus on a flaming unicycle.
If she was actually here to have sex with this man, she’d be doing a jig of glee. But since she wasn’t, all she could feel was a nice creamy blend of fear and disappointment.
The fear was understandable. She was being blackmailed by the scumbags her idiot ex-husband owed money to into tempting this man out into the middle of nowhere. They’d told her how dangerous he was. A stone-cold killer. And she had no reason to think they were lying.
But no one had mentioned how stupidly attractive he was. Because now that he’d admitted he was willing to have sex with her, she was crushed that she’d never actually get the opportunity.
He was the kind of beautiful that was hardly ever seen in real life. Hollywood actors wished they looked like this guy. Lush, thick, messy dark hair, features that looked like they’d been hand-carved by the angels, eyes black as sin, ridiculously kissable lips, a muscly-but-not-too-muscly, six-foot-something frame, the ability to wear a suit like a runway model…yep. This guy should’ve been the prototype used to create all other men.
But his obnoxious hotness wasn’t the point. The point was that this man was a dangerous killer. So, she was caught between a beautiful— er, dangerous—killer and the men who were willing to use her as they saw fit to pay off her ex’s debts. She needed to stay focused and quit noticing how soft this man’s lips look, or how lush his eyelashes were.
They were really lush, too. Like, if he wore glasses, those lashes would forever be smushed up against the lenses.
She gave herself a mental slap across the face.
Get your shit together, woman! His lashes are none of your business.
River cleared her throat and tipped her head in the direction of the club’s side door. “Should we go then?”
He narrowed his eyes on her in a way that had her fidgeting in her sensible heels. It was like he could see through all her ridiculous lies. He was probably going to leave with her, then murder her and stuff her body in the trunk of her own car. She was going to be an unsolved mystery that would eventually get made into a bad Netflix movie.
Oh, who was she kidding? She wasn’t important enough to have a Netflix movie made about her murder. She was just a Midwestern kindergarten teacher. Any movie about her was destined for Lifetime at best.
But more importantly, who was going to feed Feather Locklear, her parrot, if she died tonight?
She was going to have to take control of this situation the second she got him out of this building. Giving him an opportunity to get the upper hand wasn’t an option.
Or more of an upper hand, she supposed. Because the way he looked definitely gave him an unfair advantage.
Whatever misgivings he had about following her out of the club must not have been severe enough to keep him from turning her down. Eyes still on hers, he motioned to the giant of a man (seriously, the dude had to be six-seven) who’d been sitting next to him on the couch. The two men exchanged a few hushed words, and the Hulk looked her up and down with a severe scowl. He clearly didn’t want his friend going anywhere with her.
But her guy (who was also huge compared to her, but still at least three inches shorter than the Hulk) gave his friend a congenial clap on the shoulder and turned his attention back on her. “Ready?”
Well, if that wasn’t the question of the hour, she didn’t know what was. Was she ready for this? For him?
Guess there was only one way to find out…
Chapter 3
Nico wondered when she was going to cave and tell him the real reason she wanted him to follow her into an alley behind a strip club, because it was not to have sex.
More’s the pity.
If he didn’t know better, he’d say she was an assassin. As a former assassin himself, he couldn’t think of too many other reasons why anyone would lure an opponent to a place where there wouldn’t be witnesses.
But he could recognize a fellow predator at a glance. This woman was no predator. Killers had old eyes—eyes that were constantly shadowed by the dark realities and indignities of their lives. Meanwhile, his fiorellino had young eyes. He didn’t even know her name, but he knew by those eyes that she’d had a good life. She’d known much love and kindness.
