Page 38 of Sins of the Father
She glanced back over her shoulder, mischief bright in her eyes. “Have you watchedComing to America? It’s set here in New York.”
“No,” he said, a bemused note in his voice.
“Will you watch it with me?” she asked, hopeful and ridiculous.
He arched a brow, that provoking humor brightening his gray-blue eyes, then said, “That’s two movie requests now.”
“Oh, yes, a double movie night. Will you join me?”
“Yes,mia colombina.”
Delighted with him, Mia lurched forward, clutching his shoulders for balance as she wrapped her legs around his waist.
Luc’s grip tightened instinctively, a low growl rumbling from deep in his chest. “I see I need to get you tipsy more often,” he murmured, the flicker of restraint in his gaze unraveling until nothing but hunger remained.
She leaned in and bit his lower lip, teasing, before her tongue swept over it in a slow, soothing glide. His breath hitched, and his fingers dug into the curve of her hips, possessive and bruising, as if to anchor himself.
“I am so damn tempted to fuck you right now,” he rasped, voice rough and dark as sin.
Heat pooled low in her belly, her pulse pounding. “It’s strange,” she whispered, her lips brushing his, “how much I like it when you talk to me like that… so raw and real.”
For a moment, the world held still—just the sound of their uneven breaths and the faint thrum of the city outside. Then she closed the last inch between them, pressing her mouth to his in a kiss that tasted of wine, danger, and feeling something terrifyingly soft unfurling inside her chest, pushing her to fall into feelings she did not understand.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Luc had things to do. Critical things. His wedding was less than twenty-four hours away, and yet he had ignored the stack of files awaiting him on his desk. He needed to meet his informant at the Bureau to discuss the next wave of federal crackdowns targeting their ports. If the Feds pushed harder, shipments would burn before they touched land, and the Commission would start pointing fingers. He had to work with his tech chief to trace the missing ten million from their laundering front in Miami—money siphoned by someone bold enough to steal from him, someone he would eventually find, string up, and bleed until their betrayal became a lesson carved in flesh.
And yet—here he was, barefoot, jacket discarded, sprawled on his sofa like a man with no empire to protect, watchingComing to Americawith his fiancée. Histipsyfiancée, who sang in broken bursts between sips of wine and frowned whenever the film didn’t bend to her expectations.
“I cannot understand why this song has not come as yet,” Mia muttered, her brows knitting.
Luc slanted her a look. “I believe that song belongs toBeauty and the Beast,not this movie.”
She gasped as if he had revealed state secrets, then threw herself dramatically into his lap. Her head landed against his thigh, her eyes gleaming with impish challenge as she peered up at him.
What the hell was happening to him? And worse, why did he like it? Why did her unpredictability carve fissures into the walls he had spent years fortifying?
“You’ve seenBeauty and the Beast?” she demanded.
He didn’t bother telling her the truth—that when she had hidden herself away in that tiny apartment in St. Joseph, he’d seen her watch it over and over on her battered television. He’d wondered what fascination it held for her. He’d even watched it himself afterward. And, in the dark cruelty of his thoughts, he had decided Gaston was the real hero. Ruthless. Single-minded. Brutal in his pursuit. The kind of man who never lost.
The irony wasn’t lost on him now—her head in his lap, her laughter filling his ears, while just hours ago he had ordered a man’s arm severed for theft.
Two worlds. Oil and water. And he was the one foolish enough to believe he could keep them balanced in his hands without drowning her in the darkness of his own.
His hands were soaked in blood, his mind forged from violence, and yet here he was, letting a woman crawl into his lap as though she had the right.
Mia straddled him, her legs caging his hips, the silk of her gown brushing his trousers. Her hands framed his jaw with a reverence he didn’t deserve. For one dangerous second, Luc felt stripped bare—not by her questions, but by the softness in her eyes.
“You are like my very own beast,” she whispered, her thumb brushing across the stubble on his cheek. “I know I have barelyscratched the surface of who you are, but I want to know so much. Tell me—” her lips hovered over his, breath warm, trembling—“is it foolish and dangerous to have this desire?”
“No.” His voice came out low, rough.
She sighed and brushed her mouth over his, the fleeting touch sparking through him like raw current. “Do you make promises, Luc?”
“Only if I can keep them. I don’t vow to do things beyond my capabilities.”
Again, her lips ghosted his, teasing, coaxing. That miniature contact was maddening. His body tightened, a rush of need cutting through him sharp and desperate. He had bedded women before—countless, nameless—but none of them had ever reduced him to this raw ache. None of them had made him feelout of control.
