Page 14 of Mafia Captor

Ashely

This gorgeous,terrifying stranger with some kind of sexy accent caught between Boston and New York just told me we’re going to…what?!

I pick my jaw off the floor, closing my mouth. Is he serious? The man in front of me is dark, dangerous, donned in black and covered in ink. I take him in. His shirt is unbuttoned enough for me to see part of the black angel wings spanning his tanned chest. He has a tattoo.On his face. An angel wing alongside his right eye.

Terrifying.

But I stand my ground. He will not be getting off lightly, talking to me like that. I don’t care if he’s got a thousand tattoos on that ridiculously handsome face of his. “Excuse me? Who do you think you’re talking to?”

“You.” His dark eyes glitter. “I just traded my brother my Lamborghini for you.”

There are no words. I’ve met cocky men before, but this guy takes the darn wedding cake. Although, I have to give credit where it’s due. He’s an impeccable dresser—his clothes fit him like a second skin, his body a vision in Mr. Armani’s work, but my goodness, the mouth on him. And the nerve. To assume he’s going to get anywhere with me. And did he say he traded a car… for a date with me?

“Where’s…” I glance around, my online date nowhere to be found. Shoot. What was his name? This dark stranger’s presence has zapped me of all memory of my date. How could I forget his name? “Mr. Sullivan?”

“Sadly, Mr. Sullivan is deceased. But if you’re looking for my brother, Sailor—”

Sailor! That’s it. How could I forget a name like that? “My date was your brother?”

“One of them. The one that’s ditched this boring party. I’d say by now he’s tearing down the highway doing about a hundred and five, breaking in his new car.” Boss gives a shrug. “He didn’t put up much of a fight when I made the offer.”

My intrigue momentarily takes over my disgust. “You gave a car up, for one date with me?”

“Mmm.” He gazes up at the ceiling, clasping his hands behind his back as he rocks on his heels, thinking. “Not for a date.”

“What did you trade the car for then?” I ask.

“Isn’t it obvious?” His dark eyes pull me in, his gaze so intense it makes my belly flip and flop. They drop down, caressing my breasts. “For. You.”

My stomach drops to the soles of my pinching heels. My heart thumps in my ears. My knees go weak as I take a step back, trying to put a safe distance between me and this stranger. I only succeed in bumping my back against the closed door.

I shake my head, my damp palms pressing into the cool wood. “You can’t do that.”

He drags his arm upward, flattening his palm against the door above my head, trapping me with his body. I’m used to men being taller than me. I mean, come on—I’m five five in stilettos—but there’s something more to his height, like his commanding presence makes him a giant in my eyes. I’m tortured by his intoxicating scent. A villain shouldn’t smell this good.

He stares down at me, those coal-black eyes stirring embers in my core. His voice is velvety smooth, raising the internal heat I’m feeling. “It’s Valentine’s Day. Don’t girls like you go for grand, romantic gestures?”

“Romantic gestures?” Is this man for real? He really does take that cake. Cocksure and arrogantly confident. “You can’t be serious.”

“It’s not?” His brow knits. He honestly looks confused. Like he can’t understand why I wouldn’t approve of being a trade-in for his car.

“No. A romantic gesture is flowers. Or chocolates. Surprising your girlfriend at work with her favorite coffee. Not stealing your brother’s date by offering him a car. Then telling said date that you”—I poke a Pretty Petal Pink fingernail into the center of his chest— “basically own her.”

“But I do. That’s a two-hundred-thousand-dollar car.”

He’s teasing me. He can’t really think that I’d do him because of some deal he made with his brother. A slow, lazy grin spreads across his too-handsome-for-his-own-good face, confirming my suspicions. He’s having a laugh at my expense. Trying to get a rise out of me. His smile comes so slow and sensual I find my clothes getting damp where they shouldn’t.

“You’ve got some nerve. You know that?” I press my thighs together, shifting my weight to my other foot. God, these shoes are pinching. Wish I’d worn flats. I could run a lot faster—if it comes to that. I should be running right now. Why aren’t I? Instead, I’m standing here like one of the stone statues in the front garden I walked past on the arm of—what’s his name again?—staring up into the black pools of a man who is possibly the rudest, most misguided, best smelling, sexiest man I’ve ever met.

“I’ve been told as much.” He leans down, his lips so close to my cheek they brush against my skin as he speaks. “The question is, do you?”

“Have nerve?”

“Do you? Have enough nerve in you to fuck a stranger?” His eyes drag down to my lips, lower to my breasts, then rise back to meet my gaze. “You’re clearly considering it.”

“How do you know that?”

His voice lowers and with it, my inhibitions. “Your nipples are impossibly tight, showing off under that thin material of your dress. They want to come out and play.”

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