Mafia King: A Mafia Royals Novella by Rachel Dyken (books for 6 year olds to read themselves TXT) 📗

If anything, he pulled me tighter against him, as if he were afraid to let me go. It was nice. Nice being wanted. Held. It had been…a while since anyone had simply held me or even wanted to.

I was too crass.

Too loud.

Too perfect one day, only to be too immature and crazy the next.

I never seemed to fit.

But I fit here.

In his arms.

I fit very well with his chin on my head, his hands on my skin, my heart beating out of my chest as his breathing slowed—seductively.

“I do, though.” His voice sounded heavier, carrying a rasp of exhaustion that I felt deep in my bones. “Need to hold you.”

It was on the tip of my tongue to ask him why.

But then something happened.

I actually relaxed.

His deep breathing told me that he’d done the same, though he still had me pinned against him like I was his favorite bear to sleep with. But I was oddly okay with it in that moment as I was lulled into a deep sleep.

And this time…

I didn’t wake up screaming like I had after my first kill.

This time, I slept.

When my heavy eyes blinked open, a few hours had passed, and the warmth I’d felt from Tank’s body was gone, leaving me shivering as I pulled the covers up over my body and sat up, looking around the room.

The shower was on.

I checked my phone.

Three a.m.? Really?

Rat bastard needs to shower at three a.m.?

With a groan, I chucked a pillow onto the floor and padded my way into the en suite bathroom.

Steam billowed outside of the walk-in shower. I mean, seriously, the hell was he doing?

I opened my mouth to yell something close to that when he walked around the shower wall, fully erect and nearly slipped back against the tile. “What are you doing?”

“It’s nighttime! What do you think I was doing? I was sleeping!” I kept my eyes on his face.

I should have been given an award for that.

He was just so male.

“I couldn’t sleep so I went for a quick perimeter run, then still couldn’t sleep so did some pushups and—wait, why am I explaining myself to you again?”

“Soooo, my bodyguard left me?” My right eyebrow arched.

“Miss me?” He winked. “And don’t worry, your bodyguard never left the premises, and I did the pushups inside the living room.”

“How many?” I just had to ask.

“Three hundred.” He sighed. “Now, can I dry off?”

“Who got your back?”

“Pardon?”

“In the shower.” I lifted my chin. “Who got your back?”

“Is this a trick question?”

“Does it feel like it?”

He groaned. “Well, at least now I’m tired. Next time, I’m just going to wake you up and get a good verbal spar on. I’ll be snoring in seconds.”

“Because I’m boring?” I put my hands on my hips.

He rolled his eyes. “No, because you’re exhausting.”

“Oh”

“Yeah.” He must have seen the frustration on my face because rather than grab a towel, he walked back into the shower, turned it on, and said, “You coming, or not?”

He’d called my bluff.

And now I had to wash his back.

His very buff back.

Me and my big, fat mouth.

I liked goading him.

He made me feel—more normal that way.

So, with an irritated sigh meant for myself, I pulled his t-shirt over my head, then very slowly walked around the corner and into the shower.

Both showerheads were on.

Steam billowed everywhere again.

Without turning around, Tank handed me a washcloth, and I went to work, my eyes traveling down his tanned muscular back like a woman starved.

It wasn’t like I’d never had sex.

Just last year, I’d decided to get it over with and had been so disappointed that I literally lay there and went, “That was it?”

It was just a random guy from Eagle Elite. We were at a party, and I pulled him into a room and started making out with him. I’d wanted it over with. I’d wanted to feel—to feel something other than that deep, etched sadness.

And he had done nothing to make me feel better.

If anything, I was so disappointed when it hurt and then when he pumped his hips a magical three times—only to spill into me with a roar that definitely wasn’t deserved—I mean, he didn’t even do any work!

My body was still in pain.

I was sticky.

And I kind of wanted to pull my knife on him.

Okay, not kind of.

We never spoke again after that, and though I’d made out with a few guys since then out of sheer boredom, nobody had ever made me feel how Tank did—from just washing his stupid old-man back.

Ugh.

I wanted to slap the rag against his skin.

Instead, I moved my hand in a circular motion as if I were super confident and could stay there all night long.

“Done,” I announced.

“Your turn.” He turned around, his green eyes flashing as he took the rag from my hand and then made a turning motion with his hand.

Slowly, I did just that and let out a little gasp when he moved a tendril of hair, tucking it into my messy bun as he continued washing, moving the washcloth up and down my back, then side to side.

Chills erupted down my arms despite the hot water. When I thought he would say something snarky or just drop the washcloth, his hand moved again, the cloth swiftly passing from my lower back to the front of my hips, then up across my belly button and beneath my breasts as he slowly massaged and seduced.

A shudder ran through my body like an electric current. How was he doing this with a stupid washcloth?

How was I responding so fervently to a small touch like this?

“Last year…” Tank moved closer until his wet chest pressed against my back, his thick length pulsing against my lower back and butt. “I almost kissed you last year.”

“What stopped you?” I asked.

“It was either kiss or kill. And perhaps the sickest part about this entire dilemma is that I think it would have been easier to kill you than to kiss you and have you