Shattered Throne: A Dark Mafia Romance: War of Roses Universe (Mice and Men Book 3) - Lana Sky (top romance novels .TXT) 📗

I don’t remember inching closer. Maybe he’s the one that closes the gap first, bringing our chests within a hair’s width of distance? The front of my dress feels tighter, the fabric sandpaper against parts of me that tense involuntarily. My breasts. My nipples.

Alarm is a living thing I have to choke down. Once I do, I try to ignore everything but the need to keep touching him. To prove…

What?

That I affect him. He’s forced to cock his head to maintain eye contact, and when his nostrils flare, I know it’s not a normal breath. He’s inhaling me and me alone.

The longer I extend the contact, the more unstable he becomes. In a flash of white, he bares his teeth as if to bite. Then his lips spread further apart, mouthing the pad of my finger.

I’ve yanked my hand back before I even realize it. “Don’t play with fire, little Stepanova—” that same tongue traces the rim of his mouth. “This is a game you should want to lose.”

But I’ve always been a sore loser. He is, too—and we both were prone to cheating just to avoid defeat.

I don’t think. I just move, sliding the same finger I had at his mouth into my own. I can’t explain why. To see his reaction, or so I tell myself. Not to taste him. Regardless, the mingled flavors of salt and musk explode over my tongue, and my thoughts scatter.

I’ve tasted him before, but never like this—a carefully controlled dose of Donatello Vanici. He is all the things fairy tales warn their readers to avoid—the same stories he used to read to me years ago. Vile nuance. Bitter aftertaste.

A flavor that goes on and on, igniting a trail down my throat, through my spine, pooling between my legs…

I despise my body’s reaction, how my belly quivers, heart pounds. I should choke. I start to rip the digit out, but then I see his expression, and my brain spirals all over again.

In a violent tandem, his nostrils flare and deflate. Flare and deflate.

Then he moves. Two broad strides bring him closer, and there is no escape. My jaw is in his grasp, helpless against the force he applies to wrench it back. Before I can move, his thumb nudges my lips apart, demanding entry to steal his own taste.

I bite down automatically, catching the meaty pad between my teeth, but he doesn’t move. He doesn’t even flinch.

I don’t relent, applying more pressure. More. More.

His eyes glint almost as if daring me to keep going. Hurt him. Harder. More!

My jaw aches with the pressure. Eventually, hot liquid floods my tongue, tasting like salt and copper. Disgust rips through me, but I don’t pull away. I can’t.

Not until he does, dragging his thumb against my cheek as he retreats. My heart hammers as he turns away, putting his back to me. I swipe my hand across my face, choking down the mysterious liquid. When I look at my fingers, they’re streaked with scarlet.

“Let’s talk about why you’re here—Vincenzo,” he says, distracting from my building horror. I watch him, fighting to get my breathing under control. In and Out. Out and In...

His composure is enviable. He’s stone again, and doubt gnaws away at the back of my skull. Was it all an act? Maybe I don’t affect him.

“You get to pry into my past,” he says, his voice level once more. “In return, you keep your mouth shut.”

My mind struggles to keep up. Pry. It’s a grudging offer, but I can see through it to the unspoken dare underneath. Play my role. Stay within the box he’s set for me. Uphold his lie. Remain a martyr.

And most importantly? Don’t test him.

I remember the way he relished unnerving me back at his warehouse. His initial tactic? Strip me down to nothing and watch me squirm. He mocks me for interpreting that as desire, but would he feel the same if the tables were turned?

The thought is so dangerous I can’t seriously consider it. So, I don’t think at all. My knees bend, dropping me to the floor. With my eyes on his hips, I can’t discern his reaction—my only clue is his sharp, startled intake of air.

With single-minded focus, I reach for the waistband of his pants, and he seems to levitate. Before I can even touch the zipper of his fly, he snags my wrist in his fist.

“Don’t.” His voice is a roll of thunder, perilously deep.

Despite every nerve in my body warning me not to, I risk looking up. Viewed through my lashes, he’s more predatory than ever. A beast caught in a trap, fighting for survival. Does he submit?

Or does he chew his own leg off to escape?

He’s considering the latter. With every passing second, his grip tightens, the nails slicing into the meat of my wrist.

I don’t expect him to tug, forcing my hand against his waistband. To test me, I realize. He wants me to feel the risk up close. How the fabric is stretched taut over the muscles of his hips…

When my finger strikes the polished surface of the clasp at the cusp of his fly, a jolt runs down my arm. I start to pull away—but that’s what he wants.

So, I prod that clasp instead. His harsh exhale scrapes the air, urging my focus outward to a million other sounds I didn’t notice until now. Murmured voices. Creaking wood. The wind lashing at the exterior of this old house. Each faint noise forms a cocoon around us, as if we’re separate from the rest of this world in this single, twisted moment.

“You’d suck my cock to prove a point?” he grates, and I shiver in response.

I’m not afraid—or so I tell myself.

I’ve seen his cock before, an image I’ve tried so hard to suppress. A dangerous length of flesh and muscle, shrouded by a thatch of dark curls. A weapon young women are warned about from the earliest age and taught to fear. Revere.

Up close, would