“What’s your name?”
She tilts her head, sass combined with shyness, a combination I’ve never seen before. I have to squeeze the table to stop myself from launching across the room in a fury of desire.
“That’s a strange question to ask somebody,” she says. “You know… seeing as you asked to see me?”
When I stand, she takes a step back.
She looks up at me, and her mouth opens slightly, her lips parted as though she’s getting ready for me to kiss her. My balls swell when I think about what else I’d do with those lips, the tip of my rod burning in anticipation.
But not for a quick fuck. Not a fling.
This woman is it. She’s everything I’ve been searching for.
“And yet, here I am.” I spread my hands. “So, I’ll ask you again, what’s your name?”
She tosses her hair. “I’m Patricia Keller. A painter. A very popular painter, I’ll have you know.”
“You’ll have me know, will you?” I smirk, walking around the desk.
Her scent beckons to me. I’ve done a lot of primal things in my life. There’s been fighting, waging turf wars, and even having a few flings in my twenties before I realized how pointless it all was.
But this woman makes me feel primal on a level I’ve never experienced. It’s like our future is roaring at me, children, a house, and happiness, something I never thought I’d get.
It’s like her body is silently screaming at me to grab her, sink my hands into her hips, and pull her right up against me until she’s panting and whimpering and begging for more.
“What sort of things do you paint?” I ask.
She flinches as though the question has caught her off guard.
“What?” I bare my teeth. “A big scary mob boss can’t enjoy art, is that it?”
There’s something so cute about the way she regains her composure, forming her expression into a mask. “Is that who you are? I had no idea.”
I chuckle. “You’d have to be pretty damn ignorant to be at this party without knowing who I am.”
“Maybe I am. Maybe all I care about is my art.”
“Okay then. So what do you paint?”
Part of me wonders if she’s given me her real name. If not, I’ll have to rectify that.
I can’t let this woman slip away.
She belongs to me now, even if she doesn’t know it yet.
“I was trained as a portrait artist,” she says. “But I fell in love with abstract when I was a teenager. I even have a dog called Jackson, as in Jackson Pollock. Anyway, yeah, so….”
If I hadn’t forgotten how to smile properly a long time ago, I think I would now. She’s so adorable when she’s flustered.
“What about you?” she asks. “What do you do? Apart from the obvious, I mean.”
“I sketch. I’ve painted too. Once upon a time, I wanted to be a tattoo artist.”
I speak with a heavy sense of irony, but it’s only to hide how momentous this is. I’ve never shared this with anybody, the dreams I had as a kid before the Irish mob rode into my life and forced me to get in the game.
Even Patton doesn’t know I still sketch from time to time.
“You’re joking,” she says, eyes narrowed.
“What is it?” I raise my hand. “Think this thing is too big to hold a pencil?”
“It’s just… well, come on. It’s the last thing anybody would expect you to do.”
“But it’s the truth.”
“Are you teasing me? Is this whole thing a game?”
“Why would I be teasing you?”
She shakes her head, causing her hair to jostle around, making her breasts shift in the most intoxicating way. I have to put my hands behind my back just to stop myself from leaping on her, but I know I can’t fight the urge much longer.
“No reason,” she says. “I guess I’m just wondering why I’m here.”
I move close to her, inhaling even more of her scent.
She isn’t doused in perfume like so many of the mob women. Her makeup is subtle, adding to her beauty, letting her emotions shine through her cheeks.
“How old are you?” I ask.
“Twenty,” she murmurs, voice hitching as she stares up at me. “And you, Luca?”
“Forty-two. Maybe I’m too old for you, eh?”
“Too old for what?”
I can’t take it anymore. She’s too close, tempting me with her very presence.
My hand darts out as though on its own, grabbing onto her thigh. She gasps, and I drive her across the room, pushing her up against the wall, our bodies pressing close as I grip her hip with my other hand.
She whimpers, shifting against me. It’s like she can’t help it like she’s so damn hot and flustered her body is taking over for her.
“What are you doing?”
“Tell me to stop,” I smirk savagely. “And I will. Tell me, Patricia.”
“Why are you… saying my name… like that?”