Total pages in book: 105
Estimated words: 97656 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 391(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97656 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 391(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
He gets out and, before I can even move, he has come around to open my door. I step out and the cool evening air hits my flushed cheeks like a relief. Wordlessly, he offers his hand, and I take it. His palm is warm and calloused, and the moment our fingers lace together my heart does a stupid little flip. We walk toward the entrance like that — hand in hand.
Inside, the store is bright and quiet, the kind of place where it smells faintly of fresh bread and herbs. Ricci grabs a cart, but I can feel how vigilant he is. His gaze moves constantly, scanning the aisles, the other shoppers, the exits. When I start to stray a little too far to look at a display of olive oils, his arm slides around my waist and pulls me back against his side, firmly and protectively.
“I don’t have my men with me,” he says quietly, voice low against my ear. “So stay close.”
I understand. In our world, you never let your guard down, especially not the new Don. I nod and press a little closer, letting the solid warmth of his body steady me. We move through the aisles together, him pushing the cart with one hand while the other stays on me, sometimes at my waist, sometimes brushing my fingers. It feels… good. Strangely good.
I find myself watching him closely, at what he’s choosing. I notice he is going for the cheapest brands. Not guided by the price, but what he remembers buying a long time ago when he had no money. As he said earlier, he is making poor people’s food.
I catch myself laughing softly when he teases me about my “fancy” taste in butter, and the sound surprises me. For a little while I forget that I’m the widow who married her husband’s second-in-command before the gravestone was erected. I forget everything except the way Ricci’s arm feels around me and the way he looks at me. Like I’m the only woman in the world worth looking at.
Eventually the cart is full, and it’s time to leave. He pays, and the cashier smiles in a bored fashion at us as if we’re any normal couple. As we walk back toward the car, I spot an ice cream vendor near the exit. A small tub of salted caramel catches my eye. I want it, but I hesitate. I don’t want to pull him out of his way or make this trip take longer.
He notices. “You want that?” he asks, voice gentle.
I nod, cheeks warming. “Yes… but only if it’s quick.”
He smiles and steers the cart over. We stroll together, his arm still around my waist. He doesn’t get any for himself — just watches me pick the pint, his thumb brushing slow circles against my hip. The simple touch sends heat racing across my skin again, but I breathe through it.
Back at the car, I insist on helping him load the bags into the trunk, our hands brushing every time we reach for the same bag. The sun is setting now, painting the sky in deep oranges and pinks, and the air is cool and golden. It feels unreal — this beautiful evening, this beautiful man, this beautiful little slice of normal.
He opens my door first, waits until I’m settled, before going around to the driver’s seat. I click my seatbelt into place as he slides behind the wheel.
“Ready to head back home?” he murmurs.
I look at him and feel that pull again, stronger than before. Home. The word feels different when he says it.
“Yes,” I whisper. “I’m ready.”
The car pulls out of the lot, carrying us back toward the penthouse, toward whatever comes next.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
RICCI
At a red light, I can’t stop watching her scoop up little bits of ice cream with a small wooden paddle and slip it into her mouth.
Every time her tongue darts out to catch a drip, my cock twitches hard against my zipper. It’s fucking ridiculous. I’m a grown man, and I’m getting rock-hard just from the sight of her pink tongue sliding over a tiny wooden spoon. But I can’t look away. The way her lips close around it, the tiny, satisfied hum she makes when the cold sweetness hits her tongue, the way her throat works when she swallows… It’s torture. Sweet, beautiful torture.
My cock is already full and aching and pressing painfully against the fabric of my pants. I shift in the seat, but it only makes it worse. I want to pull over, drag her into my lap, and replace that spoon with my tongue, my fingers, my cock. I want to taste the caramel on her lips while I sink deep inside her again.
She catches me staring, and her spoon pauses halfway to her mouth. A faint flush creeps across her cheeks, but she doesn’t look away. The air in the car suddenly feels thicker, heavier, and charged with sexual tension.