Bronson: A Mafia Billionaire Romance

by Shanna Handel

  Now, his hands slide beneath my skirt.

  “No panties? So naughty. But all the better to make love to you.”

  He holds one hand beneath my thighs. My legs are locked around his strong waist, my arms clinging to his neck. His other hand unfastens his pants and they fall to the floor.

  Ah. There it is. The head of his cock pressing into me. I’m slick and wet and ready for him. But he loves to tease. My hips move toward his, my thighs squeezing his waist.

  Give it to me.

  He pushes in just a touch more. I’m begging for it, I’m almost weeping. It’s right there and I want it in me. I kick at his leg with my heel.

  He laughs. He gives my ass a slap underneath my skirt. “Not a very patient kitty you have there. Is it?”

  I bite my lip, holding in a cry as he plunges within me.

  I groan, his cock filling me.

  I’ve never had sex standing up before and the pressure within me is intense. He’s so much... deeper. I stretch and burn to take him in. The burning fades to a liquid heat. He pulls back, then thrusts within me again.

  I’m panting. Sweat is forming at my hairline. My legs tighten around him—I feel as if I weigh nothing. His hands grab my ass cheeks, squeezing.

  I’m putty in his capable hands.

  Our mouths meet. He kisses me hard. My lips instantly bruise.

  He takes a step, me in his arms. My back presses against the wall of the stairwell. He plunges within me again, my core tightening, my pussy wrapping around his cock. I moan, leaning my head back, inviting him to kiss my neck.

  He does.

  I’m in ecstasy.

  He nibbles and sucks at that delicate spot by my collarbone.

  I can’t breathe. I can’t speak.

  My body melts against his. He fucks me harder, faster. My lower back rhythmically bumps against the wall.

  It’s thrilling—dirty hidden sex. Pressed against the wall. Held up by his arms, his cock.

  These stairs will never look the same to me.

  I will never look the same.

  He loves me.

  He’s whispering my name in my ear. His voice is tight, thick with pleasure. His hand presses against my breast, his other, my ass. A storm brews within my core. The clouds gather, preparing for lightning to strike.

  I throb. I ache. My nails dig into his shoulders.

  There’s an explosion within me. I shudder. I can take no more. I try to push him away but he thrusts and pumps, fucking me even harder. My hips are digging into the wall, my head is pressed against it. I’m shocked as I feel my core tightening again. Even tighter. Another explosion. I shudder, pant, beg. He keeps going and when I’m sure I can take no more, we come together in one immense burst of light and heat and passion.

  Our skin is sweaty, our limbs weak. Our hair and clothes are a disaster. You can smell the scent of sex in the stairwell.

  He looks at me, his face breaking into the most beautiful smile. He looks light, free, content.

  “I love you, Paige Silverman.”

  He kisses me. I’ve never been happier.

  * * *

  The weeks fly by like days. Bronson and I fall into a comfortable rhythm. Work all day, dine and dance the evenings away.

  Every weeknight he takes me to dinner somewhere different. Five stars with crisp white tablecloths, where the servers call me Miss.

  Dive bars where we share huge plastic cups of foaming beer, grinding our hips against one another on the sticky dance floor in our designer jeans.

  Food carts where we stuff our faces with the world’s best tacos, empanadas, fried fish.

  Friday nights I stay over. He cooks for me. Pasta, steaks on the grill, huge salads. All accompanied by chilled white wine and a homemade dessert, courtesy of Mary.

  Saturdays we get up early and walk to work together. As per our tradition, I beg to stop for doughnuts. He argues about it, then lets me pull him by the arm into the heavenly scented bakery. I get a glazed buttermilk for the walk and a chocolate frosted for Alice. He orders a black coffee for himself and a soy vanilla latte for me and one for Alice. I’ve gotten her hooked on the drink.

  Every Saturday after work, I tell him I need to sleep in my own bed. Be ready to work Sunday morning.

  Every Saturday night he talks me into staying just another hour.

  We make love two or three times. I’m so worn out, I finally agree to stay overnight.

  We wake with the sun. He walks me to Bachman’s. His driver waits outside the entrance of the store, ready to drive me home.

  Everyone at home has gotten used to my evenings out. They talk in hushed whispers each time I come in from the street, having just stepped out of his sleek black car.

  There are catcalls when he walks me to the door, holding onto me as if he will never let me go when he kisses me goodbye on my front steps.

  Every moment that I’m not working, we’re together.

  And it’s not enough.

  Which brought on our first real fight.

  He asked me to move in with him.

  I told him I can’t.

  He said, it’s simple. His driver would take me where I needed to be. I would always be to work on time.

  I told him he didn’t understand.

  He told me, help me understand.

  They’re my family. How can I leave them behind? I’d said.

  He kissed me, whispering, I’m your family, now.

  But a long time ago I’d made myself a promise.

  And I’m sticking to it.

  I will never live with someone who hasn’t made me an unbreakable commitment.

  I’ve been dumped off on the sidewalk one time, and it was one time too many.

  I won’t live with someone I’m not married to.

  But I can’t bring myself to tell him that.

  The blue diamond sparkles on my finger.

  What does it represent?

  He hasn’t officially proposed to me.

  He’s only slipped it on my finger, marking me as his.

  His what?

  Girlfriend?

  What we have seems much too serious to be labeled with such a childish sounding title.

  He’s my boyfriend. She’s my girlfriend.

  He loves me. He wants me to move in. Hell—he’s given me a diamond ring.

  Then why am I left wondering, where do I stand with him?

  And when will I gather up the courage to ask him?

  Chapter Eight

  Bronson

  You can’t spank someone into living with you.

  Can you?

  I shake the notion from my mind.

  Paige and I just had our first real fight. And I still can’t figure out why she won’t comply. We’ve been together for over eight months, now. She wears my ring.

  What does she expect? To live apart forever?

  Is she not as invested in this relationship as I am?

  I’m at a loss. She knows how I feel about her. That I love her. More than anything else in this world.

  Why won’t she just move in? It kills me to even let one night pass without her in my bed. When she sleeps at the home, who is there to protect her? Pull her close in the middle of the night? Inhale her scent and thank God that she exists?

  I can take no more.

  Tonight is one of those nights she won’t be in my bed.

  I lie there. I pick up the clock, flipping it back and forth in my hands. The weight feels good against my palm. Grounding. I go over the evening in my mind, trying to see where I’d gone wrong.

  I’d taken Paige to dinner at that little Italian café what’s his name had taken her to—Buon Cibo. In my mind, that night marked our first date.

  The perfect place to ask her to move in with me.

  I had held her hand over the table, telling her how much I loved her.

  I asked her to live with me.

  She declined.

  I begged her.

  She declined again.

&n
bsp; I commanded her.

  She asked me to take her home.

  I did so. Positively fuming.

  I’d dropped her off over an hour ago.

  I’m still fuming.

  I put the clock down on the nightstand. I rub the back of my neck with my hand.

  I need advice.

  Still dressed from the date, I head down the stairs. Grabbing my coat, I put it on over my red V-neck sweater. She’d said she loved it on me. And so, I had worn it.

  A lot of good that had done me.

  I leave my house and walk to Mary’s.

  Minutes later I’m seated in her warm, cinnamon-scented kitchen, a cup of hot tea between my hands.

  It was the right decision to come here.

  Mary sits across from me. She looks me over. She’s only a few years older than me, but a motherly concern is etched in her features.

  She says, “Bronson, what’s the matter? You always come here when something’s bothering you. That, or you need twenty pineapple upside down cakes baked this minute.”

  I smile at her gentle tease. “Unfortunately, it’s not cakes this time. I do have a problem, I’m afraid.”

  “Paige?” She takes a sip of her tea.

  I nod. “We had a fight.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. What about?” she asks.

  “She refuses to move in with me.”

  Mary’s brow knits in confusion. “But you’ve set a date, right?”

  “A date for her to move in?” I shake my head. “She won’t leave the home.”

  Mary gives me a funny look. Like I’ve grown a horn on my head. “No, Bronson. I mean, a date for the wedding. You two are engaged... aren’t you? I saw the diamond on the ring finger of her left hand. That night at the luau.” Her gaze narrows. Then, her brows raise in disbelief. “Wait... did you not propose when you gave it to her?”

  I shrug. “No. I just... I don’t know... made her mine?”

  The look Mary gives me makes me feel as if I’ve not only grown a horn, but a tail as well. “What did you say when you gave her the ring?”

  “It was the first night she’d come to the Village. We had some wine... she alluded to the fact that she wanted to sleep with me. I told her that I wouldn’t... have her... unless she committed to being mine. I went to the kitchen. Gave her some space to think. I began cooking dinner. Then, I couldn’t take another minute of not knowing her answer. I grabbed the ring—I’d had it at my house for ages. Since the day I met her. I took it to her. She said she’d have me. I slipped the ring on her finger.”

  “And since then?” Mary asks softly.

  “What do you mean?”

  She leans toward me. “Have you... mentioned marriage? Asked her what she wanted for her future? Hinted that a proposal that might be coming soon?”

  I shrug again. “No?”

  Mary sits back in her chair. She’s shaking her head at me. She gives an exasperated sigh. “Bronson. You are a highly intelligent man. Well suited for singlehandedly leading our empire. But—I’m afraid that in the ways of love, you may need a little help.”

  I’m annoyed. I’m the most capable man I know. Why does the game of love have me so... befuddled? Holding the frustration from my voice, I say, “Well, then, help me... please.”

  She asks, “Tell me, do you want to marry Paige?”

  “I want her to be mine. Forever.”

  Her gaze locks on mine. She looks as if dealing with me might make her laugh—or cry. “But do you want her to be your wife?”

  A shudder runs through me. Fear wells in my chest. That familiar sick feeling expands in my stomach. I see red.

  A moment passes. Her voice is barely above a whisper when she speaks. “You’re thinking of him, aren’t you?”

  I give a nod.

  “It wasn’t your fault. He may have lost his chance to be a husband, a father, but that doesn’t mean you have to punish yourself, Bronson. You don’t have to resign yourself to the same fate. You had a job to do. A hard job. And you did it,” she says.

  I twist the teacup in my hands. I’m holding it so hard, I’m afraid I’ll shatter the china.

  Mary takes the cup from me. She puts her hands over mine. “You have to tell her. About your past. Then, I think you’ll find yourself feeling free to propose. From what you’ve told me, I’m getting the feeling Paige is waiting to live with you until she has a commitment. And if she’s drawn to the Bachman way, she probably doesn’t want to be the one to bring it up, as the woman. She wants to be proposed to. Properly.”

  The sick feeling sits in the pit of my stomach. “What if she doesn’t want me? When she finds out what I’ve done?”

  “You only did what you had to. To protect the rest of us.”

  Her words don’t make it any easier. The idea of Paige knowing who I truly am, what I’ve done. Who I’ve hurt. It makes my heart beat so hard I feel I can’t breathe. There’s a tightening in my chest. My throat is closing.

  I manage to mutter a thank you to Mary. I leave.

  Stepping out into the cold air, I can breathe once more.

  Walking back to my house, my mind spins.

  What if she hates me?

  Fears me?

  Leaves me?

  I can take no more. The not knowing is worse than telling her. I reach my curb, signal my driver.

  I will go to her.

  Fifteen minutes later, I’m at the door of her house.

  I don’t even remember the drive.

  I climb from the car. Tell the driver to stay.

  A pang runs through my chest. This might be the last time I’m welcome here.

  With trembling fingers, I text Paige. I wait by the door at the side of the building. The one that leads to the stairwell where she told me she loves me. Then kissed me.

  Where we’d fucked like animals.

  I still feel her fingernails digging into my flesh.

  Her face appears in the window.

  She’s been asleep.

  A moment later, the door opens.

  Paige.

  Her dark hair is tangled. She rubs at her eye with her balled-up fist.

  My heart lunges into my throat.

  Why does she have to be so Goddamn adorable?

  “Bronson. What are you doing here so late?”

  “Paige... I—I have to speak with you.”

  “It can’t wait?” She’s still upset from our fight.

  “No. It can’t wait another second.”

  She gives me a cross glance. But she lets me in.

  I follow her up the stairs, try not to focus on the curves of her ass beneath her nightgown.

  We reach her room. She turns to me, puts a finger over her lips, signals me to be quiet.

  We go into the room. She closes the door without a sound.

  I sit on the bed.

  She sits beside me. She smells of vanilla, roses, sleep.

  “What couldn’t wait?” she asks.

  Will she tell me to leave?

  Hate me?

  Tell me she never wants to see me again?

  I shake my head, freeing it from my fears.

  She’s all the way awake. She looks at me fully for the first time since I’d arrived. Her face creases with concern. Her voice is soft as she says, “Sweetheart, you’re a mess.”

  I feel like I might cry. But I won’t. Instead, I clear my throat. I dive straight into my story. The darkest wound from my past. “I have something I have to tell you. Something from my past. There was a man. A good friend of mine. The son of a woman you know.”

  Her brow knits. “Ingrid?”

  “Yes. After... he died... I offered to keep her at the most expensive home in the city, the one her son was paying for. She refused to allow me... after what her son had done. She picked this place. Now that I see what care they get, I’m so glad she made the choice she did—”

  Paige interrupts my ramble. “We love Ingrid. But tell me, how did her son... die?”

  It is hard to say
the words. “It was a few weeks after he’d become engaged. To a woman who you know as well.”

  “Who?” she asks.

  “Alice.”

  Her face wrinkles in disbelief. “Alice? She’s never mentioned him.”

  “She won’t speak of him. None of us do.”

  A small gasp escapes her lips. “What happened?”

  “We found out he wasn’t who he said he was. He wasn’t what any of us thought. Especially Alice. He’d joined the Bachmans with an ulterior motive. He was in it for the power. He wasn’t going to be satisfied until he became the head of the family.”

  “But that’s your position,” she says.

  “Exactly. He spent a year planning, plotting. Got into our tech. He broke into my house one evening. We think his plan was to do away with me. Make it look like an accident, a break in, a suicide, we aren’t sure. He came after me with a knife—”

  Her eyes widen in recognition. “The scar? The one on your side?”

  I give a nod. “I was so surprised, shocked. I didn’t react at first. That’s how he got the chance to cut me. Had I turned any slower, grabbed his hand just a second later, the knife would have plunged into my side, as he had planned. Instead, I’m left with the scar, but I kept my life.”

  Her words come in a breathy rush. “You killed him?”

  “I had to. Or he would have killed me. And who knows who else he had on his hit list after me. A man hungry for power is the most dangerous type of man. It consumes him.”

  A quiet moment passed between us as she processes what I said.

  She asks, “And Alice?”

  My heart rips in two. The memory of Alice’s face when I told her what I’d done. The way it had crumpled, her hands going to her mouth to cover her screams.

  My throat is tight. “Poor Alice. She loved him. Fiercely. She had her wedding dress picked out. The flowers were already ordered. She was devastated. No one felt worse than me. I had killed her fiancé.”

  “But what choice did you have?” she says.

  “It didn’t make it any better. She never held it against me. If I was faced with the same situation, I’d do it all again. But I’ve never forgiven myself. I do all I can to take care of Alice. Gave her a job. An apartment. I pay her well. I hope, one day, she finds happiness. But I fear she’ll never trust again. Not fully.”

  “It would be almost impossible to give your heart to someone after going through that,” she murmurs.