by Paula Cox
“I don’t know you?” He sets his wine down on the table, which means he has to lean past me; his arm brushes my leg. Tingles dance up my thighs at the touch, in between them, up into my panties, spreading over my lips and my clit. I resist the urge to cross my legs around my pussy.
“No,” I say. “You don’t. Not at all. Not one tiny bit. So don’t pretend that you do.”
“So,” he says, resting his elbows on his knees and leaning forward, “you haven’t been dreaming about me, Livia? You haven’t been fantasizing about me since we last met? You haven’t been touching yourself at night, eh?”
“No,” I murmur, but he’s right, damn him. How does he know? Is it that obvious?
He stands up, looming over me, his hard pectorals achingly close to my face, so close all I can think about doing is biting down on them and feeling the muscle between my teeth. Just to bite into his bare skin, see my teeth marks appear, to hear him groan, and then to feel him lift me off my feet and—
And remember Luca, Livia. Remember your twin brother. Remember who you are.
“You’re a horrible liar,” I say, trying to infuse my voice with sincerity, trying to make it believable. He just laughs. Laughs! “I haven’t,” I go on, staring up at him, at his lips, his lips. “I…”
When he leans down, I could step back, I could push him away, I could slap him. I do none of these things. Instead, I lift my arms and wrap them around his shoulders. He presses his lips into mine, hard, passionate, as though he’s been thinking about this moment just as much as I have. I dig my fingernails into his shoulders, pulling on him, desperate for the feel of him, desperate for his tongue…his tongue all over me, deep inside of me.
He moves his hand down my body, grabs my ass, squeezes it hard. The pleasure is immense and immediate. I moan through the kiss and throw my body into his, my breasts squeezing against his muscles, my nipples becoming hard at the feel of his powerful body. I can feel cuts on his lips, but somehow that only makes him more appealing. He’s a tough, mean hitman, he’s a man who knows how to take care of himself. He could’ve taken all of those men, but he didn’t, and he barely even felt what they did to him. Oh. My. God. He’s the hardest man I’ve ever met.
He moves his hand from my ass to my bare leg, grips my thigh, and that’s when the siren returns. I try to force it away, but it blares: Luca! Mom! Luca! Mom! I know where this will lead. His hand will go up and up until he reaches my panties, and then he’ll pull them down and his finger will slip inside of me and…But I want it…But I can’t let that happen…
“Ah!” I snap, pushing him away. He steps back, watching me, face as flushed as mine feels. “I…you have to leave, Aedan.”
My head is spinning far more than it should be with the little wine I’ve drank. I feel like I can’t stand up properly, and then I realize it’s my legs, shaky with lust, trembling with his touch. I take another step back. “You need to leave,” I say, breathing heavily, the desire to launch myself at him, wrap my legs around him, and just fucking ride him almost unbearable. “Leave!” I hiss, scared that if he doesn’t, I’ll do something I might regret. But it’d feel good, so good, and he saved Dad, and he understands you, and he’s tougher and hotter than hell.
“Okay,” Aedan says. “Okay, fine. I’ll leave. But let me say this first, Livia. One day, we’re going to fuck—and it’s going to be the best damn sex either of us has ever had. That’s a promise.”
“Go,” I whisper, voice faint.
“One day, and one day soon, Livia,” he says, and then makes for the door.
“Wait,” I say, but too quietly, less than a whisper, a whisper’s ghost.
And then he’s gone.
“Good,” I mutter under my breath. “That’s a good thing. He can’t be here, anyway. He just can’t. It just isn’t right.”
But even as the words leave my mouth, I don’t believe them.
I lie on the couch, curl my knees up to my chest, and stare at my glass of wine.
I hate him; I want him.
Chapter Eleven
Aedan
Over the next few days, I report to Bruno at the bar way more than is strictly necessary. I go to him almost every afternoon, and most of the time we end up just talking. I tell myself it’s for work, but the truth is, I’m just hungry for a glimpse of Livia—and the old man’s company is a damn sight more comfortable than Dad’s. When I see Livia, my whole body aches, but she turns frosty on me as soon as I step into the backroom.
“Livia,” I say, nodding, giving her a smile, hoping that maybe she’ll give me something in return. And there, for a moment, I see something behind her stony expression, a little glint of lust or affection or something, but then she looks down at the desk.
“My father is in his office,” she mutters.
I stand at the desk for longer than I need to, looking down at her lips, those damn kissable lips which I can still taste. At her breasts, which are tight and pushed up in her bra, squeezing together and making me think dirty thoughts. She pushes back in the swivel chair, sliding on wheels, and I can’t help but look at those legs. The most perfect goddamn legs I’ve ever seen.
“Is there anything else?” she asks, voice cold and professional, with only the barest hint at something else.
“No,” I say, swallowing, my Adam’s apple suddenly feeling huge. “No, alright.”
But I keep staring at her. As I watch, a shiver moves through her body. I can see it, starting at her shoulders and moving down to her legs. She tries to fight it, but she does a little jig, and then shoots fire up at me with her eyes. “What?” she hisses.
“We should get a drink,” I say. “Or dinner. My treat. We can even go to an Italian place this time, if The Clover isn’t fancy enough for you.”
“I’m busy,” she mutters.
“I haven’t given you a time yet.”
“I’m busy,” she says forcefully, as though trying to convince herself as well as me.
I want to linger, ask her what’s wrong, but I’m not about to stoop down and become one of those whiney guys who basically beg a woman to go out with them. Fuck it.
I go into Bruno’s office. “They bother you on the way in?” he asks.
“No,” I lie. It was just the usual stuff, anyway, “Peter Pan” and that. The other shit has quietened down since the Italians learnt it was the Mexicans, and since Bruno gave them a speech telling them not to touch an Irishman without his permission.
“Good,” Bruno says, smiling. “These are my troops, you understand, but sometimes the troops get ahead of themselves. And Tony, well…every general needs a mad dog, I suppose.”
“Yeah.”
“So, why’re you here?”
When he asks me the question, it’s the first time I give it any thought. The real reason is sitting out there, legs crossed, lips pursed, looking kissable and hot and like a woman who would give a man the best night of his life. And in here, the kind, smiling don I’m starting to take a shine to, way more than I should considering one of these days I’ll have to slit his throat. Damn, this is fucked.
“Thought we could go over strategy,” I say, picking a reason at random.
“Sure,” Bruno says.
We keep up the charade for a few minutes, and then Bruno says: “I’ve gotta say, Aedan, thanks. It’s not often a man in my positon has to say that. But, really, thank you.”
“It’s alright,” I mutter. “It’s no big deal.”
“Carlos and his men would be picking over my corpse if it wasn’t for you, so yes, it is a big deal.” The way he looks at me, it’s like the way I’ve imagined Dad looking at me hundreds of time. Appreciation, respect, genuine affection, as though I’m not just Dad’s mad dog—Dad’s Tony—but a real, proper person. It’s a bitch to admit, but Bruno’s looking at me like a dad, more than Dad ever has. Traitor. Scum. Bad son. Mom’s voice, scathing. Piece of dirt. What sort of son are you? Animal.
I wave a hand. “Couldn’t let ’em take you, is all. W
ould’ve meant a hell of a lot of trouble for me.”
“So that’s why you did it?” Bruno asks, no malice, not like Dad, who would throw one of his tantrums if one of his men admitted to self-preservation over blinded loyalty.
“Yeah,” I say. “No—I did it ’cause I didn’t want you to die, and I didn’t want Livia’s father to die.”
“And those are two different things?”
I think, and then nod. “Yeah, I think so.”
“Hmm.” Bruno leans back. “You were right. Just a flesh wound. I can’t believe I passed out. It seems I’m not as young as I once was.”
“It happens by surprise,” I say, thinking of Mom, who turned from a young, hopeful woman to a beaten depressed crone in a heartbeat. “One day, you blink. The next, you’re in the grave.”
“Is something bothering you, Aedan?” Bruno asks.
Yeah, your daughter. I want her more than I’ve ever wanted any woman in my life and she’s gone cold and mean on me. I feel like I need her. I’m aching with the desire for it.
“No,” I say, rising to my feet. “I’m fine.”
I leave, and that’s how it is every day, having an informal chat, getting a look at Livia, and then leaving.
One day, as I’m leaving, Livia has her legs propped up on the desk, heeled feet crossed, legs looking taut and full and sexy and just so fleshy that all I want to do is lick them down, and then up, up all the way to her pussy, and just keep licking until her eyes roll back in her head and she comes all over my tongue.
When she sees me, she starts and withdraws her legs, too quick, and falls back in the chair.
I dart around the desk quickly, lean down, and catch her before her head can hit the floor.
For a moment, we stay like that, my arms wrapped around her. She seems to relax into the embrace. I feel the heat of her, arms burning, chest rising and falling so damn quick I’m sure her head is filled with the same thoughts as mine—the same dirty thoughts. And then, she realizes where she, maybe who she is, and she snaps at me: “Let go.”
“If I let you go,” I say, “you’ll fall.”
True, but the real reason is that holding her just feels so, so good. Just being close to her. She’s so goddamn sexy, man. Just think of all the women you were with before. Think of all those women who never made you feel a goddamn thing and compare them with Livia and the difference…the difference! Night and day, black and white…quick, numb affairs with faceless women and a bone-deep longing for this one perfect Italian princess. Fuck!
“Aedan!” she hisses. “I said, let me go!”
I shift her chair back upright, and then take a step back. She glowers up at me, her dimples concaved, big dips in her face, making her look cute despite the supposed anger. I can’t help but grin down at her. But she doesn’t take this too kindly. A man can’t do a damn thing right, I reckon. Good, Mom’s voice picks up. Because you need to remember who you are, who she is, who the whole lot of them are. Loyalty, pride. What’s the matter with you?
But right now, staring down at her, even the phantom of my dead mother isn’t enough to stop me. Nothing is. Taken by a sudden urge, I start leaning down into her.
Her jaw drops in disbelief. She moves quick, darts for the pen, and holds the tip to my throat. “Don’t even think about it,” she breathes, panting, and I can tell she wants it just as bad as me, but she’s letting her baggage get in the way. “Don’t you dare.”
I hold my hands up, grinning. “Alright, princess.”
“And stop calling me princess!”
I retreat to the other side of the desk, our eyes locked, and then, with an effort, turn away and leave the bar.
Ignoring the Italians’ insults, I walk into the street and stare up at the azure sky, wishing Livia would just stop it with this trash. Wishing she was sober that night. Wishing I could lose myself in those gorgeous bronze legs.
Chapter Twelve
Aedan
A couple of weeks later, I go into the bar and my blood turns to ice in my veins. Almost as soon as I see them, my killer’s instincts kick in. I have to remind myself that acting on my instincts now will get me killed and ruin the truce, but it’s damned hard. My hands clench into fists and spikes of rage and resentment surge through my body, sliding under my skin, making my whole damn killer’s engine buzz and crank and groan into life. I see myself, in my head, acting on the impulses, see myself take his head in my hands and fucking smash it against the fucking table!
Calm, I tell myself, as I stand in the backroom watching Livia’s date offer her his hand.
The man is a little shorter than me, thinner, and Italian. His hair is slicked back and jet-black, and his face is clean-shaved. He has an eagle-like nose, an eagle-like chin, and I’ll be damned if the bastard doesn’t look like an eagle all over, angular and jutting and like an overgrown teenager. But you’re not bitter, are you? I know they’re getting ready for a date because the pretentious ass has a rose slotted into his suit jacket pocket. And Livia looks bombshell hot in a smoking red dress which would get my cock stirring if this piece of piss wasn’t right now taking her hand.
“Oh,” Livia says, when she sees me.
“Oh,” I reply, not at all liking the way the Italian looks at me, as though I’m just some guy, nothing to worry about.
“Hello,” he says, taking his hand from Livia and offering it to me. I look down at it for a long time, covered in gold, sparkling rings, and think about snapping it at the wrist. Snapping it clean off and jamming his fingers down his throat. “My name is Dominic Colombo.”
“Aedan,” I mutter, shaking his hand briefly. The truce, remember the truce, think of poor old Patty.
“Aedan O’Rourke?” the man says, eyebrows raised.
“Last time I checked.”
“You’re the Irishman.”
I gesture at my thick ginger beard, my messy ginger hair, my face in general. “What gave it away?” Then I gesture at him. “And you’re the Italian.”
He smiles and that infuriates me even more, because it isn’t a friendly smile. There’s a hint of pity behind it. Maybe he’s heard that I like Livia, I think. Maybe the bastard’s gloating. I swear to God, if this truce wasn’t so important to so many people, and if Carlos Rio wasn’t every day sending Mexicans to hassle our corners and run protection rackets on our stores, I would punch this man’s teeth into the back of his head.
“It was nice to meet you,” the man says. “Livia, shall we go?”
Livia won’t look me in the eyes. She stares firmly down at the table, the wall, the floor, but not at me. When her gaze is forced to glance in my direction, her eyes skillfully hop over me. “Okay,” she says.
I step aside and wave my arm at the door. “Have a good time,” I say. I’m shocked by how loud my voice sounds, far too loud. Dominic flinches at it.
I watch them leave, stare at Livia’s ass compressed into that fine red dress, wiggling her hips. Dammit.
“Aedan,” Bruno says, sticking his head out the door. He reads my face, glances down the hallway, and then winces. “Unfortunate timing, I suppose.”
“What?” I say, and now I’m almost shouting. I take a deep breath. “What?” I repeat, calming myself. “I’m fine. I don’t know what you mean.”
“Come in, son,” Bruno says.
We sit in his office, Bruno tucking his beringed hands into his waistband. All I can think about when I look at the man’s hands, the gold rings, are the golds rings on that prick Dominic’s hands, the way those gold rings must’ve touched Livia’s hand. Fuck, I want to kill that man, I think, wondering if I’m being unreasonable. Maybe I am, but, damn, damn, damn…
“Aedan.”
“What.” The way I say it, it sounds like fuck.
“You’re going to break my chair.”
I realize I’m squeezing the arms so tight the wood’s creaking.
“Alright,” I mutter, and slowly uncurl my fists.
“You’re angry,” he comments.
“I have no reason to be angry.”
“You’re angry because my daughter left with that man. And I said you could court her. I misled you, or so it seems to you.”
“I hadn’t even thought about it like that,” I say honestly.
“Let me explain.”
“You don’t owe me an explanation.”
“It is never a good idea,” Bruno says, “to tell a don what he does and does not owe you. It is for him to decide that.”
I sigh, and he goes on: “My wife is a fierce woman, Aedan. A fierce, fierce woman, a proud Italian, and a woman who has lost one child already. It is only natural for her to want the best for her remaining child. Now, I have no opinion about Livia dating whoever she wants, but my wife does, and I love her. You see, I have to defer to her on matters of the heart. In that area, I am afraid, I am woefully underequipped. My wife called me and told me that Livia is to go on a date with Dominic Colombo, a ‘nice Italian boy,’ and when I asked Livia, she agreed. Though, I suspect, to make her mother happy…she agreed all the same. So what am I to do? I like you, Aedan, a lot, perhaps more than an Italian don should like an Irishman, but…well, you see my conundrum. If her mother pushes it, and she does not disagree, who am I to stand in the way?”