Hanging in the Stars: A Mafia Romance (Dark Romeo Book 3) Page 19

  When we get to my building I unlock the lobby door. He holds it open for me and lets me check my mailbox before leading me upstairs. Déjà vu. My heart is beating hard in my chest when we reach my apartment door. I turn and he’s closer than I thought he would be. I have to lean back against my door to look up to him.

  My heart rams up into my throat as he leans into me. His giant body crushes me against the door and his hardness presses against me. His fingers trace up my body and close around my hair pulling my head aside to expose my neck. His teeth close gently around my flesh and he sucks...

  I blink. I haven’t moved. Neither has he.

  God dammit.

  “I suppose you want to come in?” I say trying to keep the shake out of my voice.

  He smiles. “No.”

  I blink at him, stunned. No?

  He leans close to me, so close I can make out the dapple of the lighter jade in his irises. In that dark chocolate voice that turns my insides out, he says, “You don’t believe this yet. But you are a woman who deserves to be seduced slowly. I intend to do just that.”

  I can’t move.

  I can’t tear my eyes from him.

  And I’m both terrified and soaring because I think he might kiss me.

  I close my eyes and inhale as he leans in. My mouth parts…

  His lips brush my cheek like a single drop of rain rolling off a leaf.

  “Be good, kitten.”

  He walks away, leaving me stunned and confused and shaking in my heels from unfulfilled desire. At my feet is the bag containing the green dress.

  I find Caden’s second note my bag. I don’t know how it got there. All I know is the note wasn’t there at the beginning of the day. When I get home, it is.

  I rack my brain over when it could have happened. Maybe at the coffee shop where I stopped on my way to work. Maybe the grocery store where I bought my food. Hell, he could have slipped it into my bag while I was standing at the lights, his hands so close he could have touched me, his nose so close he could have smelled me.

  I know I should be terrified that Caden knew where to find me today. Instead, like an idiot, it thrills me. The thought that he had at some time been close enough to touch me without my knowing makes me dizzy. Even now, I imagine that he is watching me like an angel protector.

  Cherry Farm Park, Thursday, 3pm.

  Cherry Farm Park sits in a pocket of this city’s river. It’s mostly green space but dotted here and there with small well-tended patches of flowers and oak trees. Caden is already standing at the arched entrance when I arrive five minutes early. He’s dressed in dark distressed denim and a plain black shirt. Over his arm he carries the same brown leather jacket he wore the first night we met.

  I see his look of appreciation sweep over my skinny jeans and black silky top tied at the back of the neck with a bow. I hold my own tan leather jacket over my arm. When we walk together he takes my hand and I realize we look like one of those couples that have been together so long they dress alike. Black, denim and brown leather.

  “I don’t have much time today,” he says, “but I thought we could get an ice cream cone each and walk along the river. Is that okay?”

  I nod with enthusiasm. “I haven’t had an ice cream cone in years.”

  He pulls me towards the small ice cream stand by the entrance. We stand behind a mother with her three kids who take their time ordering. I stare at the stainless steel tubs filled with all different flavors.

  “Shall we play a game?” I say with a grin. For some reason I feel childish. Giddy like I’ve just gotten off a merry-go-round.

  He raises an eyebrow. “Maybe. What’s the game?”

  “I get to choose your ice cream and you choose mine. Then we have to explain why.”

  He smiles wide. “This will be interesting.”

  We reach the front of the line and I point to the tub filled with pale green ice cream, thick with nutty pieces. “Could he have the pistachio, please?” I glance over at Cade.

  He’s looking at me with amused curiosity. He looks only at me, even as the girl behind the counter scoops up the ice cream and hands it to him. He glances at the alien-looking scoop then raises an eyebrow at me.

  I smile internally. He can just wonder a little longer.

  I look back at the flavors under the glass and try to guess what he will pick. Maybe the Grand Marnier, bold yet sophisticated, or the Tia Maria, sultry and sexy?

  I can’t help but pout a little when he says, “Dark chocolate for her, please.”

  I take the cone and thank the girl while he pays.

  He takes me to one of the large benches that looks out onto the river. I sit on one side of the bench then he sits flush against my side. My breath hitches when his leg comes into contact with mine. I swear he does it on purpose. My fingers itch to dig into those thick muscles of his and to run my nails up the insides of his thighs up towards where his jeans are straining from his…

  “So, pistachio?” he asks.

  I blink and clear my throat. I hope I wasn’t licking my lips when I was staring at his pants. “Because it’s like you.”

  “Yeah?”

  “It’s rough with hard pieces all the way through it, but there is just enough sweetness underneath to balance it. And, well, it’s totally nuts.”

  He laughs, loud and unrestrained. “I like how you see me.”

  I shrug, but inside I’m pleased at his reaction. “Why dark chocolate? It seems pretty plain to me.”

  “Dark chocolate is always underestimated because it appears to be plain, but it’s rich and complex and a mixture of dark and sweet. Which is why it takes a certain palate to be able to fully appreciate it.”

  This is how he sees me. I like it. I really like it.

  His intense gaze unhinges me. It’s his next words that have my heart lurching. “But most of all, it’s my favorite flavor, and I’ve decided it’s the only one I will have.”

  One corner of his mouth pulls up. He grabs my wrist and pulls my ice cream to his face. He takes a languid lick. At the taste he moans under his breath. He sticks his tongue out again, wide and flat, for another lick. This time his wet tongue feels like it drags across me, sending a rush of electricity through my body, my nipples pressing to attention.

  He lets go of my hand holding my ice-cream cone, watching me carefully. I can still feel his fingers on me. I can feel that I’m wet, as if his tongue really had been there.

  I face forward and focus on my ice cream before I moan or blurt out something stupid and make a fool out of myself. Dear God. I won’t ever look at dark chocolate ice cream the same again.

  Inside I’m a jumble of awareness. I can sense him watching me as I lick shyly at my ice cream. I can feel the thickness and strength in his thigh pressed against mine, the brush of his arm against my shoulder as he eats his. I can sense the way he just owns this bench and this space and the air that I breathe.

  The lapping of the river against the bank and the rustle of wind through leaves fades under the noise of his tongue and his little grunts of pleasure. I want to be the cause of all those noises. His tongue sucking and licking against my…

  I’m getting carried away again. My cheeks heat and I press my thighs together and try not to let it show. I hear him crunching at the end of his cone. His ice cream is devoured before I have barely licked mine.

  “Delicious,” I hear him say.

  I force myself not to look at him even though my skin is pricked with the awareness of his eyes on my face. He murmurs something under his breath.

  “What was that?”

  He leans in so his chest is pressing against my shoulder, causing my eyes to flick to him.

  “You have some ice cream here.” He extends his tongue out and licks a line from my jaw up past the corner of my mouth. Oh God. My insides turn to jelly and my breaths go shallow.

  I turn my head so that my mouth lines up with his and opens slightly, a plea for him to do it again, this time across my lips. He
doesn’t. He moves aside and places another languid lap along the other corner of my mouth.

  “And here.” His teeth nip along my jaw, sharp, with enough pressure for me to feel it sending bolts of electricity through me, but not enough to really hurt. His hand drags across my thigh until his fingers grip firmly underneath it, and he pulls me closer to him. The edge of his palm is so achingly close but not touching the upper seam of my jeans. His nearness warms me like fire and I want to be burned alive.

  “And here.” He takes my earlobe into his mouth and he sucks gently. If there isn’t a part of my skin that hasn’t erupted in goose bumps, it does so now. Oh, sweet Jesus. He pushes his nose into my hair and groans. “You smell good enough to eat.” His tongue traces around the shell of my ear.

  I forget that we’re in a public place. I push my hips forward until his hand connects with the most sensitive part of me and a gasp falls from my lips. I clench my thighs and rock my hips against his hand. My body is thunder and lightning as the first moan escapes my throat.

  Without warning, he snatches his hand away and pulls his lips off my skin. My eyes flash at him in shock. His face looks passive, but I can tell his breathing is unsteady.

  “You dropped your ice cream,” he says.

  I blink, then stare at my hand still hovering in the air, then at the cone that has fallen to the ground from my limp fingers. I frown as the rejection turns to anger.

  “What game are you playing?”

  He doesn’t react. I bristle even further. I stand with the intention to storm away from him, but he grabs my body with both hands and pulls me onto his lap. God damn, this man is fast. With the speed at which he clasped me he should have crushed me, or at least hurt me a little. But he didn’t. Fast. And strong. Yet incredibly controlled. I shiver.

  He leans in as he brushes his thumb roughly against my bottom lip, his eyes glued to my mouth. “Not yet.” He sounds like he’s in pain.

  I can’t help myself. I press my open mouth against his thumb and lick him, getting my first taste of him. His skin tastes of the ocean and pistachios. Suddenly I’m hungrier than I’ve even been before and all that will sate me is him, his skin, his body underneath my lips and my tongue.

  I see the flash of heat across his eyes before it disappears behind his carefully controlled façade. My stomach sinks. “Not yet.” Even though he wants me, I know he won’t let me have him until he decides it’s time. He is too much in control. Even more than me. Damn him.

  “Why not?” I ask, trying to keep the sulk out of my voice but failing. “I know you want me.”

  He chuckles a little. I fight not to roll my eyes. So glad I could amuse you, you bastard.

  His eyes get serious again and his grip on me becomes firm. “I’m saying ‘not yet’ because I know the moment I kiss you I’m not going to be able to stop. I’m not rushing you. I need you to trust me first. And you don’t trust me yet. I can see it in your eyes.”

  My body rages with heat and fire and spits angrily at being denied him again. He feeds me just enough to keep me lit when all I want is to explode into a brushfire. I want it, even if it burns me in the process. Even if it sweeps across the world and consumes it, that’s what I want.

  I let out an annoyed growl.

  “Rule number one?”

  I pout. I won’t say the rule. I hate that God damn rule.

  “We can be patient. Trust me, kitten. It’s better this way.”

  He sets me down onto the bench next to him. It feels like he has taken gravity from me, and I’m left unstable for a moment. Somehow, he has tethered me to him. Somehow, he is becoming my earth, my ground, my gravity. He hasn’t even kissed me yet and already I am being bound.

  He takes my hand in his and pulls me to my feet. “Let me take you home.”

  “It’s not even late.”

  “It isn’t, but I have plans soon.”

  “What plans?” But more importantly with whom?

  He doesn’t answer.

  He doesn’t want to answer. He doesn’t have to. This is us building our version of together. I’m comforted in the knowledge that I can also choose not to answer if he asks a question I don’t like. Still, a curl of curiosity sits in my stomach. What plans?

  He pulls me along the boardwalk until he stops at a motorcycle that I recognize as his. As I stare at the bike, the beginning of a plan stirs in my mind. Screw rule number one. When I’m done he won’t even remember he had plans after this.

  Caden puts me in front again. He straddles the bike behind me, his long arms easily fitting around me to grasp at the handlebars. His chest fits against my back and his legs press along mine making my skin crackle like wood against wildfire.

  Soon we are moving along the streets of Cherry Farm, a quiet residential area with wide streets and little traffic. It’s not far from where I live, so I have limited time. I start rolling my hips and pressing my ass against him. I lean my head back into the crook of his neck and lick under his jaw.

  “Kitten,” his voice is stern in my ear, his breath and the closeness of his lips making me shiver. “You’re playing a very dangerous game.”

  I can feel his erection growing against me and it spurs me on to rock with even more enthusiasm. He is mine, I can feel it already. I grab his thighs and dig my fingers in, pushing back and forward against him. He growls in my ear. I continue to move, thrusting, rocking, pretending that he’s the one rumbling underneath me, looking up at me, worshipping me. The wind whipping through my hair sends chills across my searing hot skin, and I imagine it’s his fingers pushing back the strands so he can see my face. A white-hot energy builds inside me. Back. Forth. Higher and higher. I hear us both panting over the roar of the bike.

  I barely notice him turning onto my street. By the time he pulls the bike into the small lane next to my building he is so hard against my back and his thighs so tense under my hands that they are shaking. I am so wet and blind with desperation that I have become a squirming vessel of melted liquid held up only by his body. Oh God. I need him now.

  The bike stops moving, but he doesn’t turn off the engine. He grabs my hip with one hand, slides his other arm around my body and reaches into my open jacket. His thumb brushes across my hardened nipple through my silk top just as he pushes my hip down so that my clit meets the vibrating seat through my jeans. It is too much.

  I come. My belly clenches before releasing into a single crescendoing note throughout my body. I can’t help the cry that escapes my open mouth, my head thrown back like I’m singing to the heavens. I pray that this doesn’t have to stop.

  The intensity ebbs and I feel a buzzing covering me like a blanket.

  I hear his voice in my ear. “I’m going to do that to you again. But next time I’m going to be inside you.”

  Yes, please be inside me.

  How is it possible that this ache for him is still here even after I just had that amazing orgasm?

  I’m limp as he pulls me off his bike. He holds me until the feeling returns to my legs and I can stand on my own. He lets go of me and mounts his bike again. Sitting on it he is closer to my height.

  Realization snaps me out of my fog. “You’re not coming in?”

  “I have things to do.”

  “But you…” I wave wildly at the direction of his jeans, which are still straining against his bulk.

  He laughs and reaches around my neck to pull my cheek to his lips. “Be good, kitten.”

  He backs out of my driveway and rides away.

  There are things that stay the same every time with Caden.

  I never know when the next note is coming and he won’t give me a way to reach him. When a note arrives I never know where it came from.

  We never meet at my place or his.

  He always instructs me to meet somewhere different – sometimes in a bar or restaurant, sometimes at a museum or gallery. Often he surprises me with someplace I would never expect.

  Like the planetarium after it closes; he helps me
scale the wall. With his hands on my legs pushing me up and over, I forget about the night sky and see stars of my own.

  Or when we ride out to the national park and he leads me to a cave thick with glowworms.

  Or the toy store.

  He hasn’t once asked me to meet him when I have to work, so I’ve never had to ask to swap my shifts. I wonder whether my schedule is another thing he somehow knows about me. Or just good luck.

  I’m struck dumb with a rush of heat every time I see him. He always smiles at me as if knows exactly what he’s doing to me. We talk or sometimes we just walk in silence. There are questions that he just won’t answer. Like what he does for a living. He won’t talk about his family.

  After three months of seeing Caden this way, the ache in my gut is like my shadow, a constant, ever-present shade. It’s an exquisite kind of torture.

  When we sit next to each other he always tucks me into his side and under his arm, our thighs touching, his body curling around me as if he is my shield. My shield. My shelter. My safety.

  He still hasn’t kissed my mouth. But his lips know the curve of my neck, the line of my jaw, the arc of my ear. He knows the smell of my hair and my skin.

  He still hasn’t kissed me. I know he wants to. I can feel the strain against his jeans, hear the hitch in his breath, see his irises darken. Every time, he leaves me only with a, “Be good, kitten.”

  I have to scream around my fist with frustration. What the hell is he waiting for? I find myself locking myself in my apartment and medicating myself with masturbation again and again until I fall sleep, exhausted and delirious and calling his name.

  But it’s not enough. This ache and this pressure just gets worse and worse. Soon, pulling on a shirt over my breasts or the fall of my hair across my bare back or rubbing moisturizer into my legs has become an erotic experience that has me moaning for Caden as I touch myself again. My skin is so sensitive it almost hurts to be clothed. I’m going to go crazy. Mad. Or perhaps I already have.