Arranged Mafia Marriage

Jeanne

“A game.” I shoot him a sideways glance. As if I am going to agree to anything he suggests.

“Don’t look at me with such suspicion.” He raises his hands. “An innocent game to pass the time is all I’m suggesting.”

“Hmph,” I scoff. “Nothing you say or do is innocent.”

“Of course, it’ll help us get to know each other; especially since we’re going to be sleeping together.”

“See!” I stab my thumb in his direction. “Knew it. There’s not an innocent bone in your entire body.”

“Can’t refute that. I’m a Mafioso, remember? I lost my innocence-what there was of it, at any rate-a long time ago.”

I wrap my arms about my waist. I don’t want to play with him, do I? And the option is, what? Staring up at the ceiling?

“Come on, Angel, I’m hardly asking you to play strip poker.”

“Wouldn’t put it past you to weave the same conditions into whatever game you’re suggesting.”

“The thought had crossed my mind,” he admits.

“Ha.” I snort, then glance in his direction. “What did you have in mind?”

“Truth or Dare? Surely, that’s an innocent enough game for you?”

“Not when you’re the one I’m playing with.” I turn over on my side. “I’ll go first. Truth,” I call out before he has the chance of saying anything. “When did you lose your virginity?”

“Hmm, let’s see.” He scratches his chin. “I lost my virginity at fourteen.”

“Why am I not surprised?”

“To the wife of one of my clan members. She was fifteen years older than me.”

“That’s predictable. Cougar and boy toy,” I scoff.

“My turn now. Truth.” He leans forward. “Tell me something about yourself that you’ve never told anyone else.”

I purse my lips. What can I tell him about myself without giving too much away?

“I, uh… I have a tattoo.”

“A tattoo?” He tilts his head.

“It’s in a place which you’re never going to see.” I tap my right hip.

“Now that’s a challenge I’m not going to be able to resist.”

“Get used to it because you’re never going to be able to see it.”

“What kind of a tattoo is it?”

“It’s a line from my favorite book of poems.”Nôvel(D)ra/ma.Org exclusive © material.

“Which is?” He scowls.

“Wouldn’t you like to find out?”

“You know I will, so why don’t you save yourself the bother and tell me what it is?”

“What’s the fun in that?” I retort.

“Didn’t take you for a tease.” He brings his knees up, then lowers his arms between them. With his hair drooping over his forehead, and that slightly disgruntled expression, not to mention the jacket and pants which still manage to be fairly uncreased, he’s sex on a stick. Heat curls low in my belly, and a shiver runs down my back, but I ignore it.

“I’m not teasing you; simply stating a fact.”

“We’ll see.” His grin widens. “The very fact that you don’t want to show me your tattoo, after mentioning it, shows that you want to pique my curiosity. You want me to imagine you without your clothes, though you pretend you don’t want to sleep with me.”

“I want nothing of that nature.” Liar! My cheeks flush, my nipples harden, a pulse flares to life between my legs, and I have to stop myself from squeezing my thighs together.

“Dare,” I burst out. “I dare you to not say one suggestive thing for the next ten minutes.”

He chuckles. “You’ve got it.”

“You’re not going to protest?”

“Why should I when I can do this?” He begins to peel off his jacket.

I stiffen. “What are you doing?”

He doesn’t answer. He shrugs off his jacket, then starts on the buttons of his shirt.

“Hey!” I can’t take my gaze off the strip of skin that he reveals as the lapels of his shirt part. He pushes down the sleeve of one arm, then the other, before he drops his shirt on top of the jacket. At least the floor’s not dusty; it would be a pity to dirty those beautifully-cut clothes of his. And I’m only saying that to distract myself, for fact is, I can’t take my gaze off of his chest. That incredible eight-, or is it ten-, pack chest, each pec demarcated. The valley between them leading down to his sculpted abs.

He rises to his feet, and my gaze follows. He raises his arms above his head, joins his fingers, then stretches long, deep, with such sensuous grace that my throat dries. He arches his body in a curve to one side, then the other. I rake my gaze down the column of his torso, the narrow waist, the hard slabs of muscle which are his belly, the waistband of his pants which dips low enough to hint at the trail of hair that disappears under it. My belly trembles, my thighs spasm, and moisture laces my core. I know I am gaping a little, but hot damn; this is like a real-life striptease by a particularly hot male model. And while I’m not unfamiliar with the male form, given I work in theatre and male actors take good care of their bodies, no one I have met so far is anywhere half as hot as this man-my cell mate, my fellow prisoner, the man I’m supposed to sleep with to get released from here. I gulp.

A sinking sensation blooms in the pit of my belly. I’m sure it’s not lust. And I know it’s not anticipation. It’s certainly not me being so attracted to him that, despite the fact there may be someone watching us, I don’t care anymore. With that kind of body… I’d do anything to feel his muscles on me. His weight holding me down. His lips on mine. His tongue in my mouth. His fingers inside my pussy… My core clenches. My toes curl. I turn over on my front and press my pelvis into the mattress.

He chuckles as he lowers his arms to his sides. Jerk! I’m sure he knows exactly what it’s doing to me to watch his sexy body being unveiled in this fashion.

He winks, then turns and drops to the floor, so he’s balanced on his palms and toes. Wait a minute? When did he take off his boots? I get a clear view of his back and gasp. What the-?

His entire back is one big tattoo.

The face in the center has soulful and piercing eyes, and the serpents that spring from the head are entwined with three sheafs of wheat painted the most brilliant yellow. Three legs bent at the knees radiate from the head.

The design is familiar, but I can’t quite place it. It’s a pattern that’s haunting, macabre, primal, and somehow, seems perfect for this man I hardly know. It also doesn’t quite hide the strokes of mottled skin which crisscross his back. One, two, three… I count ten of them that flow diagonally from shoulder to waist. The skin is puckered and scarred over, so it must have happened a while ago. When he was younger… When he was a boy, maybe? It must have been painful. How did he survive it?

There are more tattoos on his left arm. I spot a knife, a gun, a four-petaled flower, the scales of justice among the designs which run from wrist to shoulder.

On his other arm are scrawled the words:

Non Dimenticare Mai

“What does the writing on your arm mean?” I finally ask.

He pauses midway in a push up. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

He dips down, his chest parallel to the ground. His biceps bulge, and his shoulder muscles undulate as they take the weight of his massive body. He stays there for a few seconds, maybe longer, then pushes up so he’s balanced on palms that are flat on the ground and on his toes.

“On the other hand…” He shoots me a sideways glance. “Hope you’re keeping count.” Then he flows into the next push-up. One, two, three. I start a count of a different kind… Truthfully, I do try to keep count, I promise. But the way the planes of his back contract, how his thigh muscles strain his pants as he stares forward with an intent expression, and sinks into each push-up is like a dance… And with those scars on his back… It’s dangerous, and animalistic, and erotic, all at once…

Jesus, this is body porn. This is better than watching Elle Woods take down Warner Huntington III in Legally Blonde. OMG, did I just compare watching Luca work out to an event from Legally Blonde? That’s a first because, thanks to my mom, Elle Woods is my all-time girl crush, and the fact that I could even think of both in the same vein means… Luca has made more of an impression on me than I would have given him credit for.

He continues to flow into the next push-up and the next and the next. A bead of sweat slides down his temple, and the tendons of his throat strain. The veins stand out on his arms, and his entire body seems to grow heavier, but he doesn’t stop.

I sit up, swing my legs over the side of the bed, then pad toward him. He doesn’t look my way, doesn’t seem to notice when I pause in front of him. This way, I have a bird’s eye view of how his shoulder blades come together when he presses down on his hands and lowers himself until his nose almost brushes the ground. Then he straightens and the planes relax, and his pants pull tight across his butt. A breath whooshes out of me. My breaths feel heavier, my stomach muscles feel lighter, and the space between my legs, definitely moist. My toes curl as I drag my gaze back up his torso to his face to find he’s watching me with those piercing blue eyes.