The Mob Boss Said My Father Owed Him a Life, So He Took Mine to Keep novel · Chapter 6 of 24

Chapter 6: The Study

I went down at three the next night, and I didn't pretend I had come for the books.

The light was under the study door again.

I opened it and shut it behind me and turned the key, and the small click was loud in the quiet room.

Rocco looked up from the desk.

He had his sleeves rolled and his collar open, and the bottle sat where it had sat the night before.

He read the lock, and then my face, and he put down his pen.

"You locked it," he said.

"I did."

"Grace."

"Don't get up," I said.

He didn't.

I crossed the carpet in my bare feet, in the gray sweater and nothing else, and stood in front of his chair.

I could feel the cool air on my thighs, and on everything under the wool.

His eyes went down once, slowly, and came back up black.

"Tell me what you want," he said.

"I want you to sit still."

His hands tightened on the arms of the chair.

"That's going to be hard," he said.

"I know."

I lifted the sweater over my head and dropped it on the floor.

I stood there naked in the green lamplight.

I watched his breath stop.

He looked at me as if I were something he'd been told he could never have and had stopped hoping for.

"Christ," he said, low.

"Look at you."

"You're looking," I said.

"I'm not going to stop," he said.

"Good," I said.

I put one knee on the arm of the chair and then the other on the cushion, so I was kneeling over him with his face in front of my breasts.

His hands came off the arms.

They hovered an inch from my waist and shook.

"Not yet," I said.

"Put them back."

He put them back.

I took his head in both my hands and kissed him, slow this time, my tongue stroking against his.

He tasted like everything I'd stayed awake thinking about.

He groaned and his hips jerked up under me, and I felt how hard he was through his trousers, pressed against the heat between my legs.

"Grace," he said against my mouth.

"Please."

"Say it again," I said.

"Please," he said.

I'd never heard that word from a man who owned a city, and it went through me like a struck bell.

I slid off his lap and onto my knees on the carpet between his legs.

He stared down at me.

"What are you doing?"

"Shut up, Rocco."

I opened his belt.

I opened the button and the zipper, and he lifted his hips so I could pull everything down, and then he sprang free in my hands.

He was thick and flushed, long and heavy, with a vein running up the underside and a bead of clear wet at the tip.

I wrapped my hand around him and he made a sound I'd never heard a man make.

"God," he said.

"Grace, I don't think I..."

"You do whatever I say," I told him.

"Yes," he said.

I looked up at him, and I put my mouth on the head of him and licked.

He swore in Italian.

I did it again, slow, around the crown and down the underside, and tasted salt and heat and him.

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