I eyed his cigarette. It looked small and harmless in his hand. I didn’t know what it would look like in mine, but I was beginning to wonder.
He must have noticed my expression, because he pulled the cigarette from his lips and handed it out to me. He wanted to share? He watched me with that hooded, looking-into-the-sun expression, not saying a word. My pulse fluttered.
It’d been six months since I’d even touched a man—that must be why I was having such schoolgirl notions about handholding and cigarette-sharing. Male contact wasn’t a normal thing for me, and even before this ring graced my finger, it hadn’t been then.
I took the cigarette from him, and he watched me as I brought it to my lips and inhaled. The coughing was instantaneous, my eyes watering.
Dark amusement ghosted through his gaze before he reached forward and took it from me, his fingers brushing mine.
“I wasn’t finished,” I protested, still coughing a little bit. If I was going to smoke, I was going to do it right. Maybe I was a perfectionist, but I couldn’t leave anything halfway or poorly done.
I watched him put his lips on the cigarette where mine had been. Thank God it was dark, because my cheeks grew hot. This man had barely said anything to me that wasn’t rude, short, or demanding, yet my body reacted to everything he did like it was magic. Che palle. I was crushing on my future brother-in-law.
He handed it back to me. “Not so much this time.”
I listened to him and only inhaled a little bit. A couple of seconds passed before smoke smoothly escaped my parted lips. A languid rush filled my bloodstream, my head feeling light.
The breeze was warm, the song of the cicadas steady, while I shared a cigarette with a man I knew nothing about.
“My mamma’s going to kill me,” I said softly, followed by my cousins’ low laughter drifting on the light breeze.
Nicolas dropped the butt, blew out a breath of smoke, and stepped on it. “You tell your mamma everything?”
I looked up at the starry sky. The answer was no; I never told anyone much. Nothing that mattered anyway.
“She’ll smell the smoke,” I said, gazing at the constellations. I glanced at him to see he’d been watching me. I flushed, every inch of my skin growing hot.
“Come here.” Something soft and charming wove through his deep voice.
My heart skittered to a stop.
This was how this man got women: by only saying, “Come here,” in that tone. Nonetheless, I couldn’t say I felt cold when he was rude either.
I had always done what I was told, especially by the Made Men in my life, though not a single step I took in his direction was because of that. I was a moth moving toward the flame, until I stood close enough for my wings to ignite.
I held my breath when his hand rested on my waist. His grip tightened as he pulled me forward until my chest brushed his. My pulse beat in my throat, and his hand was so hot, spreading warmth to the pit of my stomach, that I hardly noticed him leaning in, brushing his face against my hair.
“No smoke.” The words were smooth with a rough edge.
His palm slid from my waist to my hip before he pulled away, leaving a trail of fire down my side. He pushed off the wall, and I took a step back and out of his way. Walking away, he stopped and turned to me. His voice was cool, indifferent, and laced with that commanding tone he’d mastered.
“The list? I want it tomorrow, Elena.”
“What do you mean, like do I carry a membership card that says ‘Mafia’ on it?”
—Willie Moretti
TEMPTATION IS HALF-NAKED, INNOCENT, AND dripping wet.
And I am my idiot cousins.
Those were the two conclusions I’d come to this week with an irritating sense of acquiescence. I was practically up to my neck in work, and yet I could only focus on one goddamn thing.
Elena Abelli, of course. So fucking wet.
The way she’d stood there, dripping water to the concrete while staring at me with those soft brown eyes and that sweet expression. Her long, wet hair and a body you’d see on a porn star. Jesus, it couldn’t be real. That’s what I’d convinced myself, but then it followed me, got in my way even, and told me what I couldn’t do.
It was regrettably real. Every perfect square inch of it.
For an unknown reason, the idea of her greeting guests looking like that dug under my skin. Was her papà letting her run around half-naked while men were over? And as her soon-to-be brother-in-law, could I tell her to go put on some fucking clothes?
I hadn’t ever wished a girl would get dressed, especially one with an ass like Elena Abelli’s. Frustration clawed at my chest, because I knew when irrational responses went through my head it meant one thing, and it usually wasn’t good for either party involved.