His Mafia Queen

His Possession

His gaze rakes down my body, lingering on my cleavage.

"Thank you. The people you hired to give me a makeover were quite thorough."

He extends his arm and takes a lock of my now bright blonde hair between his fingers. He slowly, gently tugs on it. A corresponding pull on an invisible thread in my body feels tight and needy, and I stare at him.

"Very thorough. And what else did you do today?" He sweeps my hair off my shoulder, his fingers grazing my neck in the process. My mind flashes back to that artwork in his bedroom.

I swallow, and my instinct is to move away from him. But I don't, because I'd like to feel his fingers against the sensitive skin of my neck again. Because I'm thinking of our kiss, and how I want more.

A feeling of guilt for snooping in his room settles into my chest, and then it hits me: he probably knows I poked around in his drawer.

No, he totally knows, because he's staring at me with a lopsided smirk.

"Thought about the story. Napped. Had some iced coffee. You know, the usual, under the unusual circumstances." I try to play it off like this sort of thing happens to me all the time.

He again strokes my neck, then works his hand further into my hair. In a flash, he tugs me close, sending sparks showering over my scalp. What I wouldn't give to have him pull my hair like that during sex...

"You and I both know you did a little more than drink coffee and nap, tesoro."

His mouth is close to my ear now, and a flood of wetness has suddenly appeared between my legs. I squirm a little under his touch, my eyes flitting out the window. When are we getting to this damned party, anyway?

"I'm afraid a little punishment will be in order."

I twist out of his grip and glare at him. "Yeah, right."

He smiles, all teeth and sin. "Not now, though. Later. That will give you something to look forward to, because God knows this party's going to be boring as fuck."

His gaze once again lands on my cleavage, and I can feel my nipples harden. What does he mean when he says he's going to punish me? Can he do that? Do I want him to?

No, don't think of that now.

The car stops, and the chauffeur hustles to open my door first. Gabriel exists on his side and by the time I'm stepping out, he's there to hold my hand.

As we walk in, he snakes an arm around me, like I'm his possession.

***

Thank God there's no red carpet. In the few times I've had to cover local charity events for the paper, I've always felt embarrassed for the dressed-up denizens who parade down the scarlet path like they're at the Oscars—when they're really just at a party, in Tampa, Florida no less.

Catty of me, I know.

I shouldn't even be thinking along those lines. Who am I to judge anyone? I'm a girl from Southie, a lower-middle class kid from a place that's gray and dingy. And now I'm here in this tropical hell with someone who is also gray—but in a different way.

Gabriel and I walk up the grand marble steps of the venue. His hand is around my waist, touching the skin that's exposed from the cut-out portion of my dress. His touch is like fire licking my skin, and I can feel goosebumps rising on my arms as I lean a few inches into him. It's as if I crave his touch, but I also feel slightly horrified, because I know what we're doing can only lead to disaster.

Focus, Riley. Focus. That's all you can do at this moment.

I'm here for a purpose: to write a story. Not to be some rich mobster's arm candy for the night. Gabriel doesn't seem to think the same, though, because his embrace seems to grow more possessive as we step through the grand wooden door of the club.