ATONEMENT | MAFIA ROMANCE | SMUT

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

I recognised that look. Cold, deadly, threatening. "I'll check the file tomorrow." I cannot trust Liam with Logan's personal information. He's mentally equipped to intercede, act on my behalf and unburden Logan with or without an agreement. "I can text you," I lied once again, hoping he'll forget our conversation by tomorrow. "So, the cakes?"

"Yes, the cakes." He nabbed the ugliest cupcake and held it between us. "Why must we bake again?"

I missed out on cake decorating at the youth centre. "I baked. You unhelpfully stood back and stared at my ass all night."

"I did." He takes a large bite, talking with a mouthful. "You have a great ass."

Nowadays, I have nothing to flaunt. But again, I appreciate his white lie. "If I ordered a new batch online, do you think Matthew will notice? I can arrange them in a container and pretend I knocked them together."

"Who cares if Matthew believes you?" he clipped, repulsed by thoughts of me working so close to a male. "You don't belong in a place like the centre. Come back to the club and work beside me."

No, I am too jealous. If I see one naked, promiscuous dancer make a pass on him, I'll throw her over the glass balcony to her unstoppable death. "I don't want to work at Club 11."

"Why?" he asked sharply. "I will pay double."

"It's not about the money." We share wealth anyway. "I like it there. It's refreshing. Rewarding."

Giving me a meaningful look, Liam put the half-eaten cake to my lips, tempting me to taste. I opened my mouth to sample the goods, but he tossed it on the counter and snatched a kiss from me instead. Tasting chocolate on his tongue, I pulled myself into his awaiting arms, felt the cold marble suddenly on my backside and spread my thighs for him. Kissing me hungrily, fiercely, he stood between my thighs. "We don't need these." He knocked the disastrous cakes and decoration supplies onto the floor. "Or these." Hiking my dress to the waist, he tugged the lace thong down my legs while simultaneously freeing his hard shaft. "Moan for me," he ordered, right before his thick fulness rammed into me.

So much for a great British bake-off.

Josh had a set of keys to the Manor. He never knocks on the front door or informs me of his presence. Every morning, I find the sticky-fingered ghost inside the kitchen, foraging the fridge freezer, scavenging fruit punnets and cartons of orange juice. On the sly, he overindulges carbohydrates and saturated fat: buttered toast, bacon sarnies, whole milk and jelly gumdrops. His unquenchable gluttonousness originates from Nate's strict, uncompromising fitness regime. When left unattended, the poor sod craved everything in sight. "Not a word," the secret binge-eater warned, scarfing down everything but the kitchen sink. "Nate can't know, Alexa. He'll grill my ass for weeks. And you know what? I am sick of late-night track and sprints. I hate running—I just hate this fucking diet."

"Hey, if it's any consolation," I motioned to his muscular transformation, "Nate's proficient. I mean, look at these arms." Curling my hand around his bicep, I gave his tense muscles an investigatory squeeze. "See? You used to be lean and sylphlike—"

"Sylphlike?" he barked, raising his shirt to examine his washboard abs. "I have never possessed a feminine waistline." His deadpan eyes drilled into me. "I could bench one hundred and thirty-five pounds with those lissom arms, so what are you saying?"

"Impressive," I mocked. "How much can you bench press now? You know, since Nate's gruelling training sessions?"

Josh's lips puckered. "Three hundred?" he deliberated, biting into a slab of mature cheddar. "Bit more on a good day."

My brow raised. "I rest my case."

Although Alfie, the cheerful, green-eyed, auburn-haired Suit who's unpredictably loquacious, accompanies me from house to errand to work, Josh continues to coach me behind the wheel. Venturing to unoccupied car parks to drive around in monotonous circles for an hour ceased to exist. I am confident enough to steer the Bentley onto main roads and ease towards traffic lights without running through a red light. I stalled on six occasions Monday, three times the day after and only once this morning. Music and pedestrians no longer distracted me. Josh's carping dwindled. Liam promised new wheels if I pass my test.