Gianna
I wasn't sure what possessed me to do it, but I knew I had to. If I didn't, I'd end up married to a man I was completely unqualified for, and I couldn't let that happen.
I was never the kind of girl who had grand plans – let alone battle strategies for escaping an arranged mafia marriage – but here I was, sitting across from Dominic's desk, practically wringing my hands. My heart was doing that nervous fluttering thing again, and my head was a chaotic mess of thoughts.
I had to make him understand. He couldn't marry me. I wasn't fit for this. I couldn't have them all knowing about my business. I wasn't built for their world anyway.
So, I said the first thing that came to my mind.
"You... you don't want to marry me, Dominic. I sleep-talk."
Dominic, who had been staring at me with that inscrutable expression – half annoyance, half amusement – blinked slowly. The silence stretched, and I could almost feel the weight of his gaze. My cheeks burned hotter.
"Like, full conversations. With a lot of emotion," I rushed to add, hoping to scare him with the word emotion, clasping his desk, spiralling. "Once I confessed to a murder in my sleep and my roommate almost called the cops – it was actually a pie recipe and I'd baked it wrong. But I said this all creepy and even whispered, 'He never saw the rolling pin coming.'"
I threw up my hands, desperate to make it sound worse. "Do you really want to wake up next to me? I'm basically a liability. Marrying me is an FBI risk. We don't want that in o-our mafia world!"
I bit my lip. That had to be convincing, right? The inability to let a person sleep was definitely a dealbreaker for any marriage.
But Dominic said nothing. He simply leaned back and watched me the way a surgeon might look at something he's about to cut open.
"And... uh... I'm really bad at directions," I continued, my voice faltering. At least this one was true. "Like, I get lost in my own neighborhood sometimes. If you take me anywhere, I'll probably end up in a different city. You'll waste so much time trying to figure out where we are, you'll be late for everything. And I know your time is money, so... I'm really bad for all your mafia business."
He raised an eyebrow, clearly not impressed, but his lips twitched, as though he found something about this bizarre little speech highly entertaining.
"And, um, also –" I hesitated, glancing away, "– I don't like wearing heels. I mean, I try sometimes, but they just hurt, and... I end up looking like a baby giraffe trying to walk for the first time. You don't want that. I'd probably trip and fall on you at the worst possible moment."
His gaze darkened, though I wasn't sure if it was because of my ridiculousness or something else.
"You're really trying to talk your way out of this, aren't you?" His voice was low, dangerous, like a warning.
I nodded furiously, my hands clasping together in front of me. "Yes! I mean, it's just... you haven't even heard the full list yet. I stress-bake a lot. I once made 84 cinnamon rolls in a single night and sobbed while glazing them. It's not even you; I can't marry anyone. I'm a frosting hazard. Also, I must warn you about my growing collection of ceramic frogs that I talk to. You can't marry someone like me, I –"
He moved so fast the air changed.
One moment I was speaking, the next – I wasn't.
The wall hit my spine. His hands found my shoulders.
Not frantic. Just firm.
His eyes didn't rage; they measured.
Like he was deciding whether to end the conversation or me.
His face was so close that I could feel his breath on my lips, his body hard and unyielding against mine.
"Dominic—" I breathed, but it came out a whimper.
His fingers curled around my wrists, pinning them above my head with a grip that was firm but careful. Controlled. As if he was constantly holding back something far more dangerous. His mouth was inches from mine, breath hot and ragged.
"You think that if you act helpless, I'll let you go?" he murmured, voice dipped in menace. "You think being soft makes you untouchable?"
His eyes roamed over my face like they were studying the weakness in a structure before demolishing it. And then – God help me – he smirked.
"Cute," he said. "I've never met a thing worth protecting that didn't beg to be ruined first."
His mouth crashed down on mine like a storm. There was nothing sweet about it. No hesitation. No softness.
Just heat.
Possession.
Claiming.
He kissed like he fought – with intent to destroy. My lips parted on instinct and his tongue swept in, rough and demanding. I gasped against him, the sound muffled by the force of his mouth devouring mine.
He tasted like control and danger, like a man who didn't ask permission. Who took what he wanted – and right now, what he wanted was me.
My knees buckled, but his body pinned me upright, one hand still gripping my wrists above my head, the other sliding down – rough over the curve of my waist, anchoring me to him like I might vanish if he didn't hold me.
He pulled back just enough to look at me, his lips swollen, eyes black with intent. "Look at you," he murmured, like I was something obscene, his tone reverent. "Mouth open. Eyes wide. Still pretending this isn't what you wanted?"
I shook my head, but my body betrayed me – pressing closer, chasing the heat of him, needing more even as my mind screamed run.
"You don't get to hide behind your sweetness," he growled, dragging his mouth along my jaw, down the sensitive column of my throat. "Not when you look at me like that. Not when you just moaned into my mouth like you need me."
I bit my lip, trying to contain the whimper clawing its way out of my throat. But his hand was already sliding lower, down the flare of my hip, gripping hard. Possessive.
He rocked against me once – slow and deliberate – and the friction made my whole body seize.
"See?" he whispered against my skin. "This isn't affection, Gianna. This is what happens when you dangle softness in front of a man who's only ever known war."
His teeth grazed my neck, not biting but close enough that my pulse stuttered. My hands ached in his grip, but I didn't want to pull away. I wanted to fall – deeper into whatever this was. This chaos. This fire.
He leaned in again, brushing his lips against mine like a promise. "I'm not here to play house," he murmured. "I'm not here to make you comfortable. I'm here to see how far I can push you before you beg me to stop."
And then he kissed me again – slower this time, but no less intense. Like he wanted to carve the taste of me into memory. Like he was memorizing how I broke beneath him.
And God help me, I let him.