Owned: A Mafia Menage Romance(116)

“Shhhh, you’ll wake Jack,” he stage-whispered.

I smiled blandly and left the room. We had played this game enough times that I knew how it went. If I let on that I wanted to know something, he made it his mission to keep me from it until he felt like giving it to me. Everything had to be his decision. As soon as he sniffed any kind of desperation in my voice, he would employ every dodge and parry known to man. I had to play it cool if I wanted to know.

Walking to the kitchen in my bare feet, I sat on the barstool and casually flipped open my laptop, creating a list of a couple dozen things on the grocery store app to pick up. I figured I could whip up a vat of spicy gumbo in an hour. Giant salad, some crusty bread…

“What are you planning, there?”

“The dinner,” I answered distractedly, making a point of not looking up as he walked into the kitchen and turned on the new espresso machine.

“What are you thinking to make?”

“Spaghetti and meatballs,” I lied.

“Seriously?”

“Yeah. Bridget doesn’t care as long as there’s wine. I thought you would enjoy something, you know… rustic. The frozen ones get done in like thirty-five minutes.”

He scowled at me from near the stove.

“The frozen ones of what?”

I shrugged. Gotcha.

“Meatballs,” I said innocently.

“Um,” he grimaced, “why don’t you let me take care of this… I have a guy…”

“Oh, there’s no time,” I said breezily. “Nobody would whip up a dinner party in, what, less than eight hours. This will be totally fine.”

He inhaled deeply and I snuck a glance at his broad, taut chest. I loved the wide patch of light brown hair that spread over his thick pecs and trailed down his belly. He hung his hand on his hip and took a couple steps forward, snapping my laptop closed from behind.

“Hey, I wasn’t done making the list,” I protested.

“Yeah. Get your shoes.”

“No there’s too much to do,” I pouted. “How are you with a vacuum cleaner?”

“Oh my god, stop now,” he growled, coming around the corner of the island and forcing my knees open. I obediently locked my ankles behind his hips as he leaned in and mouthed gently at the ridge of my jaw.

“You know you’re going to do it my way,” he murmured as he leaned forward, forcing me backward. “Stop fighting.”

“But I have to, uh, oh!” I said weakly as he slipped his arm around me, jerking my hips into his.

“What are you going to do?” he asked between love bites, jamming my crotch against his thick, ready tool.

I instantly began grinding my hips, eager to find that easy path to orgasm. Every time I seemed to land on it faster, but Declan would often keep me from it if he knew. I had to work fast.

“I forget,” I lied.

“Margot!” he said, pulling back and giving my nipple a near-painful tweak. I flinched but was instantly desperate for more.

“I’m going to get my shoes,” I whimpered, freezing in place and hoping he wouldn’t pull away if I was very, very good.

“That’s right,” he snarled, diving down and mouthing my pussy through the fabric of my panties. I gasped and threw my head back, but he withdrew and stood straight, leaving me cold and unsatisfied.

Quirking an eyebrow at me, he said, “Well, get a move on then.”

“OK,” I nodded obediently, hoarse and throbbing. My legs threatened to collapse under me as I shuffled down the hall.

This is nuts, I told myself for the millionth time.

Yeah, yeah. We know.



***



Declan buttoned his shirt with one hand while he held the phone to his ear with his shoulder and slipped his shoes on. He had that expression of eager-cat-meets-clever-mouse on his handsome, ruggedly stubbled face. Declan loves a project.

“I’m sure you can do it,” he was purring smoothly into the phone as he pointed me toward the front door, gesturing that I should wait for him there.

“Sounds fine. And the wine pairings. We’ll be there in less than an hour,” he said as he disappeared toward the garage.

I was tempted to dash to the bedroom to ask Jackson who Anneka was before Declan got the car, but there wasn’t enough time. Jackson would just answer my question directly without teasing or torturing me. Somehow that seemed too easy, though. I was just going to have to hope that Declan didn’t forget.

When the Jag pulled to the front, I heard the small honk and opened the door, stepping out into the shaded entryway and then into the late morning sun.

“I hope you’re hungry,” he said as I opened my door and dropped into the seat. He thumbed another number and drew the phone to his ear, then guided us down the drive.