Taken by the Italian Mafia(32)

How could he ever leave her behind?

Rocco shifted his weight onto his elbow and ran his hand through her  damp hair. He wouldn't make the same mistake twice. No matter what he  faced. He was the Don, and no one would come between him and what he  wanted - and right now he wanted her.

When their lips met at last, there had never been a sweeter kiss.  Despite the need he felt for her, Rocco would not rush things. Whitney's  lips were to be savored and adored, and he would offer her the worship  she deserved. She was worth it all.

With each kiss, Rocco melted into her touch. Lower he sank until their  bodies were flush, the full brunt of his excitement pressed against her  stomach. Whitney wrapped her arms loosely around his neck and kept him  close, enamored.

"Make love to me," she whispered against his lips. "Show to me that you mean what you say."

If that was all it took, Rocco would prove it to her every day.

Hard and ready for her, he let his hand dip down over her stomach and  down her thigh. Rocco's fingertips traveled inward, teasing her sex.  Even after their bath, she was ready for him. What a poor, misguided  creature. Didn't she know he was bad to the core? As his finger moved  inward to tease the bud of her sex she moaned and pressed up against  him, he knew it didn't matter. Whitney was interested in who he was as a  person, and he was determined to be the best person he could be for  her.

Slow movements teased her to new altitudes of desire, and it wasn't long  before Whitney squirmed beneath him, desperate for him. The look in her  eyes, heavy with arousal, was his invitation. Whitney parted her  thighs.

As she moved beneath him, Rocco moved to correspond. The hard length  once pressed against her stomach ran between her legs to reintroduce  itself to her slit. And then, when their positions aligned just right,  her caught in her entrance and pushed forward with gentle insistence.

Whitney gasped and clung to him a little tighter.

"Rocco," she uttered, hips moving to meet his thrust. Their movements  were slow, but did not lack in passion. Rocco was caught up in her, and  she felt so good he never wanted what they had to end.

Each time he sank in, he felt as though he was deeper than he'd ever been before. There was no one else for him.

Both of their bodies sore and injured following the events of earlier  that afternoon, there was no reckless, mindless fucking. What Whitney  gave to him was far more precious. Making love had always sounded so  half-assed and pansy to Rocco, but now he understood. Sharing himself  with a woman he loved was infinitely better than any quick and mindless  fucks he'd had in the past. Whitney was the key to it all.

Stolen kisses and delighted gasps replaced the senseless slap of skin on  skin and the creaking of bedsprings. What they made together was  beautiful and meaningful. Rocco would never forget it.

"Ohh, Rocco," Whitney breathed - and then he felt it. The tight walls of  her sex shivered and contracted against him, plunging him deeper into  the waters of her pleasure. It was Rocco's turn to gasp. A surge of  pleasure shot through him and tightened in his balls, and relief came  all at once. His seed passed through him and into her, marking her body  as his once more. His girl, he'd told Mikhail. He wouldn't forget it  again.

"Rocco," she murmured again, a smile spreading her lips. Instead of  reply, he kissed her. Orgasm spread through them both, then rippled into  nothing - but the feelings he had did not diminish. When Rocco  withdrew, he lay by Whitney's side and pulled her into his arms,  pressing one last kiss against her lips.

"Whitney Greene," he muttered back. "I'm a man of my words. Whatever the  future holds for us, I'm gonna make sure that it goes smoothly. Don't  you worry about a thing."

The way she looked at him, eyes alit with adoration, told him that she  trusted him. There was no bigger compliment. And it was that feeling of  contentedness that lingered with him as he fell asleep by her side.         

     



 









Chapter Twenty-Five





Whitney





Safe in Rocco's arms, warm beneath the sheets, Whitney had never slept  more soundly. Exhaustion from terror was real, but so was the relief  from it that followed. Now that the shock had worn off and she'd found  her safety net, Whitney cherished every second that she was still alive.

And as messed up as it made her feel, she didn't recall a time when she was happier.

Even living paycheck to paycheck, career uncertain, the fleeting nature  of life had never hit her as hard as it had in the last twenty-four  hours. There was no predicting what would happen, and it was a fact of  life Whitney had to learn to live with whether she was with Rocco or if  she was on her own. What mattered was how you dealt with it and got  through it, and Whitney was done with worrying. Instead, she intended to  live each moment to the fullest and enjoy what good she had while it  lasted.

It didn't last long.

In what felt like seconds after she'd closed her eyes and fallen asleep,  the slam of their closed bedroom door against the wall startled her  awake. The hall light was off, but even in the shadows, Whitney could  recognize the stumpy, chubby silhouette of the man in the doorway.

Arturo.

"You killed Mikhail?!" Arturo roared as he entered the room. Whitney was  awake at once, and clutched her robe around her as she scrambled up  towards the headboard. Rocco had already sat up, peering at his brother  through the darkness. "You fuckin' killed Mikhail over some black slut?  All this bullshit over a tight cunt and a taboo, Rocco? Are you shitting  me?"

"She's not a slut, she's not a taboo lay, and what we do behind closed  doors is none of your fuckin' business," Rocco growled. He rose from the  bed. "You leave her the fuck alone and stop sticking your nose in my  business! I'm Don now, and you're going to listen to what I tell you, or  God help you, Arturo, I won't be held responsible for what happens."

The whites of Arturo's teeth caught in the moonlight as he sneered. A  rustle of fabric followed a quick hand gesture, and he pointed his gun  at Rocco's head. Rocco froze. Naked and unarmed, Arturo had the clear,  lethal advantage.

"You know what?" Arturo said, holding his aim steady. "I'm fuckin' sick  of your bullshit power trips and your superiority complex. Ooh, I'm  Rocco. I'm dad's favorite and I'm gonna be Don one day, so you'd better  shut your trap, Arturo. Ooh, we're in a war with the Black Mafia? I'll  just bang this black slut anyway cuz I'm above the rules."

"Arturo, stop-"

"Arturo, stop! I don't like it when you call me out on my BULLSHIT. WHY  CAN'T YOU JUST BE BLIND TO ALL MY FUCKUPS LIKE DAD IS?" Arturo burst  into screaming, eyes wild and shoulders tight with unchecked rage and  delusion. "Well you know what, Rocco? Dad's in fuckin' jail. Now that  he's locked up there's only one thing that's stopping ME from being on  top, and that's you."

A flick of his thumb unlocked the safety. Whitney gasped. Rocco was frozen on the spot, face a cold mask of impartiality.

"So buckle in for a wild ride," Arturo sneered. All of a sudden his aim  pivoted from Rocco to Whitney, muzzle of his gun trained directly at her  skull. "Cuz I'm gonna ride her until she's beggin' me to stop. I'm  gonna make you watch as I slice away that black skin until she's all  pink and red all over. As she's still alive and screaming in agony, I'm  gonna go back and fuck that pretty pussy you love so much until I'm  ready to shoot my load all over her skinless carcass. I'm gonna slice  off those lips and make her eat the pieces. I'm gonna-"

An inhuman cry of rage echoed through the room and cut Arturo off mid  sentence. Emotion slipped through Rocco's stony mask, overriding the  hardened criminal he had fostered through the years. Before Arturo knew  what was happening, Rocco lunged through the air at him, fists swinging.

The gun went off. A deafening pop and the bright light of an explosion  filled the room with their violence. Whitney dropped onto the bed, but  searing pain shot through her, burning like nothing she had ever felt  before. The sensation was so overwhelming she had no idea where it  originated from. All she knew was that she'd been shot.

"YOU FUCKIN' BASTARD!" Rocco cried. Another shot went off, but the  bullet lodged into the wall. The sound of metal skittering across the  hardwood floor marked the moment the gun was struck from Arturo's hands.  Rocco was on the attack, and no injury was going to stop him from  defending Whitney's honor.

Both men fell to the floor, screaming at each other. Their voices  mingled as one, words impossible to pick out. Fists flew. One moment  Rocco had pinned Arturo to the ground, slamming his fist into his face  as he had the night before on the stairs, and the next Arturo had gained  the advantage and was sinking low blows in an attempt to cripple his  brother. Even as she lay in agony on the bed, warm blood seeping from  her shoulder, Whitney knew that no matter what, the key to victory lay  in the one gun that had skidded across the room. She couldn't let Arturo  have it. Gritting her teeth and struggling to rise, Whitney got up from  the bed and staggered across the floor. The gun had come to a stop when  it met the wall. She scooped it up and held it tight, finger hovering  near the trigger. If Arturo came at her or Rocco broke away from him,  she would shoot him. Until then, she didn't want to kill the wrong man.