Baby for the Brute_A Fake Boyfriend Romance Read online

  He cocks his head at me, but doesn’t say anything. He only looks thoughtful, like he’s trying to puzzle out what I’m saying by not saying, but he isn’t going to press me to explain myself.

  “Thank you,” I say suddenly.

  He glances at me, eyebrows raised as if to say, for what?

  “Sorry,” I laugh. “Just ignore me.”

  “Afraid I’m not going to be able to do that. You have a little bit of a distracting effect on me.”

  “It’s probably my tendency to make a fool of myself. Hard to look away from that, I’d bet. Like a car crash waiting to happen.”

  “No. I think it has more to do with me wanting to fuck you.”

  He hasn’t made any secret of his attraction to me, and he definitely wasn’t hiding it at the club the other night, but his directness still hits me like a punch in the stomach, sending a warm rush of heat to my lower stomach and my cheeks. “There’s that,” I say very quietly.

  We pull up to the theater a few minutes later. It’s an old-fashioned building with an elaborate marquee out front. The display reads. “Private Engagement: Ana and Angelo”. I give him a look when I see that, but he only flashes the faintest of smiles.

  “You know how dirty private engagement sounds, right?”

  His smile spreads now. “Yes. But I didn’t realize how dirty your mind was when I planned this. I still thought you were just some innocent little thing that had wandered into my life by mistake.”

  I try to look offended. “I’ll have you know, I’m perfectly innocent.”

  “Okay,” he says, but the tone in his voice says he’s not convinced.

  “Seriously!” I say. I actually start to feel a little irritated that he doesn’t believe me as he pulls the car into a parking space out front. “What happened the other night was not my usual self.”

  “So you were a virgin?” he asks.

  “That’s a little personal.”

  He leans in, eyes hard and intense, lips so close I can feel the breath puff from his mouth with each word. “My cock in your pussy was personal. That was just a question.”

  I clear my throat, unable to deny a certain kind of logic to his point. “I wasn’t a virgin.”

  He nods. “But you haven’t been with many guys before.” It’s not even a question. He states it like it’s a fact.

  “Should I be offended that you’re so sure? Was I that bad?”

  “You were perfect. A lot of women think they know what men want. They try too hard. They’re fake. They moan too loud and they run their hands over their bodies because they think it’s sexy. You were just you. Every sound and movement was pure and true. It was the sexiest goddamn thing I’ve ever experienced. Why do you think I hunted you down today?”

  I catch myself chewing my lip and force myself to stop. I read once that the first sign someone is sexually aroused is that they’ll touch or stimulate their lips. Something tells me a guy like Angelo can read my lip chewing as clearly as a neon sign that says “horny.” “You were okay,” I say, not knowing where I’m digging up the nerve to tease him from, but enjoying it all the same.

  He actually growls. Not a full on bear in the woods growl, but something low and oddly sexy while being terrifying at the same time. I barely hear it, but I can see the fire in his eyes that tells me I didn’t imagine it.

  “I had planned a normal, nice evening, but if you want to provoke me…”

  “So all I need to do is tease you to get a spanking?”

  His hand grips the steering wheel tighter, like he’s barely controlling himself. “If you want a spanking, all you need to do is ask, little pet.”

  My cheeks burn red. It was a joke. With most guys, that much would be obvious, but there’s something about Angelo that makes me think he is serious. Spankings, risky, wild public sex… I think all of it is on the table with him. My habit of turning my discomfort into a quick joke just might get me into a very deep kind of trouble with him. I had better be more careful. Or maybe I shouldn’t.

  This date is going to be interesting.

  8

  Angelo

  The theater is empty except for a nervous looking kid behind the counter who greets us and then awkwardly hurries to the concession stand to man the popcorn machine. He’s like a captain trying to run a ship by himself. I feel a little bad for him, but I bought out the theater for privacy tonight, and asked that they staff the bare minimum of employees to make sure we had the most intimate experience possible.

  I guess the bare minimum is one.

  “Want anything?” I ask.

  Her eyes flicker over to the display of brightly colored candy packages, but she shakes her head. “I’m okay.”

  I venture a guess that she doesn’t want me to think less of her for wanting junk food.

  I pause, then turn us toward the counter. “Give me that big ass bag of Skittles,” I say to the kid.

  He fishes under the counter and pulls one out. “Anything else, sir?”

  I look to Ana, who is still watching me a little nervously, but she says nothing.

  “And maybe those Sour Patch Kids,” I add.

  He grabs another bag from below and plops it on the counter.

  Ana is raising her eyebrows at me, confusion plain on her face.

  “Anything else?” asks the kid.

  “You sure you’re good?” I ask Ana.

  She gives the smallest shrug of her shoulders I’ve ever seen and then points to a bag of jellybeans. “I guess I could go for some of those. I have to admit though, I would’ve never guessed you ate candy.”

  “What do you mean?” I ask.

  She gestures from my shoulders to my knees in a broad, sweeping motion. “I mean… I guess I figured you lived on boiled chicken and steamed veggies or something.”

  I laugh. “Afraid not. I’ve never had the self control for that. Skittles are my weakness. And bread. And steak. And I fucking love quesadillas.”

  “So you’re just blessed with unfair genetics, I guess.”

  “That, or I have a little extra cardio planned tonight to work this junk food off.”

  “Like a jog?” she asks.

  I bark a surprised laugh. For all her dirty jokes earlier, she still can’t hide how innocent she is. “Jogging bores me out of my mind. I was thinking of a more entertaining form of cardio.”

  Realization finally dawns on her and I’m rewarded with a blush that creeps up from her chest to her cheeks.

  We take our seats about three-quarters of the way up the theater and directly in the center. We’re completely alone.

  “So what movie are we seeing?” she asks.

  “Pride and Prejudice.”

  “Seriously? That’s one of my favorite movies. I just wouldn’t have guessed...” she asks.

  “That a guy like me would pick it?”

  She smiles. “Something like that.”

  “Let me tell you something, Ana. If a guy is worried about admitting he likes a romance movie because he thinks he’ll look like a pussy, then he is a pussy. Plus, I think at least eighty percent of women love this movie, so I figured it was a safe bet to score some points with you.”

  Her smile turns to a smirk. “This sounds like you’re trying to justify liking a girl movie.”

  “Because I am,” I admit. “I blame my older brother’s friend. He’s always watching romance movies, and for some reason, I enjoyed this one.”

  “Well, you’re not going to hear me complain about it. I’m just trying to recover from the mental whiplash of date one in the BDSM club and date two being so sweet.”

  “Oh don’t worry. This is just part one of date two.”

  She pops a jellybean into her mouth and stares at the screen, making a face that tells me she remembers my comment about extra cardio tonight.

  While the movie plays, I can’t stop thinking about her. It’s nearly halfway over when I realize I haven’t been paying attention to a single scene. My thoughts are consumed by her small body
beside mine, by memories of how impossibly soft her skin felt. I grip the armrest of my seat, hardly containing my desire to take her again but knowing the act will be sweeter for the waiting. Besides, she does need to see that I’m not just a sex-crazed animal, even if being near her makes me feel like one.

  She lets out a satisfied sigh when the movie ends, turning to smile at me. The look on her face is completely oblivious, as if she has no clue how much I’m burning to fuck her right here and now. “It had been way too long since I’d seen that. Thank you.”

  “Come on,” I say, taking her by the hand and leading her from the theater. I show her through the lobby and into a staircase marked “Employees Only.” She’s probably curious as hell, but doesn’t ask me any questions while we climb several flights of stairs to the roof access.

  We step out of a heavy door and onto the roof of the theater. Only a portion of the building’s roof is accessible here, giving just enough space for our needs. I had someone from the theater string up lights and set up two chairs.

  She opens her mouth in delighted surprise and claps her hands together. “Oh my God. This is so pretty.” Ana steps to the ledge surrounding the roof and rests her hands on the concrete, looking out over the city. “I feel like they always have these adorable little rooftop hangouts on sitcoms and I’ve always wanted to experience one in real life. This is perfect.”

  “Yeah,” I say. I move to stand beside her, letting our shoulders brush together so that I can enjoy her heat. “I’ve always felt better up high like this. Makes it easier to think, somehow.”

  She nods, but her expression turns troubled, and she starts picking at a loose flake of paint on the concrete.

  “What is it?” I ask.

  “I know you didn’t want to talk about it, so I’m afraid of pestering you. But…”

  “Talk about what?”

  “What you do. I know you own that club, but I’m not stupid. I can tell that’s not your job. Not all of it, at least. People look at you like they’re afraid or intimidated. Even the way you carry yourself. It’s—” she sighs, shakes her head, and presses her lips together in frustration. “I feel like I don’t want to know, but like I have to.”

  “I didn’t want to talk about it because I didn’t want to scare you away.”

  She looks up.

  I look out over the city, trying to find the gentlest way to put it. Instead, I decide to be blunt. She deserves the truth, not some sugar-coated answer that’s manufactured to mislead her. “I’m part of the mafia.”

  She nods her head almost sadly, like she had somehow guessed as much. “Your last name. It’s Luciani, isn’t it?”

  I pull my head back a little, even more surprised. “How did you know that?”

  “My father is Rosiano Torretti. I’ve been around mafia men my whole life, and I think I recognized the signs in you from the start, even if I didn’t want to admit it to myself.”

  I shake my head in complete confusion and disbelief. “No. When I looked you up online, your last name was Rose. Anabelle Rose.”

  “It’s my middle name. My father had it legally changed to protect me. Anabelle Rose Torretti.” From the way her eyes are searching my face, she’s looking for a certain reaction. Did she suspect I’m a Luciani already? How could she not suspect—no, know that I’m a Luciani. It’s not like there are dozens of crime families in the city. There’s me and her father. That’s it.

  She’s a fucking mafia princess. Not just any mafia princess, either. She’s the daughter of my biggest rival, the man who gave me the scar on my face and the man who has fucked over my family time and time again with his greed. Rosiano fucking Torretti.

  “Say something,” she urges, eyes intent and lips parted.

  “You’re right. I’m Angelo Luciani. My older brother, Enzo, stepped down from the head of the family last year, and I’ve been in charge ever since.”

  We both stare into each other's eyes for a long moment. The cards are on the table now. I thought she was forbidden fruit because she was young and innocent, too pure for a brute like me. Yet the whole time I didn’t even know the half of it. She’s so fucking off-limits that just looking at her the wrong way could’ve turned the skirmishes between our families into a bloodbath. Into war.

  And I did a hell of a lot more than look at her…

  “Well,” I say slowly, after I’ve had a long time to think. “This does change one thing.”

  “What?” she asks. Her lips quiver, like she knows down to her bones that I’m about to break things off because I’d have to be fucking insane to imagine we could keep this up.

  “I was going to say I should meet your parents soon. Maybe have them over for dinner. I think we can skip that, now.”

  All the tension in her spills out in a quick breath somewhere between a laugh and a cry. She hugs me, pressing her face into my chest. Her fingertips trace a slow, idle pattern around one of my buttons while we look out over the skyline.

  “You still want this?” she asks.

  “More than anything.” I chuckle a little, even as the reality of what I’m planning to do starts to crystalize in my head with all its deadly implications. “Remember when you were a kid and you’d see something you wanted? Some—” I shake my head a little, frowning when I can’t think of a good example. “Some thing you knew you had to have?”

  “Yeah,” she says, pulling back so she can look up at me with a thoughtful expression. “For me it was a pogo stick. It was a cartoon I liked. The characters always went everywhere with pogo sticks, and I decided I had to have one.”

  “Seeing you walk into the coffee shop was like that,” I say. “I felt like a kid again. It wasn’t like wanting something as an adult. Worrying about the price, financial or otherwise. I just knew I had to have you. No matter the cost. No matter the consequences.”

  She smiles. “I was so scared to ask you.”

  “Scared? Of me?”

  “You do realize you’re kind of intimidating, right?”

  I shrug. “I’ve heard that. Once or twice.”

  She shakes her head, the smile on her lips fading as some darker thought seems to enter her head. “Angelo Luciani,” she muses. “Of all the coincidences in my life, this might just be the most unlucky.”

  “Careful. You might start making me self-conscious with talk like that.”

  She gives me a playful flick of her eyebrows. “Well now that would be something. Little old me making the great and scary Angelo Luciani self-conscious?”

  “It wouldn’t be a wise tactic.”

  “Why’s that?”

  I put my hand on the railings on either side of her, pinning her back to the safety railing and giving her nowhere to go. “Because the only way I could cure my bruised ego would be to fuck you again. It’d be the only way to convince myself I was still on top.”

  “But what if I wanted to be on top?” she asks.

  My cock stirs. Fuck. Something about her quick, dirty mouth clashes in the most perfect way with the innocence that still clings to her like armor.

  “Who taught you to talk so dirty?” I ask. Without realizing it, I bring my mouth just inches from hers until our breath mingles. I can smell the faint sweetness of the jellybeans she had during the movie.

  She bites her lip. “To be honest, I don’t ever talk like this. I’m not really sure what’s gotten into me.”

  “Well, I did, for starters.”

  She grins. “You’re right. Maybe that is my problem. Can I blame you for all the dirty thoughts that started coming after that, too?”

  “Those are all yours, my little pet. I only woke up the hunger that was there all along.”

  She runs her index finger down from the knot of my tie to my belt, letting her touch linger there as her eyes trail up my chest to meet my gaze. “Hmm. You’re right. I do feel kind of hungry. You think they are still making popcorn down there?”

  “You’re welcome to go check,” I say. “As soon as I’m done with you.”r />
  She raises her eyebrows. “You may be big and scary, but nothing comes between me and food when I’m hungry. Not even you.” She puts her hands on my chest, pushing me back slightly.

  I let her move me aside. I even let her take two steps toward the stairs. Then I grab her hand just before she moves out of my reach. I pull her back to me, catching her against myself and holding her by the small of her back so her breasts are pressed against me. “It’s funny. I’m the same way. Except I’m not hungry for popcorn.”

  “Why didn’t you say so?” she asks, voice a near-whisper. “I still have some jelly beans in my purse.”

  “Fuck your jellybeans,” I growl.

  I press my mouth to hers. I kiss her as I press her back toward the door to the stairs, only stopping when we clumsily bash into it. She kisses me back fiercely, biting my lip and pulling it away as she sucks in frantic breaths, her small hands tugging and pulling at my clothes without any real coordination, as if her brain is only able to spare enough thought to send a foggy message of undress to her hands, and they’re doing the best they can.

  I strip her out of her dress before helping her with my buttons and tie. I’m too impatient to have my hands on her again to bother with her underwear once my clothes are in a pile on the ground. She’s wearing a mismatched gray cotton bra and red, silky panties. I cup her breasts, rubbing my thumb across her bra until I feel the hard nub of her nipple trying to press through. I imagine her slipping into her underwear that morning, having no idea I’d be seeing what she chose. There probably wasn’t a thought in her head that anyone would see what was beneath that dress.

  The color of her underwear is a small secret. It’s something that would be insignificant with anyone else. But with her, even something so small fills me with a dirty thrill. I palm her panties, pressing my hand roughly against her and letting my fingertips curl around her mound and between her legs where she’s already dampening her panties for me.