Submitting To The Devil - The Devil's Snare - Book 2

Chapter Thirty

Niko

My heart almost stopped for about the thousandth time today when she walked back down those stairs in nothing but that skimpy two-piece that left little for my imagination to run wild with. Memories of sharing the ocean, of having my hands on her waist, my thumb stroking the soft, subtle skin of her hip. Of watching her pull herself up and onto the ledge, muscles flexing as she held her weight before turning around. Of the soft swell of her breasts that barely contained themselves in the tiny triangles of material made for hiding them. It all begs me to give up on cooking, to grab her and march her back upstairs to the bed I hate sharing with her.

Hate being a lie, honestly, but I do disfavour being beside her with the power to take what I need but not having the heart to force the girl to want me.

Despite my intention of ignoring her reentry, I was unsuccessful.

She walked right on by, heading out into the garden, where she walked into the hot tub, taking my breath and my cock with her.

Is she purposely taunting me for a reaction?

Fuck, she's beautiful, but that doesn't mean I'm not perturbed by the fact I'm now liking everything I've run from since I decided to ignore the Italian female race the moment I realised what women were to me.

For many years, I fought my attraction to women, specifically those around us in opposing families, as I followed Dimitri's goons by way of training.

The glowing skin, long legs, little bitty waists, brown hair, and equally earthy eyes that stared back at me were everything I felt I wanted but wouldn't allow myself to have. All in the name of holding a grudge for my mother. Of course, over the years, the diminishing need to avenge her death made me make certain decisions.

I'm finally at peace with her death now; if I'm honest, she doesn't have a life of disappointment. I'm happy she's somewhere else; I like to think she's at peace and happy. Not being forced to take part in rituals and such as the way of life for women in the Mafia.

So, you see, I hated everything that reminded me of the Mafia I grew up in. Fucking hated it because my mother was Italian, and look where that got her. That's why I began to pick attributes in women that screamed anything but Italian.

Blonde hair, pale ghostly skin. Blue eyes, green eyes. I even chose women of colour, enjoying their chocolate skin and firm arses that certainly did something for me.

Over the years, I also chose muscular women, avoiding the soft curves of the Italian women around me, which made me look for something most men found unattractive.

But right now, standing in this kitchen, watching her bend over into that tub...

"Shit. Ow."

My attention snaps down to the searing pain spreading through the palm of my hand, the waters piping hot and the pans overflowing onto me.

I flip the cold water on, placing my hand beneath the stream as I fail to keep my attention from looking back out into the garden at Bianca.

She's staring at me, a small smile on her lips. She's a big distraction for which I'm losing the ability to fight.

Every fibre of my being wants to march out there, forget the dinner I'm making, and bend her back over the edge of the hot tub. Her skimpy bottoms would only take a slight pull to unravel at the bows sitting at her curvy hips.

It would be very easy to allow myself to be the man I usually am with women. I don't know why I started out by giving Bianca the choice with me. We wouldn't be here battling against one another if I had chosen a different path for us—if I had chosen to dominate her over...care for her.