"So, you decide to use words which are an insult to be called insults?"
"Oh, my god!" I whisper-yell. "You’re getting on my nerves."
"Oh, I’m getting on your nerves? You’re so innocent, you don’t realize the danger you’re in."
"I’m in more danger from you than anything else in the vicinity, you numbskull."
"Numbskull?" He blinks, then his lips twitch. "Did you call me a numbskull?"
"Yes, I did." Pathetic, I know. But I’m running through my limited repertoire of rude names at an alarming pace.
We stare at each other, then he chuckles. The sound is rich, warm, and so masculine, a burst of need sparks to life deep in my belly. I can’t take my gaze off of the curve of his lips, the tiny lines that deepen at the corners of his eyes, the flash of pearly white teeth, the heavy darkness of his eyelashes, which are so thick that they should look feminine, but instead, they only add to the overwhelming feeling of heaviness, thickness, larger-than-lifeness that is this man. This mobster. This villain. This anti-hero. The kind of man I’d never thought I’d run into.
He leans in closer, until his eyes are poised in front of mine, until his nose almost brushes mine, until his mouth is so close to mine that his breath brushes my skin. A thousand goosebumps seem to pepper my skin all at once.
"Angel," he breathes.
"Luca," I murmur at the same time.
Something shimmers in the air between us, and the goosebumps seem to multiply until every inch of my body is ablaze with a strange writhing need to close the distance between us. To rub myself up against that hard chest. To brush my cheek against his and feel the roughness of his whiskers abrade my skin. To lick him from top to bottom, then bury my face in that delicious hollow between his chin and his chest.
The bartender clears his throat. "Your whiskey."
I jump, try to pull back, but Luca doesn’t release the hold on the nape of my neck. I glance sideways at the bartender, who looks between us with a frown on his face.
"Leave," Luca snaps without taking his gaze from my face.
Vincent pales. He opens his mouth as if to say something, and Luca holds up his free hand.
"Out," he says in a voice that whips across the room.
Vincent swallows, but he doesn't move away. He glances at me with a worried expression on his face. I appreciate his concern, but if he stays here, jerkhole, here, is sure to beat him up, and I don’t want him getting hurt for no fault of his own. I nod and half-smile at him, trying to convey that I am fine.
He hesitates, then finally nods and backs away. A door bangs shut somewhere near the back, indicating he’s left the building. Then, that sound, too, fades away, and I realize I’m alone. With a very angry Mafia guy. In a bar in the middle of nowhere.
"There are other people in the rooms above the pub."
"Nope," he makes a popping sound with the last syllable of the word. "There’s only one room taken—ours."
"Oh," I gulp.
"Why? Are you scared of being alone with me?"
"Oh, pfft," I raise a hand to brush the hair back from my forehead, and of course, my fingers tremble.
"I… I’m not scared of you. I was alone in the room earlier with you."
"That was different."
"How?"
"You hadn’t disobeyed me then."
"You didn’t tell me not to leave the room."
"It was understood." The lines radiating from the corners of his eyes deepen further.
"How? I’m not a mind reader."