His body was pulled taut beneath my hands. The condom wrapper crinkled as it disappeared into a clenched fist.

“No. Condom,” he ground out.

It might have been the stupidest, most impulsive thing I’d ever done, but I didn’t want to use a condom from his nightstand that he reserved for all his randoms, or, even worse—a regular. I wanted to be different, needed to be.

My response was a whimper as I slid further down until half of his length disappeared inside me. We both watched it happen, my breaths coming out erratic. I was so filled it burned. As I held myself there, my thighs ached like I’d run a mile.

He stared at where we were joined with a dark look rivaling madness. And then, with a growl, he tossed me onto my back and thrust all the way inside of me.

I cried out, my back arching off the bed. So full, too full. I pushed on his chest to get him to ease out, but he remained so deep I could feel him in my stomach. His body was so heavy as he lay on top of me, one hand braced on the bed and the other cradling my head.

We stayed like that for a moment, his chest panting for air against mine. His ragged breaths fanned my neck while he remained still.

His lips pressed against my ear. “You want to know a secret?”

I shivered at the deep voice, but I didn’t answer because I was still trying to figure out how to breathe with him inside me.

“I’ve never fucked a woman without a condom.” He nuzzled my neck. His voice was warm and smooth, but his teeth were clenched. “And I’m afraid you’ve just created a monster.”

He held me by a fistful of hair at my nape and then he fucked me.

Skin against skin. A scrape of teeth. The heavy weight of him. Unrelenting. It was so intense I fought to find air to breathe, to find anything that wasn’t harsh and him. Soon, the intensity softened, my body warming and molding to his. Every thrust began to kindle a spark inside of me that only the next thrust could sate. My nails dug into his biceps, and a small shudder rolled under his skin.

He talked while he screwed, right against my ear in a deep rasp, and it made me crazy.

“You take it so good,” he praised.

“So fucking tight.”

“So wet for me.”

The words sank into my skin and filled every space in my body with warm satisfaction.

Every time his pelvis ground against mine, molten heat spread from my clit outward. A throaty moan escaped my lips with every thrust, as though he pushed each one out of me.

I was nothing but heat and flame and pleasure.

“Fuck, you’ve got to be quiet,” he groaned in my ear. “Or this is going to be over before I’m ready.”

I tried to stop, but I couldn’t. It was like trying to stop breathing.

He covered my mouth with his palm, while the other hand remained fisted in my hair. It was rough and restrictive and so addictive.

And I suddenly knew this was what had drawn me to Nicolas Russo. What fascinated me. Maybe the Cosa Nostra had tainted me from the start, like a poison in the water supply, because I needed this: restraint, domination, to feel him everywhere. I’d known it would be like this, so intense, but it felt so much better than I’d ever envisioned.

The orgasm was immediate and so violent it sent a shudder through me that chattered my teeth. Heat pulsed in my lower stomach before branching out in tingles and dazzles of the best feeling ever.

When I came down, it was to him motionless inside of me, watching me with a gaze dark as night. He pulled his hand from my mouth, and by the teeth marks I realized I’d bitten down on it when I came.

“Who fucks you?” he growled.

I shivered. “You do.”

“Who else?”

“Just you,” I breathed.

A rumble of satisfaction came from his chest, and he rested his forehead against mine. “I’m going to come inside you and then I’m going to fuck you again.” His lips hovered above my own. They were so close that with a slow thrust and a tense breath, they brushed mine so lightly it was like it never happened.

I could almost feel his lips pressed against mine, sliding and licking and biting. Wet and messy and rough. Because that’s how Nico would kiss. I wanted to experience it violently enough it was a war between my head and my mouth.

He’d taste like whiskey and bad decisions.

This time, my head won.

He stayed like that, our lips inches apart, as he thrust inside of me, deep and slow, and with an intimacy that made me feel like someone had rubbed my skin with sandpaper until I was raw and exposed.

But I couldn’t escape it, not with his fist in my hair and his body on mine. Not with his dirty words still resounding in my ears. Not with the warmth that blossomed in my chest at the mere mention of his name.

I’d let him inside of me.

And now I’d never get him out.

“Love is like a virus. It can happen to anybody at any time.”

—Maya Angelou

HEARTBEATS ARE FICKLE THINGS. BEATING one moment and then stopping the next. Raging a storm and then lying as still as a tranquil sea. But what I didn’t know is that they change. They glow and warm and expand in a chest. They ache and yearn for a reason to beep.

My heartbeats had a fondness for the romantic.

They began to skip, to multiply, to fill with a contentment as thick as honey and as warm as the sun. They did it all as my skin grew cold and while I stared at the ceiling and tried to ignore them.

I couldn’t fall in love with this man.

I would rather never fall in love at all than to experience it unrequited. I’d seen it enough times to despise the possibility.

I couldn’t love a man who treated me like a commodity, or even worse—a pretty bird in a cage, and not like a wife. If there was anything I knew with a certainty about Made Men, it was that they couldn’t grasp the concept of fidelity. Those heartbeats tied into a knot, a strangling, uncomfortable ball in the back of my throat.

I smelled like him. He was all over me, and I’d asked him nicely for it. Someone needed to save me from myself before I got on my knees and professed my inevitable love to him. Might as well make it right after he finished screwing another.

Bitterness cut through my chest, and I moved to get up and leave but an iron grip wrapped around my wrist.

Slowly, I glanced at the man who lay like a freshly fucked king next to me. I bet his heartbeats were satisfied that he’d finally laid his easy fiancée. But as soon as I looked at him, the resentment faded into a different kind of ache. When had he become so handsome it hurt? I fought not to rub at the pang in my chest.

He didn’t say a word, just watched me with a lazy stare while inhaling rough breaths. It’d been only moments since we’d had sex again. But in my head, it’d felt like an eternity as the seconds mocked me with the inevitable that he would soon hold another like he had me.

I was ruining a moment I’d wanted badly enough it felt like a need. But now I couldn’t stop myself from analyzing everything—the possibilities and outcomes—and it didn’t look to be in my favor.

When the eye contact began to burn, I tried to pull my wrist away, but he wouldn’t let me go. His expression didn’t show a hint of emotion, as though he could hold me here effortlessly. As though he might hold me here forever.

A moment later, his grip slid from my wrist, releasing me. Something dipped in my chest, though I pushed it away before I could analyze it. I got off the bed and, as I took a step toward the door, something dug into the bottom of my foot. I halted and glanced down. The ring sat there, forgotten, like the sweet boy who’d given it to me. My stomach twisted.