Savage Favour: A Mafia Organised Crime Romance (Gangster Wants a Wife Book 1) by Layla Simon

Author:Layla Simon [Simon, Layla]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2022-10-23T16:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

BAXTER

When Isabelle asks, I inwardly curse.

I should’ve just stripped off when she was lying spent upon the bedspread. That way, I could’ve snuggled up behind her, manoeuvring us both under the covers. Now, by trying to keep myself away from her curious gaze, I’ve ended up subjecting myself to more scrutiny.

“I have a lot of scars and tattoos.” I bend my head to kiss her shoulder, avoiding her gaze. “They’re not pretty.”

“Okay.” She twists to show me the back of her upper arm. There’s a thin line marring the otherwise perfect skin. “Here’s one of mine. It’s only fair you show me one of yours.”

“That’s the prettiest scar I’ve ever seen,” I hedge, kissing it better years after the fact. “How’d you get it?”

“Fell out of a tree.” She lifts her left knee. “And here.”

I trace the lighter flesh with my thumb. “Wow. Looks life-threatening.”

“It landed me in the bathroom with a cotton ball and a bottle of Dettol after I cycled into a car door.” She opens her eyes as wide as they’ll go, blinking innocently. “The antiseptic stung so much I thought I was dying.”

She continues to meet my gaze, swapping out innocence for expectation, but I shake my head, unable to give her what she wants.

“Are you afraid you won’t be able to get me into bed if I see you naked?” She snorts softly, tugging at my beard. “Because I happen to know it’s far”—tug—“too”—tug—“late.”

I kiss her gently, but her ministrations have had the wrong effect. I now feel so exposed that even the thought of shedding my clothing in front of her makes me cringe inside. Instead, I pull her into my arms, turning her to face the door so I can nuzzle into the curve of her neck.

As if that’s enough to stop her rampant curiosity.

“Are you hiding because you’re ashamed?” she asks next, squirming in my arms until she’s able to read my face from the corner of her eye. “Blink once for yes and twice for no.”

“Please drop it.”

“I will… but it’s not like you’re hiding a swastika under there or anything, right?”

“Drop—”

“You can get them removed.” She lowers her voice to a dark whisper. “No one need ever know about your racist past.”

“—it.”

“It is past, though, isn’t it? Because being harboured by a reclusive organised crime lord is one thing but shacking up with a white supremacist is quite another.”

“I’m not a—”

“There are like deprogramming things you can go to. Like the same psychologists who talk people out of cults.”

I place a hand over her mouth and shake my head. “I’m ordering you to stop talking about it, okay? I’m not a Nazi or a member of some weird cult.” After counting to ten, I remove my hand.

Her mouth opens and I hold up my finger. “That was an order. Do you remember what happens if you disobey an order?”

“Spankings,” she says with her eyes dancing.

“No orgasms.”

She reluctantly turns her head back to face forward, wriggling her butt against me. The thick lines where my belt marked her are still an angry red.

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