Mafia's Surrogate Bride Chapter 95

Damian's POV

Damn her.

Aria had no idea what she was doing to me, standing there in nothing but that silk camisole, the fabric clinging to her curves like a second skin.

I'd been trying to focus on the quarterly report from my Milan operations for the past twenty minutes, but every time she moved—reaching for her book, adjusting her position on the chaise lounge, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear—my attention shattered like glass.

The video call with Roberto Marchetti should have been routine. We'd been negotiating shipping routes for months, and tonight was supposed to finalize the terms that would secure our Mediterranean operations for the next five years. Instead, I found myself watching Aria's reflection in my computer screen, mesmerized by the way the silk rode up her thighs as she curled her legs beneath her.

"—and the port authorities in Naples have agreed to the new schedule, provided we can guarantee the increased security measures you mentioned last week."

Roberto's voice seemed to come from underwater. I forced myself to look at his face on the screen, but my peripheral vision caught Aria stretching languidly, her arms reaching above her head in a way that made the camisole pull taut across her breasts.

Christ.

"Damian? Did you hear what I said about the security protocols?"

I blinked, refocusing on the screen where Roberto's weathered face showed barely concealed impatience. He'd been one of my most reliable partners for over a decade, which meant he deserved better than my distracted half-attention.

"I heard you," I said, though we both knew it was a lie. "The Naples situation is manageable."

Aria chose that moment to lean forward and reach for her water glass on the side table, the movement causing the silk to slip off one shoulder.

My jaw clenched as heat pooled low in my abdomen.

"The customs officials are still concerned about inspection timing," Roberto continued, oblivious to my internal struggle. "They want additional documentation for anything over—"

"Roberto," I interrupted, my voice rougher than intended. "I'm going to have to cut this short."

He raised an eyebrow. In all our years of business together, I'd never ended a meeting prematurely. "Is everything all right?"

I glanced at Aria again. She'd picked up her book—some romance novel she'd been absorbed in for days—and was reading with the kind of focused intensity that made her lips part slightly. The sight sent a spike of want through me so sharp it was almost painful.

"My wife called me to bed," I said simply.

Roberto's expression shifted from confusion to amusement. In our world, family always came first, and a man's wife's wishes were respected without question—even if the reality of my relationship with Aria was far more complicated than Roberto could imagine.

"Of course," he said with a knowing smile. "We can finish this tomorrow. Give my regards to the signora."

I ended the call without ceremony, snapping the laptop closed with more force than necessary. The sound made Aria look up from her book, her amber eyes wide with surprise.

"I didn't say anything," she protested, her voice soft but wary. "I was just reading."

I stood slowly, deliberately, my eyes never leaving her face. The air in the room seemed to thicken with each step I took toward her, charged with the tension.

"You didn't have to say anything," I said,"Just being here, looking like that, is invitation enough."

She clutched her book tighter against her chest, as if it could shield her from the intensity of my gaze. "I'm just wearing pajamas, Damian. It's not an invitation to anything."

"Isn't it?" I moved closer, close enough to see the way her breath quickened, the flush creeping up her throat. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you're trying to test my self-control."

"That's not—I wasn't—" She scrambled backward on the chaise, but there was nowhere to go. Her back hit the armrest, and she looked up at me with those wide eyes.

She was so beautiful it was almost painful to look at her. The way the camisole draped over her curves, the way her hair fell in soft waves around her shoulders, the way her lips parted slightly as she struggled for words—every detail seemed designed to break down my carefully constructed walls.

"Careful, Aria," I warned, reaching out to trace the delicate line of her jaw with one finger.

She swallowed hard, and I watched the movement of her throat with fascination. "We should keep things professional," she whispered, but her voice lacked conviction.

"Should we?" I leaned closer, bracing one hand on the armrest beside her. "Because your body seems to be telling a different story."

The book tumbled from her nerveless fingers, hitting the floor with a soft thud that seemed unnaturally loud in the charged silence. I watched her chest rise and fall with increasingly rapid breaths, watched the way she unconsciously leaned into my proximity even as her mind clearly told her to maintain distance.

I slipped my fingers into her hair, tangling them in the honey-colored strands as I tilted her head back.

"I can't," she admitted, the confession torn from somewhere deep in her chest.

"Wait," she said, her hands moving to press against my chest. "Damian, wait. This is... this is happening so fast,"

"Damian, look at me. I'm shaking." She said, her voice trembling slightly. "I need—I think I need to prepare myself. I think we need time."

"How much time?" I asked, though every possessive instinct I had was screaming against the delay.

"I don't know," she admitted.

I studied her face, taking in the flush across her cheekbones, the rapid rise and fall of her chest. She looked like a woman on the edge of surrender, fighting against her own desires.

But that mouth of hers wouldn't stop talking, wouldn't stop forming words that contradicted everything her body was telling me.

"Damian, you let me prepare," she said again, her voice breathless but insistent. "I think we need time. I need to think about this, about what it means, about—"

Too noisy, little one.

I slid my thumb between her parted lips, pressing down gently on her tongue to silence the stream of protests that meant nothing when her body was responding to my every touch like she'd been made for this moment.