At Eight O’Clock the Mafia Boss Ordered His Curvy Housekeeper to Cancel Her Date,

Emily held her wine glass tightly, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird.

"You said you were angry because he was a threat," she reminded him.

"He was a threat," Adrian admitted, taking a single step closer until the tips of his leather shoes touched her heels. "But that wasn't why my blood boiled when I saw you in that emerald dress."

"Then why?"

Adrian reached out, taking the crystal wine glass from her hand and setting it down next to his on the table. He didn't pull away. Instead, his long fingers slid up her arm, resting lightly on the exposed skin of her shoulder where the wrap dress draped over her curves.

"Because I realized another man was going to look at you the way I've been dying to look at you for eleven months," he confessed softly.

Emily’s breath caught in her throat. The sheer honesty of his words hit her harder than any physical impact.

"Adrian..."

"Every morning at seven-thirty," Adrian continued, his thumb gently caressing the warm skin of her collarbone, "you walk into my office with a notepad. You tell me my schedule. You tell me which corrupt politician is calling, which shipment arrived at the docks, and what time my meetings are. And every single morning, I sit behind that desk and force myself not to stand up, walk around, and pull you into my lap."

Emily stared at him, her lips parting in shock. "You... you never gave any sign."

"Because I'm a monster, Emily," Adrian said, a dark, self-deprecating smile flickering across his face. "Look at my life. Look at what I do. I deal in violence, extortion, and blood. You are clean. You are vibrant, kind, and whole. Bringing you into my world felt like dragging a swan into a coal mine."

"I'm not fragile, Adrian," Emily said, her tone suddenly fierce. She reached up, placing her hand firmly against his chest, feeling the heavy, powerful beat of his heart through his white dress shirt. "Don't treat me like some fragile little thing that breaks if you touch it. I've lived in this penthouse for nearly a year. I know who you are. I see the men who come through that door. I know what you do."

"You know the sanitized version," Adrian murmured, his hands sliding down to rest against the curve of her waist, pulling her an inch closer.

"I know the man who buys medicines for his retired drivers," Emily countered, looking straight into his dark eyes. "I know the man who secretly funds two youth centers in South Chicago because he grew up with nothing. I know the man who drinks black coffee with honey when he's spent forty-eight hours straight protecting his people."

Adrian went completely still. He looked down at her, his expression a mixture of profound shock and intense, overwhelming hunger.

"You really see me, don't you?" he breathed.

"I've been watching you just as long as you've been watching me," Emily admitted softly, her confidence blooming under the warmth of his hands against her waist. "And I was terrified that if I ever said anything, you'd fire me and hire some middle-aged butler named Arthur."

Adrian let out a breathless, low laugh, pulling her body completely against his. The contact was electric. The broad, muscular expanse of his chest pressed against her full curves, fitting together with a startling, natural perfection.

"There will never be another manager in this house, Emily," Adrian whispered, his head dipping down until his lips brushed against the sensitive skin beneath her ear. "Only you."

A shiver ran down Emily's spine, a gasp escaping her lips as his mouth moved down her neck, leaving a trail of hot, lingering kisses.

"Adrian..." she gasped, her hands tangling into his dark, thick hair.

"Tell me to stop," Adrian rasped against her skin, his hands tightening around her waist, pressing her firmly against his hips. "Tell me right now, Emily. Because if you don't, I am going to take off this dress myself, and I am never letting you leave this room."