Capo Macchiavello & Mariposa Flores
A simple arrangement – you do for me, I do for you. Nothing owed, no expectations
Except for one: never leave
Machiavellian
A simple arrangement – you do for me, I do for you. Nothing owed, no expectations
Except for one: never leave
Machiavellian
☆☆☆☆☆☆
Excerpt from Machiavellian
I stood and turned toward the mirror. I watched him walk closer from behind. He stopped when he was at my back. I could feel the heat from his body through the dress.
He moved my hair to the side, and then he helped me lower the top of the gown. My fancy white adhesive bra glowed against my skin. He kissed the nape of my neck, watching me as he did, and then his fingers barely caressed my arms.
“Butterflies have least favorite colors when it comes to flowers. Do you know what they are?” His voice was low, almost hoarse.
“No,” I whispered. A shiver waved over me from his constant touch, his gravelly voice, and it made me tremble.
“Ti piace la mia bocca sulla tua pelle. Tremi per me.” He said the words almost to himself, something about me liking his mouth on my skin, me trembling for him. Then, smoothly, he brought us back to his comment about the butterfly. “Blue to green.”
My eyes lifted to meet his. Blue to hazel.
“Good thing I’m not a real butterfly then, or maybe I would’ve taken the warning the first time I saw your eyes and flew away to something lighter.”
“Good thing.” He ran his tongue from my nape to the center of my back, and then trailed firm kisses on his way back up. His hands moved to my hips, and he moved us slowly. “If you only knew the thoughts I’ve had of you since the night at The Club, the fantasies, you would’ve run away.”
“No,” I said, sucking in a trembling breath, releasing it slowly. “Now that I’ve found you, I can’t fly away. I’m attracted to blue—all shades. It’s my favorite color. It seems to heal me, not hurt me.”
I stood and turned toward the mirror. I watched him walk closer from behind. He stopped when he was at my back. I could feel the heat from his body through the dress.
He moved my hair to the side, and then he helped me lower the top of the gown. My fancy white adhesive bra glowed against my skin. He kissed the nape of my neck, watching me as he did, and then his fingers barely caressed my arms.
“Butterflies have least favorite colors when it comes to flowers. Do you know what they are?” His voice was low, almost hoarse.
“No,” I whispered. A shiver waved over me from his constant touch, his gravelly voice, and it made me tremble.
“Ti piace la mia bocca sulla tua pelle. Tremi per me.” He said the words almost to himself, something about me liking his mouth on my skin, me trembling for him. Then, smoothly, he brought us back to his comment about the butterfly. “Blue to green.”
My eyes lifted to meet his. Blue to hazel.
“Good thing I’m not a real butterfly then, or maybe I would’ve taken the warning the first time I saw your eyes and flew away to something lighter.”
“Good thing.” He ran his tongue from my nape to the center of my back, and then trailed firm kisses on his way back up. His hands moved to my hips, and he moved us slowly. “If you only knew the thoughts I’ve had of you since the night at The Club, the fantasies, you would’ve run away.”
“No,” I said, sucking in a trembling breath, releasing it slowly. “Now that I’ve found you, I can’t fly away. I’m attracted to blue—all shades. It’s my favorite color. It seems to heal me, not hurt me.”
☆☆☆☆☆☆
MORE ABOUT MACHIAVELLIAN
I hungered to be seen.
There were three things I knew about Capo Macchiavello:
He was gorgeous.
He was reclusive.
He was considered one of New York’s most savage animals.
And he wanted me as his wife. A simple arrangement – you do for me, I do for you. Nothing owed, no expectations. Except for one: never leave.
Life was never that simple, though. By the age of twenty-one, I was parentless, jobless, and homeless, and I had come to learn the hard way that nothing was ever free. Even kindness comes with strings.
Capo might’ve been the only man to ever see me, but I had made a vow to myself: I would never owe anyone anything. Most of all, the man I called boss.
I killed to stay hidden.
Mariposa Flores thought she owed nothing to no one, but she owed everything…to me, the ghost the world had once called The Machiavellian Prince of New York.
I hungered to be seen.
There were three things I knew about Capo Macchiavello:
He was gorgeous.
He was reclusive.
He was considered one of New York’s most savage animals.
And he wanted me as his wife. A simple arrangement – you do for me, I do for you. Nothing owed, no expectations. Except for one: never leave.
Life was never that simple, though. By the age of twenty-one, I was parentless, jobless, and homeless, and I had come to learn the hard way that nothing was ever free. Even kindness comes with strings.
Capo might’ve been the only man to ever see me, but I had made a vow to myself: I would never owe anyone anything. Most of all, the man I called boss.
I killed to stay hidden.
Mariposa Flores thought she owed nothing to no one, but she owed everything…to me, the ghost the world had once called The Machiavellian Prince of New York.
Get your copy of MACHIAVELLIAN
on HERE on Amazon
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Meet Author Bella Di Corte
Bella Di Corte has been writing romance for seven years, even longer if you count the stories in her head that were never written down, but she didn’t realize how much she enjoyed writing alphas until recently. Tough guys who walk the line between irredeemable and savable, and the strong women who force them to feel, inspire her to keep putting words to the page.
Apart from writing, Bella loves to spend time with her husband, daughter, and family. She also loves to read, listen to music, cook meals that were passed down to her, and take photographs. She mostly takes pictures of her family (when they let her) and her three dogs.
Bella grew up in New Orleans, a place she considers a creative playground.
Follow Bella on Amazon
Bella Di Corte has been writing romance for seven years, even longer if you count the stories in her head that were never written down, but she didn’t realize how much she enjoyed writing alphas until recently. Tough guys who walk the line between irredeemable and savable, and the strong women who force them to feel, inspire her to keep putting words to the page.
Apart from writing, Bella loves to spend time with her husband, daughter, and family. She also loves to read, listen to music, cook meals that were passed down to her, and take photographs. She mostly takes pictures of her family (when they let her) and her three dogs.
Bella grew up in New Orleans, a place she considers a creative playground.
Follow Bella on Amazon
