Devil’s Lily: A Dark Mafia Romance (Nightshades Book 1)

The sweet scent of custard fills the air as I carefully extract the huge tray of Galaktoboureko out of the oven. My muscles tense with the weight—this custard pie is no joke. The moment it touches the countertop, Marco—who I’ve come to learn is my assigned bodyguard—practically levitates from his chair, rubbing his hands together like a kid on Christmas morning. Behind him, the other two men in the room snap to attention just as eagerly.

I chuckle at their reactions. They remind me so much of Dren. The thought of my old bodyguard sends a sharp ache through my chest, and I quickly shove the feeling down into that box of emotions I’ve been avoiding. I’ve already learned that thinking about home is a fast track to sadness, and since I’ve been dodging Maximo these past few days, I haven’t had the chance to remind him about my phone call home.

And after what happened that night when I tried sneaking out to the pharmacy… well, let’s just say I’m not about to bring it up to the men. Sure, they’ve warmed up to me considerably since I started turning this place into an impromptu bakery. But I’m not stupid. Those pleased smiles and friendly chatter don’t change the fact that their loyalty belongs to one person only, and it isn’t the girl stress-baking her way through captivity.

“Is it ready to eat?” Marco asks, leaning over the counter to admire the custard pie.

Before I can answer, the front door’s decisive click freezes us all mid-motion. Marco immediately backpedals so fast he nearly trips over his own feet, and suddenly the kitchen feels electric, charged with an energy that makes my skin prickle. Maximo sweeps in, his dark eyes scanning the room before landing on me. There’s something in those dark depths that has my heart racing, but I force my face into what I hope is a neutral expression.

One thing Marco and the other men have teased me mercilessly about the past few days is how easy I am to read, and I’m trying to change that. I’d be mortified if Maximo knew just how much he affects me.

He walks deeper into the kitchen area while Marco retreats further. Then he leans against the glass door. “What’s with you and baking? The whole house always smells like a bakery.” His voice and face are neutral, which makes my stomach tighten. Is he annoyed? Amused? Impressed? I can’t tell.

I shrug as I pick up a knife from the rack and carefully cut into the Galaktoboureko. “Since you’ve left me here to be a part of your decoration, I need to do the only thing I’m good at to keep my sanity, and that’s baking.”

My mind drifts to those endless hours at sixteen, hunched over my phone, watching baking video after baking video. Besart never baked, so if I wanted to eat the desserts I wanted, I had to learn to bake them myself. I grew to love it over time, and it became the one thing I could lose myself in when I was overwhelmed.

“Hmm.” The low hum in his voice has me glancing up, knife halfway through the pie, and holy moly—the predatory heat in his gaze sucks all the air from my lungs as he shrugs off his jacket and folds it neatly on the stool in front of the island.

Wait… when did he move away from the door?

My mouth goes desert-dry as he starts working on his cufflinks, then his shirt buttons, one slow button at a time. The shirt slips off his shoulders, exposing the beautiful golden expanse of his chest, and I feel heat creep up my neck. “What are you doing?” I hiss in a scandalized whisper, my gaze darting to the men in the living room trying their hardest to blend into the furniture.

He follows my gaze. “You may go,” he dismisses them, and I swear they teleport out of there.

“Maximo.” It’s meant as a protest, but it comes out more as a plea.

He prowls towards me and checks the oven. Satisfied that it’s off, he turns to face me. “It’s been three days.”

My brain short-circuits for a moment before catching up. Oh. Three days since the implant, since Ethan’s instructions to wait. Three days of avoiding this very moment, pretending I wasn’t counting down the hours myself.

I swallow, my heart thudding in my ears at the possessive hunger in his eyes as he advances. I skirt around the counter and raise my hands. “Wait, wait, I—eep!” A squeal tears from my throat as he lunges, and suddenly I’m dashing through the living room like some panicked little creature. Which is ridiculous because I want this. These past days, I’ve done nothing but replay our first time, cursing myself out for how much I enjoyed it—and how much I crave more.

His fingertips graze my lower back, and I jump away with a breathless giggle, but then those strong arms band around my waist, reeling me back into his chest. “Gotcha,” he growls into my ear and runs his tongue over the shell, sending shivers cascading through my body.

Then, something silky dangles in front of my face. I blink, trying to focus on it, until I realize what it is. His tie. He hands it to me. “Wrap it around your eyes,” he commands softly.

I lick my lips and study it for a moment. He… he wants me blindfolded. “I don’t know…” I start reluctantly.

“Trust me, dolcezza, you’ll enjoy it. Losing your vision will heighten every other sensation.”

That husky, seductive tone has my heart skipping, and I take the tie with shaky hands. His words echo in my mind: Trust me. And that’s the crazy thing—I do. I really really shouldn’t, but in this moment, I do. I lift the silk to my eyes, the material cool and smooth against my skin, and Maximo grabs the ends from me and ties it firmly. I test my vision, but there’s nothing beyond inky darkness and vague shadows dancing at the edges. It’s disorienting, like being untethered, but… it’s true. Every other sensation feels magnified—the whisper of air against my skin, the faint scent of his cologne, the warmth radiating from his body.

His hands capture my waist, and suddenly I’m airborne. My fingers find his arm, and I gasp. Beneath the smooth skin, I feel some unexpected bumps. Old scars, maybe? I start tracing them with curious fingers, but he catches my hand and guides it up around his neck instead. Questions lodge in my throat, but I swallow them down, knowing he won’t answer me. Besides, some mysteries about Maximo, I’m learning, are better left unexplored. At least for now.

We move, and I cling to him, my disoriented brain struggling to track his steps. Then a door clicks, and my back meets something cool and very soft that feels like clouds—a bed?

I didn’t even feel him walking up the stairs.

Good lord. My heart thumps harder at the realization that he carried me up all the way without his breathing changing. Without a single tremor in his muscles. Such strength.

I’m still catching my breath when he speaks. “Take off your clothes without losing the blindfold and lie back on the bed.” His footsteps retreat, leaving me floating in darkness.

I sit up, feeling around clumsily as I peel off my clothes, hyper-aware of every tiny motion. I fumble with my shirt, and of course, it gets caught on my hair, so now I’m awkwardly tugging at it, hoping I don’t look like a complete idiot. My slacks are next, and without the help of sight, I practically have to shimmy out of them, biting back a laugh. This would be so much easier if I could actually see what I was doing.

Then, I pause, fingers hooked in the waistband of my underwear, my heart giving a little nervous flutter. Should I… take them off too? I mean, he didn’t exactly say, but I know where this is headed. A wave of self-consciousness hits, and suddenly, the idea of sitting here, bare and blindfolded, has my stomach flipping.

Before I can think about it too much, his voice cuts through the silence. “As cute as you look in that lingerie, it needs to go.”

My cheeks burn, but I comply, sliding off my underwear. Then I lie back down, nerves sparking to life as I hear him moving around, the faint rustling stoking my anticipation and killing my curiosity.

What’s he doing?

The bed dips on one side, and I inhale sharply as his warm weight presses down over me. A living, breathing blanket I can’t help but arch into.

He doesn’t say a word as he caresses his palm along my neck, down my sternum, ghosting over my nipples, and oh—without sight, every feather-light touch feels supercharged, like he’s playing my nerve endings like strings on a violin. I’m almost embarrassed by how my body responds, helplessly eager. Every shift and slide of his palm sends pleasure rushing through my veins in languid waves, making arousal coat my inner thighs as my core contracts needily.

He rubs his palm against my skin to create warm friction until I’m writhing beneath him. Then he leans in and sucks my neck, moving his hot mouth down the path his hands took, and I hold my breath in anticipation as he moves towards my breasts, but the asshole only licks around them, deliberately avoiding my needy nipples.

I whimper and reach up blindly to wrap around his neck and direct him to where I want him, but he dodges my touch, and then he’s gone, leaving me hanging in the air. My breath catches—does he really think he can leave me like this?

But before I can even open my mouth to protest, he’s back, and then an incredibly cool liquid drips onto my nipple.

Holy—! The flesh contracts sharply, every muscle tightening as a ripple of goosebumps erupts down my skin. My body jerks in shock, and the coolness floods me with a sharp, delicious sensation that has me moaning, half in surprise, half in bliss. I can barely think straight when his mouth, chilled from whatever he has just poured, closes over the sensitized peak.

The contrast is unreal—his cool lips paired with the warmth of his hand, his mouth nibbling and sucking one nipple while his fingers roll and tease the other, sparking shivers that zips down my spine. My body reacts on instinct, writhing, arching up against him, feeling all kinds of tingling sensations attack my body all at once. Heat, cold, pleasure—it’s like he’s flipping switches inside me, and I’m helpless against it.

Just when I think I’m about to lose it, he rolls his tongue over my nipple one last time, then retreats. I wait breathlessly for his attention to shift to my second tit. But instead, something cool and solid—a rectangle?—lands on my belly button, wetness pooling even more between my thighs as my stomach coils tight and my hips buck up, each nerve ending lit with shock, arousal, and overstimulation.

Maximo pushes me back down with a firm hand on my sternum and takes the cool rectangle off my skin before dragging the hot, flat of his tongue over the flesh. I can almost hear the circuits of my brain fizzling out as my body goes slack, my thoughts dissolving completely until all that’s left are the sensations flooding me.

It’s too much. Too much. Too much.

“Maximo,” I gasp, my whole body alive with a trembling I can’t control as I reach for him, needing an anchor in this whirlwind of sensation. He catches my hand, entwining our fingers together, and I grip it tightly, holding on for dear life as he begins a torturously slow crawl down my body, each inch closer driving me wild with anticipation.

Then I feel it.

The first stroke of his cool tongue through my damp folds sends a shockwave through me that has my eyes rolling under the blindfold and my head trashing frantically around on the bed as I clamp my thighs around him, holding him hostage.

With a quiet, primal groan—the vibration only adding another delicious layer of sensation—he places a cool, calloused palm on my inner thigh, pushing it apart without any resistance. My trembling ramps up as I feel the tsunami of pleasure building and building, almost scaring me with its intensity.

“Maximo,” I whimper, trying to warn him, but he chooses that moment to insert one finger inside me, and my whole world nearly explodes. I jerk violently, tightening my grip on his hand and digging my free hand into the bedcovers as cold and white-hot heat rushes through my veins.

It’s such a mind-fuckery feeling—this collision of two extremes—I can’t even figure out which sensation is real anymore. My body doesn’t seem to know how to deal with both at once, and the trembling only increases until I’m shaking like a leaf, not sure if I’ll break from the cold or burn up in the heat.

“You’re fine, dolcezza,” he murmurs, his voice low and probably meant to be reassuring, but the way he blows a hot breath on my cunt—dear lord.

Then, his finger moves—rubbing, teasing, pressing on that spot inside me and I’m gone. The world whites out as heart–stopping pleasure slams into me, making me buck and jostle beneath him, helpless against the sensation after sensation wracking my body.

I let out a long, shuddering groan, pretty sure I’m almost cracking his fingers with how hard I’m holding onto them as I ride out the most intense orgasm of my life.

But even when the pleasure begins to ebb, I can’t stop shuddering as bone-deep chills slither through me and settle in my spine. “Ma–Maximo,” I stutter, suddenly scared at having no control over my body. I don’t know what’s happening to me. It’s like I’m short-circuiting. Not cold, exactly—this… it’s something else. More like little aftershocks tingling up and down my nerve endings, making my muscles contract and relax in a constant, madding cycle, and I can’t escape it. I can’t even remember how to breathe.

Maximo curses softly and immediately climbs over me, wrapping me in his arms as he drapes the blanket over us, cocooning us. His skin is blazing hot against mine, and ohh—he’s naked. The realization hits me when his hard cock drags over my hip, leaving a trail of hot precum that makes me shiver for entirely different reasons.

He runs his hands over my body in long, warming strokes as he murmurs gentle praises against my skin. The words spin through my head like honey, and gradually, deliciously, sexual tension begins rebuilding. Then he reaches behind my head and carefully removes the blindfold.

The room is dimly lit, but it still makes me squint after the total darkness. When my eyes finally adjust, I blink, taking in the deeply masculine space surrounding us with dawning realization—he brought me into his room.

“Are you okay?” His voice is soft, laced with a concern that reaches right into my chest. I move my gaze to him, inhaling sharply when his handsome face comes into focus, and my heartbeat triples.

“I’m fine,” I murmur, trying to keep my voice steady. He threads his fingers gently through the tangled mess of my curls. When he grabs a curl, stretching it out, I feel a tug deep in my stomach—like he’s playing with something more than just my hair. He releases it, watching as it springs back into its natural coil, and a fascinated gleam lights up his dark eyes.

My gaze wanders down his body, at least as much as I can see above the blanket covering us, and hones in on his right arm where the tattoo sleeve snakes along his skin. The entire tattoo forms one large thorny flower garden in black ink, with the stems, leaves, and thorns of different flowers surrounding each. As I stare, I realize that while it might look from afar like just one continuous vine climbing up his arm, up close, it’s obvious the flowers are unique.

The centerpiece catches my attention first—a bunch of drooping Lilies that stand out in vibrant color against the monochrome background. But I tear my gaze away. I want to see the whole thing.

Curious, I study the inkwork surreptitiously, worried he might cover up if he notices me staring.

The tattoos start around his wrist with wide, funnel-shaped, and somewhat two-lipped petals I recognize as azaleas in black, circling his wrist and climbing halfway to his elbow. From there, the stems intertwine with those of the next flower in the hierarchy: tulips. The erect bulbs and broad, veined leaves are surrounded by dark, thick thorns that are so meticulously detailed they look almost real.

As the tulips go up to his inner elbow, the tattoo takes a fascinating turn. The stems intertwine with those of the Lily of the Valley, and I lean in slightly, captivated by the part where black ink meets the colored green stem.

The Lily of the Valley is the focal point: the white, bell-shaped flower droops dramatically towards the azaleas and tulips below, creating a huge contrast against the black and white surroundings. Little purplish thorns poke out from the green stem, adding an edge of danger to its delicate beauty.

The thorny stem climbs higher, curling around his bicep, then shifts back to black and white, introducing another flower. Although it’s not colored, I know it’s an iris, with its flattened, open-branched petals. It winds up his arm and ends sharply at the top of his shoulder, where more thorns jut up to his clavicle.

Finally, I return to the Lily of the Valley, drawn once more to the vibrant color. Before I can stop myself, my hand goes straight to the flower, and as I run the tips of my fingers over the beautiful design, I feel it—the raised bumps from earlier. Scarred flesh.

He flinches away and grabs my wrist before I can explore more. His expression shutters closed, and I can almost see the walls slamming back into place.

“What—what happened there?” It’s probably useless, but I can’t stop the curious question.

“Nothing,” he answers tonelessly, then sensually runs his own fingertips up my arm, sending delicious tingles through my body. He’s trying to distract me.

But I can’t let it go.

“What do the flowers mean?” I press. I know they mean something. He doesn’t strike me as a man who just tattoos a bunch of random flowers on his arm. And since I now know the tattoos cover up some kind of scars, it definitely means something.

“You’re fine now,” he murmurs, and I frown at him, not getting what he means, until he pulls away the blanket from our bodies and turns me around on the bed, face down, effectively ending the conversation as he runs a long finger down my spine.

One day, I think as desire begins to cloud my thoughts again, I’ll understand all your mysteries, Maximo.

But for now, as his touch becomes more purposeful, I let myself fall into the moment, into the pleasure he offers. The flowers and their secrets can wait.