Model for the Mob (Steamy Standalone Instalove Romance)

“It does,” I say, my fingers itching to grab it.

“What are you waiting for?”

He takes a massive bite, grinning at me as he chews.

I giggle. “Is this your way of making sure I don’t feel embarrassed?”

He nods as he chews, and I pick up my burger and take a bite. Our eyes meet and we laugh as we chew, both of us caught up in the moment, the whirlpool of being together and laughing simply because it feels good.

I wash it down with my banana milkshake and he does the same with his chocolate one.

“I can’t believe you went with banana,” he says, with a bantering note in his voice, all fun.

“I can’t believe you wouldn’t. Banana is a milkshake fit for a goddess, thank you very much.”

He chuckles. “Then it’s fit just for you. I won’t deny that. But chocolate, Lucy, chocolate… you can’t beat it. It’s the sweetest thing there is.”

“That’s how you work, is it? You jump on the sweetest thing as soon as you see it?”

“I claimed you without hesitation, didn’t I?” he says, passion pulsing in his voice. “Nothing could’ve stopped me from doing that. But I still don’t know what you want, Lucy.”

“Huh?”

“In life. Apart from me and our family, of course… and if that’s all you want, I’ll support you in that. I’ll support you in whatever you choose to do, always. Except if you ever wanted to leave me and be with another man—”

“Never,” I cry, the thought alone provoking a violent response inside of me, everything roaring in protest.

“Then I’ll always support you.” He smirks. “So what is it, my perfect virgin? What is your passion?”

I take another bite, thinking as I chew, and then dab at my lips with a napkin. I keep expecting him to cringe or laugh at me, but the more time we spend together, the more I realize that these evil expectations exist only in my mind, and I don’t have to fixate on them so often.

“It’s silly,” I say.

“Nothing you’re passionate about could be silly,” he says firmly. “Tell me.”

I take a deep breath, stunned at how difficult this is for me to talk about. I’ve never spoken about it to anyone.

I’ve barely allowed myself to dream it. I work in private, always, trying on my own outfits and trying to improve. I take online courses.

But I never speak about it.

“I want to be a fashion designer for plus-size women,” I say, forcing the words out.

I take a big sip of my milkshake right after, as though I can blot out the admission by blasting my taste buds.

“That’s amazing,” he says.

“Really?”

His eyes brim with acceptance, or what I read as acceptance.

But what if I’m wrong?

No, my heart cries. He is everything you’ve ever wanted. Do not doubt yourself out of this heaven.

“Really,” he says, voice hard. “I’d never lie to you about something you clearly hold so dear. So do you already design clothes?”

“Yes.” I nod, cheeks flaming red, too much eagerness in my voice, and somehow not giving a damn. “I’ve been doing it for years, ever since I was twelve years old. We had an activity room in the orphanage, and I’d sneak in after dark and use the sewing machine. I stole or scavenged for the fabrics.”

“Why?”

“I didn’t want anyone to know what I was doing. The other kids were always looking for a reason to make fun of me. And I didn’t have money to buy my own fabrics.”

“It pains me that you had to work in that way,” he growls. “But part of me is glad too.”

“Glad?”

“It’s yet more proof of how incredible you are, Lucy. You have a passion, a dream, and you didn’t let your circumstances stop you from pursuing it. I respect the hell out of that. You’re smart and resourceful as well as beautiful.”

A warm glow moves through me, triggering emotions that whelm up inside of me, filling me to the brim until I feel as though I’m going to overflow with the force of his acceptance.

“That means more to me than you can know, Luca,” I murmur.

“You’ve never spoken about this before, have you?” he says, peering closely at me, making it so I don’t have to relentlessly push past my shyness and say every little thing.

My man will always be able to stare into my most intimate hidden parts.

We’re meant for each other.

“No,” I admit.

“Thank you for sharing it with me,” he says. “And I meant what I said. I’ll support you in any way I can. How far do you want to take this, Lucy?”

“What do you mean?” I ask, suddenly feeling like we’re in a business meeting.

It’s sweet to feel as though I’ve got some control over what happens in my life, some say in the story of me, whereas so often I’ve felt like personal agency only belonged to other people.