Preview Velvet Kingdom （Rossi Crime Family）

Chapter One: Maddie

I contort myself in front of the mirror, trying to find a good angle that makes my boobs look nice while I shove them together with my elbows, and I make this horrible sultry duck-face, but that's not right, women don't make this face anymore. Instead, I shove out my tongue, which just feels so immature—and I end up grinning like a moron instead as I hit the camera shutter.

Spice things up. The three worst words I've ever heard in my life. My best friend, Nicole, basically said I was a dead fish in the bedroom and that was why things were strained with my boyfriend, Mark. Send him some naked selfies. Make him remember how hot you are!

Maybe that's good advice for someone else, but right now I feel like a total idiot.

I'm not good at taking risks, and I'm definitely not good at doing the whole sexy pictures thing.

I check the screen and I look like I'm constipated—delete.

I'm cold, my nipples are rock hard, and I'm terrified someone's about to walk in and catch me pouting and sticking my butt in the air and squeezing my chest like I'm trying to rip my tits off.

What the hell is the matter with me?

Normal girls know how to look sexy or at least they can fake it for a few intimate snaps.

I just look like I'm trying to weld a pipe with my teeth.

Also, more important, normal girls aren't dumb enough to do this at work.

Except I live with Mark and he works from home, which sort of defeats the purpose if he walks in on me spread-eagle on the bed.

Or that could work to my benefit, actually.

Besides, the office has good lighting. Especially this office. Lisa Snell, head of sales, loves her some intense lighting. It's overkill, but hey, beats the flickering bulb back in our tiny apartment.

There aren't many people working out of the office today—it's the end of the week and our beloved, not-at-all-terrifying boss lets people work from home on Fridays. Everyone, except for me.

I'm the head office manager. Which basically means I refill coffee pods, clean up the break room, order paper, run random errands, and get crapped on by everyone. It's fine, as far as jobs go, even if I scurry around like a scared mouse whenever Renzo Rossi comes into the room.

My gorgeous and terrifying boss.

Right now, I have Lisa's office all to myself. Door shut, blinds pulled. She's the type of woman with multiple mirrors to check her absurdly enormous hair at least fifty times every day. Not that I need them, but she also decked the place out with crazy good ring lighting for her Zoom calls, like professional studio quality stuff. Which suits me since I can use her glam-obsession for a little spicy-time.

"Okay, Maddie, think sexy." I take another picture, check it, delete it, and try again. Are my shoulders always that broad? Do I always look like I'm trying to squeeze a little extra toothpaste from an empty tube? "Come on. Sexy. Sexy. Sexy." Another picture. Another. Delete, delete. "Okay, fine, maybe sexy isn't my thing, but pretty at least. I can do pretty. Heck, passably attractive would be good enough."

More photos, more deletions. I'm about to give up, pull my sweater back on, and commit myself to giving Mark a blowjob when I get home as a sort of consolation prize. That's usually easy enough. Five minutes, some groaning, and boom, finished. It's a chore and I don't love it, but whatever, it'll make him happy for a little while.

But that's not spicing it up. His once-monthly blowjob isn't enough anymore.

Gotta think big.

I try a few more pictures, until finally, after so much struggle, I get one that's halfway decent. I don't look amazing, but hey, I'm trying here and Mark will appreciate that. Before I lose my nerve, I pull up our text chain, which consists mostly of grocery lists, and send the photograph with no preamble and no warning. Some surprise boobs to get the motor started. What man wouldn't love that?

It happened. I did it. I took a smutty picture and sent it to my boyfriend. I took a little risk—even if it's the smallest, lowest-stakes risk imaginable—and it didn't kill me. Armed with a little more confidence and optimism, I shoot a few more, really letting loose now, right up until the knob to the door turns, the latch clicks, and it opens.

I'm mid-photo, tits out, duck-face plastered, camera held out at a relatively flattering angle, every single light in the room trained on my freezing cold body showing off every single nook and exposed cranny, when my boss steps into the room.

Renzo Rossi. Terrifying and glorious. The man's always perfectly put together: Armani suits, Prada loafers, belts that cost more than my rent. His hair's dark, thick, styled in a perfectly imperfect wave like he just rolled out of bed. Strong jaw, a little bit of stubble, and these incredible dark eyes, so brown they're nearly black.

And those eyes are staring at me right now.

Staring at the lights reflecting off my naked skin, bouncing off my hard, exposed nipples.

He licks his lips. Freaking Renzo Rossi, my gorgeous asshole boss, stares at my tits and licks his lips like he wants to walk over here and plant his mouth right on my buds and bite down.

Holy shit.

Excitement pulses into my core.

Tempered by a whole lot of shame, embarrassment, and horror.

I freeze like a prey animal caught by a lion. I can't move, can't breathe. My camera's still held out, my tits are still pushed together. I want to scream and cry and run?—

But Renzo only checks me out for another moment before he looks away, turns to one of Lisa's filing cabinets, and finds a folder.

I manage to cover myself with an undignified whimper. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. It's not what you think."

He doesn't answer. Because what can the guy say? It's obviously what it looks like. He only walks back to the door, the file tucked under one arm, and looks back, head tilted to the side.

The man's the definition of sex, and the look he gives me is unlike anything I've ever experienced before. Intense, steamy, laced-through with an animalistic desire.

It's so hot I feel my pussy clench tight. I'm wet, my god, I can feel myself dripping as my stomach tingles with confused excitement and—anticipation? But that can't be right. I don't like Renzo, not even a little bit. The man acts like I don't exist. He may be handsome as hell and rich on top of it all, but the guy's a slick, spoiled asshole.

I want nothing to do with him.

So why is my body tensing like he's about to slam me against the wall and fuck me senseless?

And why does that thought send an alarming amount of lust ringing down my spine?

"Whoever you're sending that to is a very lucky man," Renzo says.

Then he leaves.

I stare at the closed door. Once he's gone, I can start to think again. Holy shit, my boss just saw my bare tits, he caught me taking dirty selfies at work, which means I am so beyond fucked.

But he also sort of complimented me, which is beyond strange.

My body's trembling with pure shame and self-loathing and—something else.

Desire. Unrelenting and impossible to ignore. An aching need for Renzo to come back here and press his mouth to mine, to pinch my nipples, to slide one of his big hands between my legs.

I've never, ever felt like this for Mark before in my life. Not even during our honeymoon phase when everything was fun.

No, this is something completely different.

I yank on my clothes, muttering to myself. "Get it together, Maddie. Your boss just saw your boobs and seemed to freaking like them. It'll be okay, it'll be fine, Mr. Rossi is just some random guy you see around the office, some stupidly hot asshole you barely interact with, you never talk to him, it's totally fine."

But it's not fine.

I can tell myself sweet lies all day long, but the fact remains that my sinfully gorgeous boss just saw my tits—and apparently, he enjoyed them.

My phone buzzes. I yelp, wound up and completely on edge. It's a text from Mark—I almost forgot about Mark, my boyfriend, the reason I'm doing all this.

In the thread, the photo I sent him showing off my boobs and my best imitation of a sexy expression sits overtop one simple response:

We need to talk.

I stare at those words.

They barely make sense.

For a second, Renzo Rossi's forgotten.

We need to talk.

Things have been strained between me and Mark for a little while now. I've been with him for a couple years—we met at the tail end of college, and we've been together ever since—and for a while, I thought he was the one.

I still think he's the one. I wouldn't be putting myself through this nightmare if I didn't want to make things work with him—right?

Sure, Mark's not setting off any fireworks, but he's reliable and dependable. He's a CPA with a good job at a decent firm. He plays videogames too late at night and he never initiates sex, but he doesn't drink too much, doesn't gamble, treats me pretty good, and sometimes we even have fun together. He's a solid partner. Not perfect, not terrible.

But the spark's gone. If there ever was a spark. And the aftershock of Renzo Rossi's lust-filled stare only underscores how much I don't feel for my own boyfriend.

I've definitely never felt this leg-crossing pang of pure sinful lust grinding in my pussy for Mark, while Renzo made me nearly fall apart with one stare and a single comment.

We need to talk.

I can't think of anything worse to get after sending a risky, vulnerable sext than We need to talk.

And yet it's staring right at me.

Once I'm dressed and composed, I walk over to Lisa's desk, raise my phone to my ear, and give my boyfriend a call.