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The cover is humiliating. I don’t know who made the executive decision to put naked male torsos on romance novels, but I have a sneaking suspicion that some big-shot marketing executive wanted to shame me into buying an e-reader so I wouldn’t have to be seen holding this in public.
HELPPPSPPOO THIS IS SO REAL STOP THIS
The Mafia’s Princess isn’t groundbreaking literature, but it’s exactly what I want out of a romance novel.
me
The guy standing on the other side of the circulation desk is tall. Really, really tall. I tip my head back to look at him properly—and oh. Oh. He’s equal parts menacing and beautiful. He has dark hair cropped close to his head and eyes the color of ground coffee. Eyes that are watching me with a look I can only describe as hostile.
OH MY GOD I NEED HIM???
We’ve never spoken, but I’ve seen him from a distance on campus and, occasionally, on screens.
campus crush
Vincent Knight is fearsome. He looks far more like the ex-Mafia romantic lead in my novel than a college athlete—except,
so hand him over????
I’ll admit that I’m intimidated—by the size of him, by the weight of who he is and how everyone at Clement knows his name, by the cool intelligence glinting in his dark eyes—but I’m not about to let him push me around.
It’s not until I stand up from my chair that I realize how enormous Vincent is. It makes sense that he’s tall—he’s a Division I basketball player, after all—but I’m nearly five foot eleven, so it’s not often that I’m towered over. It throws me off. I snatch my lanyard, keys clanking against my water bottle in my haste, and loop the strap tight around my fist as I march around the desk and brush past Vincent. I catch the scent of laundry detergent and something warm and spiced—and then I absolutely do not think about how good he smells, or how small he makes me feel, or how much I like it.
OG MY GOD OKAY WERE GETTING RIGHT INTO IT THEN. IF SHES FIVE ELEVEN HOW TLAL IS HE OH MG GOS🤤🤤🤤
It’s nearly twice as large as mine and moves with a confidence and agility that is, unfortunately, deeply attractive. If this were a romance novel, Vincent Knight would be the hero. There’s no argument. He’s tall, broad-shouldered, dark-haired, and handsome in the most wicked of ways. He could be the Mafia hit man, the alpha of the pack, the cutthroat billionaire with daddy issues—he could scoop me up with his good arm, pin my back to a bookshelf deep in the stacks, and fill me. He’d whisper dirty things to me too. Not lines out of a bad porno, but poetry. Words of passion.
LIKE IS THIS NOT CRAZY??? honestly yes but i can’t even judge her she’s so me
His eyes are patient. Locked in. His attentiveness gives me the confidence to keep going.
I glance up at Vincent. It’s a mistake. He’s so close I can see freckles on the bridge of his nose and a little white scar just under his right eyebrow. His eyes aren’t on the poem. They’re on me.
RAH RAH RAH RAH
There is a moment of silence—a shared breath—after I read the last line.
she’s really delusional and i support her
Vincent steps back, the heat of his body lingering for a moment before I’m cold again. I shut the anthology and turn to face him. “Shit,” he says, a genuinely stunned smile tugging at his lips. “You’re good.”
His words send a flood of heat through my body. I think I’m damp between my legs. It’s humiliating—that one silly little compliment can have such a strong effect on me. That one kind word said in a quiet corner of the library can make me feel like I’m on fire.
LIKE WHAT???
“So,” he says, “Thursdays and Sundays, you party.” “Yep.” “And on Fridays, you sit behind that front desk reading porn.”
HE KNOWS. okay he has to be a reader too…. right……
My lack of experience with sexual intimacy is a sore spot, and he’s prodded it like a fresh bruise.
i love it here already
because college boys are immature little gremlins who play video games in dingy basements and say misogynistic shit for laughs and can’t find the clitoris. The men in my novels are passionate and accomplished and—” “Fictional.”
exactly
Vincent’s self-assured gaze flickers to my mouth.
“Prove it.”
EXCUSE ME???????
I kiss him. Hard.
WHATS GOING ON THIS SO FAST??
Vincent drops Engman’s Anthology.
Vincent may be built like a brick wall, but there’s a gentleness in the way his hand anchors me. It’s not demanding. It’s a patient, supportive touch.
He gives my neck a soft squeeze, silently asking me to meet his eyes. I do.
“Stop apologizing,” he says, very seriously, “and try that again.”
oh i want him
This is wild.
How is he making me feel like I’m the one in charge here? Like I’m the one calling the shots? Because by all accounts, Vincent is the one holding me together in ...
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“I’ve never kissed anyone sober,” I admit, my entire face flushing with heat. Vincent’s face softens. “Then practice on me,” he offers. “I’m here. I’m all yours.”
OH MY GOD💔💔💔💔💔
I want to kiss him. That’s a given.
“Then come here,”
HES SO FINE HOLD ON
Vincent groans against my neck.
I squirm against him and inhale sharply when I feel it—hardness beneath his soft black joggers.
NEED HIM
But the idea that Vincent is sporting an erection for me sends a flood of heat to my center. Instantly, I resent his pants and my own leggings for being in the way. I want them gone. I want only skin and for Vincent to press me open, warm and slick and vulnerable. I slide my hands to his biceps, clutching at the hard muscle under strained cotton, and use the leverage to roll my hips against his.
YOU JUST MET CALM IT DOWN
“Fuck,” Vincent says against my cheek. “You’re gonna kill me, Professor.”
okay wait
He doesn’t even know my name.
I COULDVE TOLD YOU THAT????
He’s good at this. Suspiciously good.
And then he wraps his good arm around my waist, beneath my cardigan, and lifts me up off the ground.
WOAHHHHHHHHH
Despite the width of Vincent’s shoulders and the impressive circumference of his biceps, I’m a little terrified shit could hit the fan very quickly.
“That was a joke. I was joking.” “And I’m not.”
i literally need him so bad im sorry
Maybe I’ll bruise. I don’t know why the thought of it thrills me.
“Do not drop me,” I warn. “You know I could squat lift you, right?”
HES SO FINE STOP IT
“Just give me a minute. At least let me try to act smooth. I promise I’ve got you, Kendall.”
I did that, I tell myself. I made a mess of him. My roommates would scream if they could see me now.
“I’ll meet you down there,” he says. At my curious stare, he motions to the crotch of his pants. It’s dimly lit, and his joggers are black, but I catch the outline of an impressive erection tenting the fabric. “I need a minute.”
WOAHHHHHHHHH
I don’t need a man, I remind myself. Nobody needs a man.
“But he’s a senior, right?”
HES OLDER
How big are his hands? Did he moan, because it’s so hot when guys—wait, I’m sorry, he lifted you? I thought you said he only had one good arm! Did he get a boner? He did. Oh my God, Kendall, you seduced him!
He asked for you.
still suck at poetry. please have mercy. vknight@clement.edu.
YAYAYAYYAYAYAYSYAYA
He’s late. Five minutes late. Then ten. Then fifteen.
NO WTH
“I like you when you’re a mess,”
WOAHHHH OKAY
his biceps flex against his sleeves, but I absolutely do not stare—“and
