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Kindle Notes & Highlights
a bookish young woman and the brooding, smart-ass alpha male who adores her.
Fav trope
The Mafia’s Princess isn’t groundbreaking literature, but it’s exactly what I want out of a romance novel. The heroine, a quick-witted attorney, isn’t whiny or too stupid to live, and the hero, a former street fighter and Mafia renegade, isn’t so possessive that he’s a walking red flag. They’re both clever. They’re both driven. Also, it’s only the third chapter, and there’ve been two very well-written fight scenes. This is a good sign. Authors who write brilliant fight scenes tend to be good at other physical scenes—and
“And on Fridays, you sit behind that front desk reading porn.”
LMFAO YES SIR
Vincent drops Engman’s Anthology. The moment it lands at our feet with a heavy thud, his now-unoccupied hand circles the back of my neck. Vincent may be built like a brick wall, but there’s a gentleness in the way his hand anchors me.
“Stop apologizing,” he says, very seriously, “and try that again.”
And then he wraps his good arm around my waist, beneath my cardigan, and lifts me up off the ground. I let out a humiliating squeal of surprise and throw my arms around his neck, one hand clutching at his hair and the other tight around a handful of his shirt. I’m not a small person.
OH ??????
Because that’s what nonfictional men do: disappoint you.
real
“Oh—before I forget,” Margie says, stopping me. “A boy came in on Friday and asked for you.”
like the gremlin I am,
LMFAOOOOOO
“I don’t think I could. I’d be a mess if I drank this much coffee.” “I like you when you’re a mess,” Vincent replies without blinking.
I let my eyelids flutter closed, embracing my newest kink: being read to.
Wait bc shes onto smth
“Maybe I can tutor you sometime,” he offers. “You know, in exchange.”
“Nothing.” Then, like it’s an afterthought: “You look good, Kendall.” A startled laugh escapes me. “Oh, fuck off.” “No, I mean it,” he says. “It’s nice to see you in broad daylight.”
“Is there a reason you’re giving me your résumé?” I interrupt. “I’m trying to prove a point, Holiday.” Vincent shrugs. “Seems like you have pretty high expectations for your love interests.
“You know,” he says, “sometimes you’re harder to interpret than Shakespeare.” “I fucking hate Shakespeare,” I admit. Vincent smiles. “I knew there was a reason I liked you.”
“I—we—Thursdays are—” “Movie night,” Vincent finishes for me. “I know.
I roll up onto my tiptoes at the same moment that he ducks down, turning his head to offer me his ear. I’m so surprised by his closeness that I wobble and have to hold an arm out to regain my balance. Vincent’s hand comes up to cup my elbow. It’s barely a touch, but it’s somehow enough to make my whole body rock forward, seeking the solid heat of his.
“The physical therapist cleared me to play again. I actually got to handle the ball in practice yesterday, which was a relief.” I’d like you to handle me—
“Read me something,” he murmurs. “Out loud.”
Vincent presses the door shut and, after a moment’s hesitation, twists the lock.
OMG
“You sure you don’t want to know what this muscle is?” he asks, tracing a fingertip up the outside of my forearm. I shiver when his knuckle passes over the tender skin in the crook of my elbow and continues up and over my—
“Kendall,” Vincent murmurs. It sounds like a plea.
“I’m sorry, Kendall. It wasn’t my intention—it wasn’t our intention. I promise. But intention doesn’t matter. I hurt you. And I’m sorry.”
a man who actually knows how to apologize >>>
It’s so not what I expected—and it’s so validating to be treated like my overactive emotions aren’t irrational or an annoyance.
“I’m not hurting you, am I?” I ask. “I’m not very small. But I guess neither are you.” “You’re the perfect size for me,”
“All better,” I confirm. “Sorry I made a mess.” Vincent groans low in his chest. “Say that again.” “What? Sorry?” Realization hits me. “Or I made a mess?”
“I’ll do whatever you tell me to do. You’re in charge here.”
“This,” he says, hooking a finger under the fabric at my hip and letting it snap back to my skin. “I love this thing. Whatever the hell it is.”
“It’s your birthday,” I say, a weak attempt at a joke. “Shouldn’t I be giving you a gift?” “Believe me, Holiday. You are.” And then he ducks his head and seals his mouth over me.
“Stop teasing,” I demand, giving his hair a sharp tug. Vincent’s answering groan tickles against the inside of my thigh. “I just want to make sure I’m not hurting you.” “Shut the fuck up.”
“Don’t fight it,” he murmurs. “You’re okay.”
“He was late.” “I know. That’s why he called. He was worried he fucked it up. Wanted to know if he was supposed to get you flowers or not, or if that was coming on too strong.”
i’m not poetic but call me for a good time (i really like you)
Instead, he says, very gently, “You’re not stupid, Kendall.”
“But I could’ve handled everything better. You told me you weren’t comfortable having all my friends involved and feeling like you had an audience, and I still asked you out in front of all of them. I crossed one of your boundaries, and I’m sorry for that. For disrespecting you.”
“I kissed you because I wanted to kiss you,” he says. “I memorized poems for you because I wanted to be able to talk to you about the shit you like.” He lowers his voice. “And I ate you out because it was my birthday, and all I wanted was to make you come. That was for me, Kendall. All of that was for me. I didn’t do it just to be nice. I did it because I. Like. You.”
“Nobody’s ever given me flowers before.” I push back so I can look him in the eyes. “I can get you more,” I tell him, forgetting to be embarrassed when a tear spills out and dribbles down my cheek. “Seriously, I’ll give you fucking fields of them.
But I get it. I get why you like them. And I was wrong to say that your expectations are too high. They’re not. You deserve to have this.”
Because there’s nothing gentle about the scrape of his teeth against my bottom lip or the press of his thumb against my jaw, urging me to open wider for him.
“I’m still so mad at you,” he whispers, bending to catch my lips with his. “Can’t fucking believe you thought I didn’t want you.”
I’m fully convinced he’s about to drag me back up to my feet and tell me he’s changed his mind about the whole thing, but then he drops my hand and shrugs off his jacket. I wait patiently as he folds it up, crouches in front of me, and offers me his shoulders for balance while he tucks the makeshift pillow under my knees one at a time. They’ll probably bruise anyway. I don’t really care—but I’m touched that he does.
Shut up no mf way
“I could whip out the Shel Silverstein for you, if you’re still interested.” “Did you really memorize one of his poems?” “No.” “Oh.” “I memorized three.”
“You’re in charge, Holiday. What’s next?” “Take this off,” I say, plucking at the front of his sweater. Vincent’s lips twitch. “Yes, ma’am.”
WHEEEEEEW
“Messy girl,” he says. “Who made you this wet? Who’s this for?” “You,” I gasp.
Oh.
“One more,” he tells me, keeping his pace steady. “Give me one more, Holiday.” “I can’t—” “Yes, you can.”
