Page 112 of Mafia King’s Dangerous Vow

“This doesn’t seem⁠—”

“Shush,” I say before lowering myself between her spread thighs and stroking the tip of my tongue through her slit. “Let your husband take care of breakfast.”

“Oh, fuck,” she groans as I start sampling her again and again. The first taste nearly ends whatever discipline I thought I still had. Her fingers find my hair, gripping and pulling me in.

For once, strategy fails me completely. Everything else disappears, leaving nothing behind but the desire to fuck. She moans as I lavish her clit in circles and sink two fingers into her wet heat, pumping in and out. Her slick walls quiver around me, her hands tightening their grip on my hair. I can feel her orgasm starting to build, her whole body shaking with the need to come.

“Sasha!”

Her shout echoes in the kitchen as her muscles contract with a powerful climax. I don’t just feel her release; I taste it, sweet and musky and addictive. My cock twitches painfully in my jeans, precum welling up. It takes every ounce of my self-control not to bury myself inside of her right here.

“Okay. That was—” Tamara pants, “nice.”

“Nice?” I nip at her inner thigh, then soothe the spot with my tongue.

“You should take care of breakfast from now on.” She grabs my face with both hands and pulls me up to stand.

“Bedroom,” I announce, and pluck her off the counter, wrapping her legs around my waist.

But before I can take a single step, the intercom cuts through the kitchen like a blade.

Tamara stiffens.

So do I.

“Mr. Sokolov,” the doorman says through the speaker. “Rosen & Vale Conservation is here.”

The Kandinsky.

We both look toward the intercom with identical resentment.

“Send them up,” I say and gently release her. Tamara’s hand falls from my chest, and the heat between us shifts.

I step back because someone has to. She grabs her discarded panties and smooths my ruined shirt over her thighs.

When the elevator doors open, there is batter on her cheek, flour on her forearm, and her taste on my tongue.

Two conservators step into the apartment with rolling cases and a reinforced transport crate, both careful, both professionally blank in the way people become around objects valuable enough to make silence feel expensive. A woman in her forties leads them, dark hair twisted neatly at the nape of her neck.

“Mr. Sokolov.” She extends a hand. “Marina Vale.”

“Ms. Vale,” I say, shaking her hand.

Her gaze moves briefly to Tamara, then to the wrapped Kandinsky near the fireplace. “We’ll take it to the studio for stabilization first. You’ll receive the formal condition report by tomorrow afternoon. After that, we can confirm the restoration schedule.”

Tamara steps forward, and Ms. Vale turns to her with immediate recognition. They must have spoken more than once.

“Mrs. Sokolov, nice to meet you in person.”

The woman continues, professional and calm. “The canvas tension will need careful correction. Based on the images you sent, the tear was minimal. This is very repairable. We’ll know more tomorrow.”

Repairable.

Not untouched.

Tamara absorbs the distinction.

So do I.