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Stolen by the Mafia King

Page 8

by Laylah Snow

“No.”

“That’s not how this usually works.”

“If you wanted what you usually get, then you wouldn’t be here with me.” He kisses the inside of my offending wrist where he’s holding it, courtly, filthy in context. “You’ve been in charge since you put on that suit this morning. Look how tired it made you. Give it here.”

Give it here.

I let go of his belt, and something in my chest lets go of a great deal more, and the noise he makes in approval is a problem I’ll deal with later.

His hand cups over my pussy, his palm mashing over my clit while his fingers dip inside of me. “You’re so wet for me already, good girl.” His fingers explore until he finds the right spot, and my whole body jolts. “So responsive. I fucking love that.”

And then, he gets comfortable at my side. The planes of his face fall in shadow and light, but it’s his eyes that have me. I can’t look away, not as he works my clit. Not even as I struggle to breathe. My climax comes in hard and fast, and just as take my first real breath, he goes after me again.

“Can’t—”

He laughs in my face, playing with my clit like a man on a mission. “You can. You’re going to—you’re almost there right now. I see it on your pretty face. All red-cheeked and gasping, those pouty lips puffing out as you try to breathe. And your pupils, doc, I’d be worried if I didn’t know better. Totally blown. All because your soft body can’t help but respond to this.” His fingers spread me open, delaying my inevitable, making me whine for it. “See? We’re all just animals, begging for our next fix.”

I’m right on the edge again. Still? Not sure I ever stopped coming actually. “Keep going⁠—”

“My schedule, remember?” He brings me over again, and something between a gasp and a scream erupts out of me. As I start to come back to my body, he says, “Two. Then trousers.”

The zipper sounds, and then they fly across the room. When he settles over me, bare skin to bare skin, he pauses with his mouth at my jaw. “Ask me nicely.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Do I strike you as a man who kids?”

He strikes me as a man with a padlocked toybox and a written protocol, and some curious animal in my hindbrain has been pacing at that fence all night. It’s a fence I’ve never crossed.

I’ve read about the other side with the same interest and distance I give diseases I’ll never treat, because that crossing requires trust, and trust requires more than one spectacular day and a stranger’s steady hands. One day, I’ll try something darker, but for now, that kind of kink stays a curiosity.

So I keep the question off my face and give him the other thing instead, the thing I want with zero reservations. “Please.”

Such a simple word should not come with embarrassment, but it does. Why does it also turn me on?

He pushes inside me in one long, unhurried stroke, and my indecent sounds echo on the hotel walls. And the mouth on him. He growls like a beast between sentence fragments. “You feel… fucking incredible, good girl.” His stubble burns my cheek when he leans close to my ear. “Tight. So fucking tight.” He wedges an arm under my thigh, splitting me wide open for his next stroke, and he digs into my G-spot that way. “Mm, you like that, don’t you? Right there, Little Target?”

I shudder on his cock. “Yes! Oh God⁠—”

“I’m the one fucking you. Talk to me, not him.”

“Can’t,” I squeak out.

“You’re close again, aren’t you?” He digs deep, filling me up. “Gotta taste you.” Then, he pulls out and crawls down the bed, throwing my legs over his shoulders.

“You don’t⁠—”

Whatever I was going to say is gone. There’s only his mouth on me now.

His tongue twirls on my clit, and I see stars. He drives me over the edge yet again. When I drag my nails down his scalp, he catches both my wrists in one hand and pins them as he comes back up my body. “I said they stay.”

“Make me.”

His laugh is quiet and genuinely delighted, and then he adjusts his angle with an engineer’s precision and makes me, and I stop being clever for a while.

It builds until it stops being separate events and becomes one long event with peaks. His hand fists my hair, my name rattles in his mouth for the first time all night, and I come apart so hard the ceiling takes several seconds to reassemble. He follows me over with a low sound against my throat that I will be thinking about at inappropriate moments for the rest of my natural life.

And then, he kisses my mouth. It’s long and slow, his tongue sweeping into my lips, tasting like me. He takes his time with the kissing too, and by the time it’s over, I’m not sure where I end and he begins.