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“Open up, Erin.”
His voice is low, gravelly with sleep. After our little outing yesterday and an hours-long poker game with the others, he crashed in my bed and slept like the dead.
He looks cute when he sleeps. More innocent, somehow.
Never going to tell him that.
Muscles shift in his bare back, the sheets pooling around his waist, and Santo’s stubble grazes my inner thigh. Strong hands grip my ass, lifting me easily, rearranging me on the bed, and I choke back a sigh.
God, I love it when he does that—treats me like a toy. Arranges me to his liking. So messed up, but it makes my whole body flush hot.
“Merry Christmas,” he growls against my clit.
“Hap-Happy Christmas,” I squeak, eyes already screwed shut. I’m grabbing fistfuls of the bed sheets, tugging and twisting, because the mob boss isgoodat this. And I guess it’s no surprise—he’s eaten me out so many times in the last two days that he could probably do it blindfolded. But even as I peek down at him past my own flushed chest, there’s no sign of him getting bored down there.
He scowls at my pussy like he’s annoyed at how much he likes it. And when he licks me, dark and possessive and so freakinghungry, something whispers in the back of my brain that he’ll never stop.
If I stayed here, Santo De Rossi would kiss me down there every single day. He’d spread me over that fancy desk in his study and feast. He’dpossessme. That’s what the voice says.
Wishful thinking, obviously.
“You can—you can fuck me,” I gasp, blushing at my own daring. As if I’d even know what I’m doing. But why hasn’t he tried yet? “If you want to, I mean.”
Because I’ve been thinking about it non-stop, weighing his heavy, hard shaft in my palm every time I go to my knees. Wondering how it would feel pushing inside me.
Whether it would hurt. Whether he’d roll his hips like he does sometimes, laying on top of me, like he’s trying to grind me into the mattress, and howthatwould feel.
God, I want it.
“Please,” I whisper, but Santo’s dark hair brushes my thighs as he shakes his head.
“Later,” he says, and it’s that tone he uses. The one that brooks no argument. My nipples tighten, even as I huff at the ceiling.
“We don’thavemuch longer—”
He spanks my slit without warning, the hot sting rushing through my flesh, and I arch off the mattress with a strangled moan. Holy shit. How do I make him do that again?
“Later, Erin. Now behave.”
Oh. My. God.
I never thought I’d be into this: being bossed around by a man, beingowned, being punished and praised. All those years of being lonely in my father’s house, I always pictured my ideal love story, and my fantasy husband was someone sweet. Safe and nonthreatening; the sort of man who’d wear cargo shorts at a barbecue. A math teacher, maybe.
Santo De Rossi is no math teacher. He slides his tongue inside me, grip bruising on my hips, and his growls vibrate through my nerve endings until I can’t breathe.
“Shit! Santo!”
He grunts in approval, pushing two fingers past my entrance and sucking on my folds. Wet noises fill the air, and it’s so crude, so shameless, and I’d die of embarrassment if he weren’t licking me like that, teasing and nibbling until my brain is filled with white static and my body goes rigid and—
“Good girl.” The kingpin watches me fall apart, darkly pleased. His fingers are slick and shiny as they pump inside me. “That’s right. Cry for me.”
Tears have gathered in the corners of my eyes. I blink them away, sniffling and fuzzy.
So good. I’m limp as he crawls back up my body: a spent rag doll. I should offer to return the favor, but I can’t move an inch.
“I think I like you ruined,” Santo tells me, pulling the sheet back over my chest. He frowns at the sight for a moment, then tugs it back down so my hard nipples poke into the cool air. “It’s certainly quieter.”
I lift one wobbly arm long enough to thump his shoulder. “Ass.” And I’m still floating somewhere above the ceiling, lost in the glow, so I risk the question. “So how does a girl get your cock, Mr De Rossi?”
