Page 17 of The Mafia King's Lost Son
The hand on my throat tightens slightly just enough to make breathing difficult, just enough to make me light-headed, and that’s what does it.
I come hard, harder than I ever have before, clenching around him and crying out despite the hand on my throat restricting airflow. My whole body convulses with the force of it, pleasure so intense it borders on painful ripping through me in waves.
He keeps going through my orgasm, chasing his own release with the same ruthless intensity he’s shown from the start.
His rhythm gets more erratic, less controlled. His fingers dig deeper into my hip and throat. I can barely breathe now, black spots dancing at the edges of my vision, but the lack of oxygen only intensifies everything else.
A few more brutal thrusts and he finishes with a groan that sounds almost angry, driving deep and holding there. I feel him pulsing inside me, feel the warmth of his release, and distantly realize we didn’t use protection, didn’t even discuss it, but I’m too wrecked to care right now.
For a moment we’re both frozen. His hand still on my throat. His body pinning me to the bed. His eyes locked on mine through our masks, and I wonder what he sees when he looks at me.
Then he releases my throat and pulls out and steps back.
I gasp in a full breath, my lungs burning, and curl onto my side. My whole body is trembling, overwhelmed and oversensitive and aching everywhere.
But goodness, my body hums in total satisfaction.
I’m left sprawled on the bed, thoroughly fucked and aching and covered in marks that will take days to fade. Bite marks on my breasts and neck. Bruises forming on my hips where his fingers dug in. The ache between my legs that promises I’ll feel this for days. My throat feels tender where his hand was, and I know there will be marks there too.
He doesn’t say anything. Just stares at me for a while then he grabs his pants off the floor and heads toward the bathroom.
The bathroom door doesn’t close all the way and I hear water running. He’s cleaning up. Washing away the evidence of what we just did.
What did I just do?
The post-orgasm clarity hits like ice water, cold and brutal and unforgiving. I just let a complete stranger—a violent, dangerous stranger—fuck me so hard I saw stars.
And I enjoyed it. I asked for more. I begged him to go harder.
What’s wrong with me?
I need to leave. Get out now before he comes back.
I try to sit up and my whole body protests. Every muscle aches. Bruises forming everywhere he touched me. The ache between my legs that’s more pain than pleasure now. Bite marks that sting when I move. My throat feels raw.
I look like I’ve been in a fight. Which, in a way, I have been. And was before this.
That’s when I see it.
He’s standing in the bathroom doorway, turned slightly away from me as he reaches for a towel or his shirt or something. The light from the bathroom catches his shoulder and illuminates a scar there.
A distinctive scar. Burned into his skin in the unmistakable shape of a saint’s medallion. Old and faded but still clearly visible.
No.
My blood turns to ice because I’ve seen that scar before.
Tonight. In Antonio’s bedroom. When the killer took off his jacket before fighting and the sleeve rode up his arm for just a second.
It’s him.
The man who murdered Antonio. The man who pointed a gun at my face. The man who let me go for reasons I still don’t understand.
The man who just fucked me like he’s been starving for me for ages.
Oh god. Oh god no.
Suddenly everything makes sense in the worst possible way. The roughness. The way he didn’t answer any of my questions. The way it felt like he was really trying hard to restrain himself.
