Page 54 of The Mafia King's Lost Son
I slide my hand between us and find her clit, working it in tight circles while I keep up the brutal pace. She’s close, I can feel it in the way her body tenses, in the way her breathing changes to short gasps.
Her inner walls start to flutter around me and I know she’s right there.
“Come for me,” I command, pinching her clit slightly. “Let me feel it.”
She shatters around me with a cry of my name that I swallow with another kiss. Her body clenches around me in waves, and that’s all it takes to drag me over the edge with her.
I bury myself deep and finish inside her, marking her in the most primal way possible. The sensation goes on and on, pleasure so intense it borders on pain.
For a long moment we just stay like that, tangled together and breathing hard, both of us trembling from the intensity of what just happened. Then reality starts to creep back in.
I pull back enough to look at her face. Her eyes are still closed, her breathing still uneven. She looks wrecked and perfect and completely mine.
I cup her face with both hands, forcing her to look at me.
“There’s no running this time,” I say, and my voice is rough and firm. “You’re mine. Luca is mine. I’m keeping you both, and anyone who tries to take you from me will die screaming.”
The possessiveness in my voice should scare her—it would scare most women. The promise of violence against anyone who threatens what’s mine.
But instead of fear, I see something else in her eyes. Something I can’t fathom until she spells it out for me.
“I stopped running the moment I called you,” she says quietly, and there’s a vulnerability in her voice that I’ve never heard.“I think…I think I’ve been yours since that first night, and I’m terrified of what that means.”
15
SCARLETT
I wake up the next morning in Dante’s bed and for a second I’m oblivious to where I am.
The sheets are softer than anything I’ve ever felt. The room is huge, with furniture in black and grey. Typical Dante, everything about him reeks expensive, money and power.
Then I realize there’s an arm wrapped around my waist, heavy and possessive, pinning me against a very warm, very naked body.
Oh god.
Last night comes flooding back in vivid detail. The kitchen. The counter. Dante’s hands on me and his mouth and the way he made me completely fall apart before putting me back together again.
Then he’d carried me upstairs to his bedroom because apparently my room wasn’t an option. Something about wanting me in his space, in his bed, where he could keep me close.
I should have argued and insisted on my own room, my own space, my own boundaries.
But I was still trembling from the best sex of my life and my brain wasn’t exactly working properly, so I just let him carry me like some romance novel heroine and fell asleep wrapped around him.
Now it’s morning and I have to face what we’ve become.
Not just co-parents forced together by circumstance. Not just two people with complicated history. But lovers-ish who can’t keep their hands off each other despite every logical reason why this is a terrible idea.
The arm around my waist tightens and I feel Dante’s breath against my neck.
“Stop thinking so loud,” he murmurs, voice rough with sleep. “I can hear your brain working from here.”
“I wasn’t thinking that loud.”
“You were practically screaming.” He pulls me closer and I can feel every inch of him against my back. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong. I’m just…processing.”
“Processing what?”
