Page 88 of The Mafia King's Reign
His hands go to my zipper.
Slow. Patient. The scrape of it down my spine is the loudest sound in the room, and I feel it everywhere, every nerve ending standing at attention as cool air meets my skin and the dress pools at my feet. I'm standing before him in nothing but black lace I didn't think twice about this morning, and the way he looks at me makes me glad for every single choice I made today.
"You're beautiful," he says, and it doesn't sound like a compliment. It sounds like a verdict. Like something that was true before he said it and will remain true long after. "Valentina, you are so fucking beautiful."
I gesture to the rest of his clothing.
"Your turn.”
A muscle ticks in his jaw. He reaches for the waistband of his briefs, and I watch, I let myself watch, unashamed, as he pushes them down. And then there is nothing between us but air and weeks of wanting and the particular silence that comes right before something irreversible.
He kisses me. His tongue strokes against mine, demanding and consuming, and my nails rake down his back without thought.
He lifts me. My legs wrap around his waist automatically as he lays me back on the bed. He pulls back just enough to look at me. This is the part I should be afraid of. The stillness before. The way his eyes move over me like he's memorizing every detail, keeping it.
I am not afraid.
I realize that with a quiet shock. Salvatore Vitale is standing over me like a man who has never wanted anything as badly as he wants this, and I am not afraid.
I am ready.
"Valentina."
"Shhh… Stop talking," I breathe. "Just take me."
He lines himself up at my center and my core tightens, anticipating the pressure. He's so large, my breath hitches, and my body tenses, waiting, wanting.
But he doesn't enter. Instead, his mouth finds my inner thigh, his hands sliding beneath me, tilting me up until I am completely open to him and his particular, devastating patience. Then his lips are on me and his tongue is deep inside me.
He is methodical. Relentless. He treats this like something he intends to do correctly. His tongue traces me slowly, and every time I get close, every time I feel the orgasm building, he pulls back. Waits. Lets me breathe. Then starts again.
"Salvatore, I want to come. Please."
The dark, satisfied sound he makes against me is going to ruin me.
His fingers find me. His thumb presses and holds without moving, and his voice comes low against my inner thigh.
"You don't come until I tell you."
I gasp. My nails dig into his shoulders.
"Beg me."
I am going to kill him.
I am going to beg him.
Both of those things are true simultaneously, and I have made peace with them.
"Please." The word tears out of me. "Salvatore, please.
"Again." Dark. Satisfied.
"Let me come," I sob, and the wordsobis accurate, and I have abandoned pride entirely. "Please, I can't."
His thumb moves.
The orgasm crashes through me, sudden and total, snapping from my core outward, my back lifting clean off the mattress, his name breaking apart in my mouth into something unrecognizable. He doesn't stop. He works me through every aftershock, fingers still moving, mouth still there, until I cup his face and guide him up toward my lips.
