Page 90 of The Mafia King's Reign
He slows his pace so I can feel every inch as it slides in and out of me, but I want more. I want the stretch. I want the pain.
His mouth finds my throat. Teeth and tongue and the hot press of his lips against my pulse point while he takes me like he's trying to erase every wall I ever built between us. Like he's been starving for this. Like weeks of wanting with nowhere to put it has finally been unleashed.
My nails rake down his back.
"Fuck me harder, daddy."
I don't know why I say it, he's already moving so hard I can't tell where the pleasure ends, and the pain begins. But I want him. All of him. I don't want him to hold back. I want him to ruin me beyond repair.
He hisses through his teeth, buries himself to the hilt, and grinds in deep, slow circles that make my toes curl before pulling back and slamming forward again. Then he drives intome with one brutal thrust, and I bury my face in the pillow to muffle the scream.
"Salvatore," I whimper. I can feel the tears.
He doesn't speak. He doesn't need to. He flips me onto my stomach, his hand in my hair pulling me up onto my knees, and I barely have time to brace before he's pressing against my entrance. I'm still sensitive, still throbbing, and taking him again is almost too much, but I want it. I want the ache and the burn and the way he makes everything else disappear.
He doesn't go slow. Each thrust fills me, and the cry that escapes is muffled against the pillow, my fingers clawing at velvet. He's enormous. The stretch, the drag of him against my walls, and it blurs everything. He withdraws and thrusts deep again, and I stop thinking entirely.
"You take me so well, baby," he growls against my neck. "Like you were made for this. For me."
I can't answer. My body is rocking back against his, my hips meeting each thrust, and his hand finds my clit again, relentless, demanding, and I am climbing faster than I should.
Every wall I built to survive this house, this arrangement, this man, he takes them apart, thrust by thrust, until there's nothing left of them, and I'm not even sure I mourn their passing. I meet him. Match him. Ask for more with my body and my voice and every sound I make that I'll be embarrassed about tomorrow and don't care about right now.
"Say you're mine," he demands against my throat like a brand.
"I belong to you," I tell him.
And then, between one breath and the next, his voice wrecked and low and completely unguarded: "I love you, Valentina," he says before pressing a kiss to my back.
The pressure intensifies, and I know he's close.
"Come on my cock," he orders. "Now."
And I do, my body responds to him right away, my walls clenching around him in rhythmic pulses, pleasure crashing through me harder than the first time. I hear him follow, the way his rhythm breaks, his grip on my hip tightening, his voice rough with my name and that single, possessive word.
Mine.
He stays like that for a moment, his chest against my back, both of us breathing hard. Then his hands soften. He turns me over, brushes my hair from my face with a gentleness I'm not prepared for, and kisses me, deep and slow, like this part matters to him too.
He shifts beside me, pulling me closer, and I feel him still hard against my thigh.
"Insatiable," I murmur against his chest.
"Only for you." He tilts my face up, kisses me slowly. "Only ever for you."
When it's done, we lie tangled in the white sheets, his heart pounding under my ear, his arms around me.
"Stay," he says quietly. "Sleep in my bed tonight."
"Okay."
He smiles, his lips pressed to my hair.
I wait for the voice in my head, the one that sounds like survival instinct, like every reason this is a terrible idea. It doesn't come. Or maybe it comes and I'm past caring.
"Sempre mia," he murmurs when he thinks I'm already asleep. "Per sempre."
Always mine. Forever.
