Page 116 of Auctioned to the Mafia Don
"Stefano—"
"Quiet." His teeth graze my hip. "I am busy."
Then his mouth is on me, and there's nothing patient in it. He devours me — deep, filthy strokes of his tongue, two fingers driving into me curling hard, his other arm a bar across my hips pinning me to the mattress while I fight him for the friction I need and lose. The coil winds vicious and fast. I break within minutes, loud enough that he has to reach up and press his palm over my mouth, and I come again around his fingers before the first one finishes, sobbing against his hand.
He crawls up my body while I'm still shaking, jaw wet, eyes black.
"Again," he says, and drives into me in one brutal stroke.
The stretch punches the air out of my lungs. He doesn't give me time to adjust — sets a pace that's pure possession, deep and relentless, the headboard cracking against the wall, and I claw at his back because it's that or fly apart. My nails drag hard enough to mark him. He snarls his approval into my throat.
"I hate you," I gasp.
"No, you do not."
"I hate that you know that."
His hand closes lightly around my throat, tilting my face up so I can't look anywhere but at him. "That is closer."
He hooks my knee over his elbow, opens me wider, and the new angle turns savage — every thrust dragging over the place his mouth wrecked, heat gathering low and molten until I'm chanting his name like a curse. He watches me the whole time, feral and certain, a man memorizing what belongs to him.
"Stefano — I?—"
"Mine." His voice frays at last, his rhythm going rough, losing its cruelty. "Say it."
"Yours —God—"
I come apart around him hard enough that the room whites out, my body pulsing while he works me through every wave with punishing strokes. He follows two thrusts later, my name grinding out of him against my throat like something torn loose.
For a long time, neither of us moves.
His weight pins me into the mattress, heavy, sweat-slick, his heartbeat slamming against my ribs. Then his hand finds my hipand settles over the fingerprints he left there, his thumb moving once, twice — a man counting proof that I am still here. Still his.
“Come back with me,” I whisper.
Stefano goes still for a moment, then I feel his mouth press against my hair. Then abruptly he murmurs, “Sleep, Maya.”
Outside, dawn waits beyond the curtains. Boston waits after that. And somewhere beyond both, the answer he still refuses to give me waits with its teeth already bared.
Chapter Sixteen
Stefano
Maya doesn’t speak to me on the drive to the airfield.
She sits beside me in the back of the car with her hands folded in her lap, looking out at Miami as though she can memorize enough of it to return unchanged. Dawn has started pulling color back into the streets, softening the palms and low buildings beyond the tinted windows. She wears dark jeans, boots, and a black coat that hides the weapon Raven insisted she carry once we land.
She has not looked at me since she walked out of the bathroom after calling Raven.
Omar sits across from us with his phone in one hand, pretending to read messages. He has been pretending for twenty minutes. His eyes lift every time Maya shifts, then drop before either of us can call him on it.
“You are both exhausting,” he says eventually.
Maya does not turn from the window. “No one asked you to come.”
“I work for him.”
“That sounds like a personal failure.”
