Page 32 of Married to the Ruthless Mafia Heir

Earlier on the couch I'd barely controlled myself, but now I couldn't hold back anymore. Without another word, I grabbed the back of her head and kissed her.

Elena froze in my arms for a moment but didn't pull away. Her lips were impossibly soft, carrying warm breath that fell across my face. My fingers threaded through her hair, pulling her closer, deepening the kiss. Her body gradually softened, one hand braced on the mattress beside me, the other caught in my palm.

As the kiss intensified, my breathing grew heavier, heat rising through my body that I couldn't contain. I'd nearly lost control on the living room couch. Now she was here at my bedside again, holding my hand, looking at me with those freshly-woken eyes—I'd reached my limit.

I flipped her beneath me, avoiding my injured side. Her nightgown slid off her shoulder, exposing a vast stretch of collarbone and snow-white skin. My gaze darkened. I lowered my head to kiss her neck. She tilted her head back, fingers gripping my collar.

I could feel her heartbeat—rapid, pressed against my palm.

My uninjured hand slid down her body, fingers finding the heat between her thighs. She gasped against my mouth as I pushed inside her, her body arching into my touch. I kept my movements gentle, watching her face as I worked her slowly, learning what made her breath catch, what made those small sounds escape her throat.

"Dante—" She breathed my name like a prayer.

I added another finger, curling them just right, and her whole body tensed. She came apart beautifully, trembling and gasping, her fingers digging into my shoulders as the pleasure rolledthrough her. I kissed her through it, gentler than I'd ever been, feeling her pulse around my fingers as she rode out the waves.

When she finally caught her breath, her eyes were glazed and satisfied, her cheeks flushed pink. Better than last time, I could tell. The tenderness had made all the difference.

But my own body was a different story. My cock strained against my pants, hard to the point of aching, throbbing with every pulse of my heart. Heat flooded my skin, restless and demanding, every muscle tight with the need to bury myself inside her. I could barely think past the urgency coiling low in my gut—I needed her, now, more than I needed air.

Just as I reached for my belt, about to undo my pants, she suddenly pressed her hand against me. "Don't."

My chest heaved, breathing hard as I looked down at her. Elena's face was flushed, her eyes glassy with a sheen of moisture, but her gaze was firm. She looked at me, full of concern. "Your wound hasn't healed. You can't do this now. It'll tear open."

I fought to control myself. "It's fine."

But she pushed me away, grabbed her nightgown and pulled it on, then turned to look at me seriously, though her voice carried a hint of shyness. "Dante... wait until you've healed."

I studied her curiously. She'd never been this insistent about anything before. She wanted an heir so badly—logically she should be jumping at this opportunity.

"What?" I stared at her, letting out a laugh. "Don't want an heir anymore?"

She froze, then lowered her eyes, lashes trembling slightly in the moonlight. "I do want one. But I want you healthy more."

The look Elena gave me conveyed deep concern, as if I mattered tremendously in her life. Heat spread through my chest—not desire, but something else equally powerful surging up.

"Alright." I suppressed myself, patting the bed. "Get some sleep. I won't touch you."

Elena obediently lay down, pressed against my body, close to me. Like a child without security, she grabbed my hand and held it to her chest before closing her eyes. Her gesture made my heart unbearably soft.

She fell asleep quickly. I gently extracted my hand—she didn't wake. So I slipped out of bed quietly, left the room, and headed to the manor's operating room to check on Marco.

The hallway was silent. Marco's room was on the east side of the second floor, door ajar, light spilling out. I pushed inside. He sat propped against the headboard, torso wrapped in bandages, face still pale but his spirits better than before.

The surgery went well, then.

"Feeling better?" I settled onto the nearby couch, lighting a cigar.

"Much better now. Nothing serious—bullet just got my shoulder." Marco looked pale as death, probably trying not to worry me, keeping his tone light. "How about you?"

"Surface wound. Nothing serious." The burning tobacco smell drifted out. I took a deep drag, feeling my body relax slightly. "Those men—do you remember what they looked like?"

Marco frowned. "Too dark to see much, didn't get a good look. But I remember one guy had a tattoo on the back of his neck. Looked like Santa Muerte."

"Santa Muerte. They're from Mexico."

"Probably the same group as the Mexican cartel I was tracking," he said. "And their equipment wasn't what street thugs usually carry. Looked like professional firearms. Good shots too."

I fell silent for a moment.