Page 57 of Mafia King
Then he does something I never thought I’d ever see him do, and it’s so erotic, my world goes from a monochrome that seemed normal my whole life, to an explosion of color and light.
He kneels before me.
I gasp at the sight of him looking up at me like a supplicant. He runs his hands up my thighs, and I’m not so foolish to misunderstand the context. He’s not begging or setting himself beneath me. He’s sliding off my underwear, and yet, just the sight of his vulnerability is breathtaking. His closed eyes as he kisses the insides of my legs, working upward with upper and lower lashes pressed together in a thick black line, mouth open, one hand putting a knee over his shoulder. His tongue darts out, and when I lose sight of it between my legs, I gain the sensation of it running along the ridge of my clit.
Bit by bit, he works me with his tongue, holding me against the wall as I lose the ability to keep myself upright. I try to focus, because I shouldn’t be intimate with him until I’m sure he won’t let Gia be sold off, but like a train riding off into a cartoon sunset, my reality slowly shrinks.
“Santino,” I groan. “This is not talking.”
“Yes, it is,” he whispers before sucking on my nub so gently, then so forcefully I dig my fingers in his hair as my hips rise to slide toward his waiting mouth.
By now, Santino has a map of my body and gently flicks his tongue while his fingers stroke my tenderest flesh.
The voice that scolds me for giving him my body before getting an agreement to free Gia has quieted but not disappeared. Yet I cannot fathom, in a million years, ever telling this man to stop, because the sight of him, a man of granite and power, on his knees before me, kissing my pussy, sends waves of electricity straight from my brain to his tongue. I ride his face harder and he licks me from top to bottom in broad, clean strokes, then he bites a little, just enough to remind me who has the power here.
The lump in my throat unworks itself enough to let out a moan.
“You are delicious.” He runs a finger against my slit and it’s so perfect I could cry. “You like this? You want to come for me now?”
Even beneath me, he’s in charge, easily taking control of my body with a question I can’t answer in words. He slides his finger inside me so slowly, it feels as if it’s petitioning for an invitation. My hips tip against him in response.
“You.” I can barely manage the tiny word.
His finger finds the precious space deep within me and another finger quickly joins it as he massages me from the inside out and blows gently on my clit without touching it. If I wasn’t all but tethered to him, I’d take off in flight.
“Fammi sentire come godi,” he asks to hear me come, then buries his face between my legs.
Heat pulses through my body and settles in my core with the utterance of his command.
Electricity rips over my skin and heat thumps through my veins. I can’t see, can’t breathe, can’t feel anything but the sweet heaven between my legs. It’s when my stoic man moans into me that I’m finally pushed to the edge. It builds to a roaring crescendo and hurls me into the horizon of pleasure. I cry his name from there, then I crumple over him, panting as if I’ve just been saved from drowning.
“Brava, Forzetta.” Santino rises and snaps a tissue from the box.
I collapse into him as the tides of euphoria roll back out to sea. After wiping his mouth, he delicately cleans my folds and lets my skirt fall back over my legs.
When he kisses me, I drink up my taste from his lips and tongue. He kisses my forehead and rests his hand against my throat, his thumb stroking the soft divot between my collarbones.
There’s so much I need from him, and the only thing I want is for this moment to never end.
“You’re dirty,” he says, taking both my hands. “Come. I will get you clean.”
* * *
I lie alone,flaccid-limbed and soaking. Steam clouds my eyes, and for the first time since the sun set, it’s not coming from me. The bathroom’s air is heavy and dense with vapor from water so hot, my skin is red and tingly. A mountain of bubbles rises in the center of the tub between my breasts and my knees. My wounded hand rests on the ledge to keep dry.
When my stomach grumbled, Santino left fully clothed, and now he returns in low-hanging drawstring bottoms and a bare chest, carrying a bowl of grapes.
“You didn’t cook for me?” I joke, well aware he wasn’t even going to boil water for tea.
“A husband does not do the cooking.” He says it solemnly, with the hearty cynicism of unpleasant but unchangeable truth.
“Mario Batali is married.”
“He does not cook for his wife.” He sits on the edge of the tub with his bowl and twists a grape off the stem.
“How do you know?”
“Cooking is his job. I don’t bring my work home.” He holds up a grape and I open my mouth so he can feed it to me. “I do not mow my own grass. I do not clean my own pool. I do not cook my own food.”
