His expression is feral, eyes fierce. He’s a lion. My lion.
In seconds he releases himself. I feel him thick and throbbing against my thigh. He pushes inside—and God, it hurts. A strangled cry leaves my lips. He covers my mouth to drink it in.
He pushes inside me like he wants to own me, to take me over. With every thrust of his cock, I’m filled. I’m his. All I can do is take it, spread open, vulnerable to him in every way.
“You’re mine,” he growls. “Fucking mine.”
“Yes,” I whimper, unable to move.
He touches my lips and shoves two fingers inside. I feel his fingerprints with my tongue, taste the essence on his skin. And when he’s wet with my saliva, he pulls his hand back. The first touch against my clit makes me jump. The second makes me moan. And then he’s rubbing me in time to his thrusts, bringing us higher, finding the tallest peak, the sharpest point. We reach the top together, broken apart and put back together, our bodies moving as one, our climax going on and on, deeply passionate and happily ever after.
* * *
Thank you for reading Mafia Cinderella!
Turn the page for the fourth and final dangerous bedtime story…
HEAVY EQUIPMENT
Skye Warren
I’ve been raised as the good, obedient daughter, but I never expected to be sold to pay my father’s debts. Cold. Rough. Merciless. The foreman of the construction crew is going to make me pay every last cent.
CHAPTER ONE
Cherry blossom trees date back to 1912 in the US, when Japan sent the trees in goodwill. The US sent back flowering dogwood trees.
The rumble that comes from downstairs seems to shake the house, loud voices and crashes that make my heart skip. Little ripples appear in the surface of my soup.
I stand, almost knocking over the small antique tray. I’m still in my strapless bra and panties, ready to get dressed for the gala as soon as I’ve eaten. The gown is already laid out on the bed, ready to step into—and even though it’s uncomfortable and constraining, it’s the fastest thing to put on. I step into it and rush into the hallway, working the zipper as I go.
When I hit the stairs, the voices get even louder. I’ve always been taught to whisper. Sometimes my father would yell, but he’d always close the office door first.
There’s a loud bang—like a gunshot. I grasp the railing and rush down the steps. As I round the curved staircase I see my father in his tux.
In front of him is a man in a leather jacket and jeans.
The strange man looks up at me—and instead of looking surprised by my presence, he smiles. The smile makes him look wolf-like, as if he’s caught his prey. “There she is now.”
“Papa,” I say, terrified. “What’s going on?”
I half-expect him to tell me to go back upstairs. He never tells me the details of his work. I always played in his office as a child, at least until he’d gently push me out and send me to a nanny. The fact that this new business seems darker, more dangerous, would be all the more reason for him to send me away.
Instead he looks at me, his eyes burning with something I can’t recognize. Fury? Defeat? “Come down here, daughter,” he says in Cantonese. The old language. He only speaks that way in front of family, but this man isn’t family. He isn’t even Chinese.
I’m trembling, but there’s no thought to question or disobey. He’s raised me to be the perfect daughter, and I do everything he asks. I attend every party at his side, standing in for the wife, my mother who died when I was a child. So it’s only natural that I go to him when he calls me.
His skin feels thin and papery when I take his hand. “Papa?”
“Something terrible has happened.” His expression is so grave. It scares me.
I squeeze his hands. “What is it? Let me help you.”
“Oh, you’re going to help,” the stranger says in a breezy way. I don’t even know this man but already I’m unnerved by how he’s acting, as if my father’s clear worry is some big joke. As if he’s the one in charge. I don’t understand what’s happening, but I know this is my father’s house—and my house by extension. He has no right to stand there looking so commanding and handsome and terrible.
“And you are?” I manage to say coolly.
He doesn’t answer right away, instead giving me a long slow look from my head to my toes. I become painfully aware that I didn’t have time to tape my backless gown into place, that it’s showing more of the sides of my breasts than I would have allowed. The fact that I’m not wearing shoes somehow makes it more intimate, as if he’s taking me to bed instead of standing, uninvited, in the foyer.
