“Fuck, fuck, fuck!”
Wren’s eyes flutter shut as she grinds against me. My fingers circle her clit, teasing her until she’s about to lose her shit. She gasps and stares up at me, asking for it without saying a goddamn thing.
“I want to see you fucking come,krasotka. I want to feel you lose control around my cock,” I snarl, pushing her legs wider and thrusting deeper. My fingers work her clit in tight circles, the friction driving her wild. Wren’s breathing hitches, her body tensing, her mouth opening in a silent scream. She climaxes hard, her cunt tightening like a goddamn vise.
“Oh, fuck yeah,” I grunt, my balls tightening as I slam into her.
I thrust once more, deeper and harder, before I explode inside her. “Kurva,” I hiss through clenched teeth.
My cock pulses, still buried deep inside her. Wren’s orgasm subsides and she stares up at me, a satisfied grin on her lips. “That was… fuck…” she breathes out, barely able to form a coherent sentence.
With my cock still buried inside her, Wren’s hands slide up my chest, and she pulls me down for a long, hungry kiss. As our tongues tangle, she breaks the kiss and whispers into my ear, a smug grin on her face, ““That’ll keep you in top form for yourwork?”
26
Wren
Istretch languidly, my eyes adjusting to the soft morning light. This ain’t my shithole apartment, that’s for damn sure. The sheets beneath me feel like fucking clouds, all silky and smooth against my bare skin. I prop myself up on my elbows, taking in the room properly for the first time.
Fuckballs. It’s… nice. Like, really fucking nice.
Not the gaudy, gold-plated crap I’d expect from a mafia boss. The walls are a calming sage green, adorned with tasteful abstract art. There’s a massive bookshelf along one wall, crammed with leather-bound volumes. The furniture is all dark wood, sleek and modern. A gentle breeze carries the scent of jasmine through the cracked window, along with the cheerful chirping of birds.
My body relaxes involuntarily. It feels… fucking safe here. Peaceful. Which is fucked up, considering I nearly got snatched by some Russian goons last night.
I run a hand through my tangled hair, wincing as my fingers catch on a knot.
“Fuck me,” I mutter, memories of last night flooding back. D’s hands on my body, his cock filling me up so good I thought I’d split in two. My thighs clench at the phantom sensation.
I’m not gonna delude myself. This is just aone-timething. Fuck, okay, fine,two-timething.
But I can’t let this happen again. No more playing with fire, no matter how good it burns. I’ve got enough shit to deal with without adding “mafia boy toy” to the list.
Tossing D out of my thoughts, I focus on the important stuff.Em, Lenny, I hope they are okay. I need to call them. And find some goddamn food before my stomach starts eating itself.
I slide out of bed, my feet sinking into a plush area rug. Christ, even the floor is fancy. I spot the burner phone on the nightstand and reach for it. For a stone-cold killer, he’s got an eye for details that would make my gran proud. Who’d have thought Mr. Tall, Dark, and Deadly would be so… considerate? It’s almost unsettling, like finding out a shark enjoys cuddles or some shit.
I flip the phone around in my hand, teeth grinding. Part of me is itching to call Em, to make sure she’s okay. But what if I lead those Russian psychos right to her doorstep?Fuck. Those goons from last night weren’t exactly selling Girl Scout cookies.
My finger hovers over the power button, then falls away. “Goddammit,” I mutter. Looks like I’m gonna have to sit tight and let D handle this shit. For now.
Because if there’s one thing I know, it’s that when you’re neck-deep in mobster bullshit, sometimes you gotta pick the devil you know.
I let out a long breath, tossing the burner phone back onto the nightstand. It lands with a soft thud, a reminder of the shitstorm I’m in.
“Fuck it,” I mutter, running a hand through my tangled hair. “I’ll do a quick check on Em and Lenny later.”
The thought of my siblings sends a pang through my chest, but I can’t risk leading those Russian bastards straight to them. My jaw clenches, teeth grinding as I push down the guilt. They’re safe. D promised he’d watch over them.
My stomach growls loud enough to wake the dead. Food first, then I’ll figure out how to contact the kids safely.
I look around for my clothes, but my T-shirt is MIA. Flashes of D carrying me up here like some kind of caveman Tarzan play through my head. Right. That’s where it went.
No way in hell am I putting on that itchy-ass pole outfit again. With a shrug, I pad over to a sleek dresser and start rifling through drawers. “C’mon, rich boy, give me something to work with here.”
My eyebrows shoot up when I hit the jackpot. I pull out a soft, well-worn black T-shirt that’s gotta be three sizes too big for me. It smells faintly of sandalwood and something uniquely… him.
I slip it on, the hem hitting mid-thigh. It’s comfy as fuck but leaves me feeling strangely vulnerable. Like I’m wearing his mark or some shit.
