Page 106 of Don’t Say Mafia

Then I dropped to my knees.

My hands gripped her thighs, spreading her wider, and I leaned in.

My tongue slid through the mess I’d made, sweet cheesecake mixed with her own slick heat, the taste of her and sugar exploding on my tongue. I licked her clean, slow at first, savoring every inch, then faster, hungrier, sucking her clit between my lips and flicking it with the tip of my tongue until her hips bucked against my face.

She cried out brokenly, and she fisted my hair, pulling me closer.

I devoured her.

I ate the cheesecake off her like it was the only thing keeping me alive, licking and sucking until she was trembling, her thighs shaking around my head, and her moans turning into sobs.

“Jagger!”

I didn’t stop. I sucked harder. Thrust my tongue deeper. Rubbed her clit faster.

She shattered, and her scream echoed off the kitchen walls, her body convulsing, pussy pulsing against my mouth as she came hard, gushing over my tongue in hot, sweet waves. I drank every drop of her release mixed with the remnants of cheesecake, groaning into her.

I pulled back just enough to catch her expression. Her eyes were wide and glassy as she stared down at me in shock.

“You had some on your lip,” I rasped, making it sound as reasonable as possible.

She made a cute gasping noise as she continued to stare at me as I got up off the floor and dragged a hand through my hair, very much aware of how quickly this had escalated. My plan had been to give her at least twenty-four hours before I’d jumped her.

Obviously that hadn’t gone well.

I’d also promised that my dick was going to be the next thing to give her an orgasm . . . but I didn’t have any regrets.

Eden swallowed and blinked, then cleared her throat like she was about to negotiate a ceasefire instead of recovering from being eaten out in my kitchen. She pulled down on her shirt to try to hide the gaping hole in her leggings, but she wasn’t very successful. I made sure I was standing where I could look right at her pussy while we talked.

Hey . . . at least that had happened in my house instead of a staff bathroom this time. This seemed way more appropriate. And it had involved cheesecake. I couldn’t think of anything to complain about.

“I think we need some rules,” she said after a full minute of us just staring at each other. “At least for tonight. While I’m here.”

I let out a quiet huff, more in amusement than agreement. “I’m listening,” I said, because this conversation felt like it could be fun.

Her eyes widened again, startled that I played along, but she rallied and lifted her chin. She was so brave and adorable and doomed.

“Okay,” she said, taking another steadying breath. “Rule one. No more touching.”

“No,” I replied instantly, without even the courtesy of pretending to consider it.

She stared at me. “You didn’t let me finish.”

“I didn’t need to,” I said dryly. “Next rule.”

Her mouth opened, then closed. “Minimal touching . . . at least while I’m living here and depending on you. So it’s not weird.”

“Still no.”

“Every other day touching?” she offered, clearly bargaining with the universe now.

“Also no.”

She groaned softly and slumped back in her chair. “You’re terrible at rules.”

“I’m excellent at rules,” I said. “I’ve just never seen much need for them. And the ones you’re proposing?” I tipped my head and exaggeratedly licked my lips so she knew I was tasting her cum as I did it. “They’re bad.”

She made a face at me. An indignant one. Then she inhaled, clearly regrouping, and stared up at the ceiling like the answers might be written there.