Page 166 of Don’t Say Mafia

He occupied it.

And the terrifying part wasn’t how intense he was . . . it was how certain I felt standing in it. There was no wobble. No half step backward.

Falling for him wasn’t drifting. It was surrendering to something powerful and knowing it wouldn’t crush me. It was letting myself be seen at my loudest, neediest, and most unguarded—and watching him step closer instead of retreat.

It felt reckless and irreversible. It felt like standing at the center of a storm and realizing the storm chose you back.

It also felt like getting the best fuck of my life.

My palms were flat against the cool glass, the city lights dancing across my skin. The penthouse was silent except for the sound of our rough breathing and the wet, rhythmic slap of his hips meeting my ass.

Jagger had me bent forward, one hand wrapped around my throat from behind, the other braced on the window beside mine. His cock drove into me again, each thrust pushing my breasts against the glass and scraping my nipples against the cold surface until they ached in the best way. The piercing dragged along my front wall every time he pulled back, hitting that spot that made my vision blur and my knees threaten to give out.

“Jagger—” His name came out as a plea.

He groaned against my neck, and his teeth grazed my pulse. “Say it again.”

“Jagger,” I cried out desperately.

He rewarded me with a harder thrust, his hips snapping forward until I was pressed fully against the window, breasts flattened, and my breath fogging the glass in short, frantic bursts. The city sprawled beneath us, and I somehow felt powerful . . . wanted . . . seen.

His hand slid from my throat to my jaw, turning my face so I could see him in the reflection. His eyes were dark, pupils blown, but there was something softer there now—something that looked almost like awe.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he rasped. “Look at you. Naked against our window, taking my cock like you were made for it. Like you were made for me.”

I moaned and pushed back harder, chasing the stretch and the fullness . . . the way he filled every empty place inside me until I couldn’t tell where I ended and he began. His free hand slid down my stomach, and he found my clit and circled it with ruthless precision, slow at first, then faster, matching the perfect rhythm of his thrusts.

I arched my back, pushing my ass higher, taking him deeper. “Jagger . . .”

“Tell me what you want,” he demanded. “Tell me how bad you need to come on my cock.”

“I need it,” I gasped. “I need to come. Please . . . don’t stop.”

He snarled low in his throat and fucked me harder, his hips slamming forward with bruising force. “Come for me,” he ordered roughly. “Come all over my cock while the whole fucking city watches you fall apart for me.”

The orgasm didn’t crash. It built like a storm gathering force—starting as a tight coil in my core that unraveled outward in slow, shuddering ripples, each one pulling him farther inside with greedy insistence. My body gripped him in deep, insistent squeezes . . . long, rolling contractions that locked around every ridge, every vein, refusing to release until the friction turned electric. His piercing scraped that sensitive bundle of nerves with each retreat, amplifying the build until my thighs quivered and my toes curled against the floor.

I moaned, and my fingers scraped the glass, my nails leaving faint trails in the condensation as pleasure surged through me like liquid fire, heating my blood until it felt as if it might boil over. My hips bucked involuntarily, grinding back against him, drawing out the sensation until stars burst behind my eyelids and my breath came in short, desperate hitches.

Jagger kept thrusting through every shuddering aftershock, drawing them out until I sobbed from the overstimulation, until my legs gave out and he had to catch me with one arm banded around my waist.

He suddenly pulled out, leaving me achingly empty. Before I could catch my breath, his hands were on my hips, spinning me around with effortless strength. My back hit the cool glass as we faced each other fully.

The city lights washed over his face in shifting gold and blue, and I could see everything in his eyes: raw hunger, fierce need, and something deeper, something that made my chest ache with how much I felt it mirrored inside me.

He thrust back into me, his eyes locked on mine so I couldn’t look away. His hands slid under my thighs, lifting me higher, pinning me between his body and the window as he moved.

Our lips met . . . and it was like our story had already been written somewhere between us and he was just sealing it into place. When he finally pulled back, he didn’t go far. His forehead rested against mine, our breaths mixing in the small space between us, his eyes searching my face as if this moment mattered more than anything else in the world. “I love you,” he said quietly.

“I love you so fucking much, Eden.”

For a second I could only stare at him, the weight of those words sinking in, spreading through me until it felt like my heart might burst.

And suddenly hearing them from Jagger Thatcher made me understand something that should have been obvious all along.

I had never loved anyone before.

Whatever I had felt for Ryan had been something that fit neatly into the life I thought I was supposed to have. It had never filled me up like this or made my pulse race or my chest ache or my whole world tilt on its axis.