Page 300 of Don’t Say Mafia

My lips parted on instinct, and a soft whimper slipped out as he slid the fork between them.

The crepe hit my tongue, and I closed my eyes for half a second. His thumb brushed the inside of my wrist, right over my racing pulse, and I felt it everywhere: in my chest, between my thighs, in the tips of my fingers where they curled around the fork handle.

When I finally opened my eyes again, he was watching me intently. “Good girl,” he rasped.

Jagger released my wrist but didn’t step back.

I set the fork down, my fingers shaking. “Jagger . . .”

He tilted his head, waiting.

“I can’t think when you’re”—I gestured vaguely at his chest, his abs, the whole devastating picture of him—“like that.”

He grinned smugly. “Then don’t think.”

Jagger reached past me again, and this time his arm brushed the side of my breast as he picked up the fork, cut another bite, and held it to my lips. “Open.”

I whimpered again—quieter this time, but no less desperate—as he fed me.

Forkful after forkful of crepe and strawberry and Nutella, all while his eyes never left mine. I chewed and swallowed, trying to focus on the food instead of the way his bare chest rose and fell inches from me, instead of the heat of his palm on my thigh, instead of the way his thumb kept circling, higher, inching beneath the hem of my shirt until it brushed the sensitive crease where my thigh met my hip.

When only a few bites remained, his thumb finally slipped under the edge of my panties. He didn’t pause, though; he just kept feeding me with one hand while the other pushed the lace aside and slid one thick finger inside me.

I gasped around the bite of crepe.

Jagger curled his finger immediately, stroking that spot deep inside me. His thumb found my clit at the same time, pressing slow, firm circles as he held the fork to my lips. “Keep eating,” he murmured. “Don’t stop.”

I moaned, but I obeyed.

I took the next bite he offered, chewing slowly while his finger pumped in and out of me, deep and insistent, stroking that perfect spot with every thrust. The wet sounds were loud in the quiet kitchen, mixing with my ragged breaths and the soft clink of the fork against the plate.

He added a second finger, and I moaned around the strawberry, my hips rocking forward to meet his hand. Pleasure knotted deep inside me, swelling with every thrust of his fingers, and every firm press of his thumb against my clit.

“Swallow,” he ordered softly.

I did.

He fed me the last bite, one that was covered in Nutella, and watched my throat work as I swallowed it down.

Then he curled both fingers hard, stroking that spot again and again while his thumb rubbed relentless circles over my clit.

I came apart.

My back bowed as pleasure detonated inside me, pulse after pulse surging through every nerve until I was shaking apart. My pussy clenched around his fingers, and slick gushed over his hand and dripped onto the chair beneath me.

Eventually he eased his fingers out and brought them to his mouth . . . licking them clean while staring straight into my eyes. “Mm,” he said in a voice rough with satisfaction. “You’re right. That was good.”

I gasped, and he caught me with an arm around my waist and pulled me flush against his bare chest.

“What are you doing?” I whispered.

He leaned in closer. Close enough that I felt the words against my lips before I heard them. “Just thinking about how hungry I still am.”

I shoved back on the stool so fast that it scraped against the floor. “I—I should shower,” I stammered, already sliding off the seat. “Yeah. Shower. Right now.”

He didn’t move to stop me, just watched as I backed away. “Eden,” he called after me. “What are you so afraid of?”

I stopped mid-step. “What?” I asked without turning around.