Page 94 of Don’t Say Mafia

He pressed in tighter, slotting his hips between my spread thighs. His cock brushed my soaked folds, and the metal barbell moved over my oversensitive clit . . . making me flinch and whimper.

To my dismay, he didn’t push inside. Instead he rocked his hips forward in shallow, teasing strokes, dragging the thick, pierced length of his cock through my soaked folds, letting the heavy head and cool metal barbell catch on my swollen clit with every slow glide. He coated himself in my slick, while his fist flew faster and faster along his shaft, stroking himself with rough, desperate pulls right in front of me.

His forehead dropped to mine, and his breath was hot and erratic against my lips.

A second later he reared back and angled his dick toward my breasts. Thick ropes of cum erupted across my chest in hot, messy pulses as he came. The first splashed high across the tops of my breasts, dripping immediately down the curves in slow, sticky trails. The second landed square on one nipple, while another streaked lower, painting the undersides, pooling in the valley between them. He kept stroking through it, hips jerking, milking every last drop until his cock twitched violently and a final thick bead rolled down his shaft.

I watched as if in a daze as cum slowly dripped from my nipple, and he didn’t let it go to waste as he leaned over and closed his mouth around my tip. His tongue swirled, and he sucked hard, drawing the peak deep into his mouth, his teeth grazing just enough to make me gasp and arch toward him.

Jagger licked every drop off the sensitive bud until it was clean and glistening only with his spit now. Then he straightened and proceeded to smear the rest of his mess with the head of his dick, dragging the pierced tip through his release as he spread it across my skin. Claiming. Branding.

His breathing was wrecked, his chest rising and falling like he’d run a marathon, but his eyes never left the sight of his cum glistening on me.

“Mine,” he said hoarsely as he leaned in, and his lips brushed my ear. “You’re not going to shower tonight. Every time you breathe, you’ll feel me on your skin. Every time you look down, you’ll see what I did to you. Who owns you.”

His hand slid up, cupping one breast through the slick mess, and his thumb circled my nipple in lazy strokes. He pinched lightly—enough to make me whimper—then dragged his palm down my sternum, spreading his release farther like he couldn’t stand the thought of any part of me unmarked.

Jagger kissed me then, and it was everything filthy you could want in a kiss. I loved that he tasted like me . . . like us, and when he pulled back, his eyes still looked completely fucking obsessed.

“Beautiful,” he whispered as he tugged the stretched neckline of my blouse back up carefully, smoothing the fabric over my cum-streaked chest so it clung, damp and obscene, against my skin. The material was dark enough that the wet spots might pass for spilled drinks if no one looked too close. His fingers lingered there, pressing the fabric to my breasts, sealing his claim beneath it.

“Clean up,” he ordered quietly. “Go back to work. Smile for the customers. But know this, Eden—I’m watching. And the next time you come, it’s going to be on my cock.”

He unlocked the door with a soft click and slipped out, leaving only the faint trace of him and sex lingering in the stale bathroom air.

I stayed perched on the sink longer than I should have, trying to recover. His release had cooled beneath the fabric he’d so carefully smoothed back into place, sticky and intimate where it clung to my skin. Every shallow inhale pulled the damp material tighter across my nipples, sending small, traitorous sparks straight to my core.

Eventually, I forced myself to move. I slid off the sink edge on unsteady legs. My knees threatened to give out again, but I gripped the porcelain until my knuckles whitened, and I tried to pull myself together.

And I stared in the mirror again . . .

I was still the mess that had first come into the bathroom, falling apart . . . but in a very different way. My hair was tangled at my nape, strands plastered to my damp skin. My lips were swollen, and my cheeks were flushed in a deep, shameful rose color that refused to fade. As if those two things weren’t enough, my pupils were still blown wide, like I’d been drugged or fucked into oblivion.

I stared at the woman in the reflection and felt my stomach lurch.

What the hell did I just do?

I’d let Jagger drop to his knees in a staff bathroom and devour me until I screamed his name. I was covered in his release, my body still humming with aftershocks and my core still aching for more.

You’re such a fuckin’ whore.

This wasn’t grief seeking comfort. This was betrayal.

The dark thoughts crashed into me, and I had to work to push them away. To forget the Eden who had always tried to do the right thing.

For a second I saw myself the way other people would—a new widow, already tangled up with another man. Society had a script for women like me. Grieve quietly. Dress in black. Stay small. Stay loyal to a ghost.

I braced my hands on the edge of the sink and closed my eyes.

Ryan.

The name didn’t ache the way it should have. It thudded.

Because the truth was uglier than the guilt.

Ryan had drained me. Not all at once. Not dramatically. It had happened slowly, over years—crisis after crisis, broken promise after broken promise, nights spent waiting for the sound of the door, wondering what version of him would walk through it. Sober. High. Angry. Apologetic.

I had poured myself into him until there was nothing left. I had tried to be enough . . . tried to love him back to life . . . tried to hold us together with bare hands while everything cracked around me.