Page 107 of Mafia King’s Dangerous Vow

The elevator dings. The doors slide open, and we stumble into the apartment, a tangle of hands and mouths. He crowds me against the wall, his breathing harsh against my temple. I reach between us, palming him through his pants, and his curse is filthy and perfect.

“I want you,” he growls. “Now.”

It’s silent in the apartment, impossibly quiet except for the accelerated pounding of our hearts. His hands are everywhere. Possessive and claiming and exactly what I need.

He lifts me, my legs wrapping around his waist as he carries me through the darkened apartment. Past the living room. Past the kitchen where we’ve shared careful conversations over my atrocious cooking.

Straight to the bedroom.

Our bedroom.

He lays me on the bed with surprising gentleness, then straightens to shed his jacket. The shirt follows, buttons scattering as he rips it open rather than waste time with each fastening.

“There goes another Brunello,” I say, breathless despite myself. Then I forget the joke entirely. Broad shoulders. Hard muscle. Scars I have questions about and absolutely no intention of asking about now.

My fingers find the zipper at my back, but he’s already there, pulling it down in one smooth motion. The silk pools at my waist, exposing black lace beneath, and the way he looks at me—like I’m precious and profane all at once—makes me achy and swollen, a problem I want to put in his hands now.

He comes down over me, forearms braced on either side of my head, his weight a delicious pressure. His mouth finds mine again, softer now but no less consuming, while his hands map every curve through lace and silk.

This is happening. We’re doing this.

And I want it—want him—with desperation I haven’t felt with anyone else.

His hand slides up my thigh, fingers hooking in lace, and I lift my hips to help him. The fabric tears—he doesn’t have the patience for careful removal—and then there’s nothing between us but lust and the choice we’re both making.

His thumb slides between my folds, stroking, tearing a moan from me.

“Fuck,” he breathes, the word raw. “You feel exactly as I imagined.”

A laugh escapes me. “You imagined it?”

“You have no idea,” he rasps, his finger playing in my wetness while he licks my lips greedily.

My hands slide down his stomach, reaching for his belt, and he captures my wrist in a steel grip. “You want to be in charge,” he murmurs, pinning my arms above my head with his free hand. He presses a bruising kiss on my mouth, his thumb sliding through slick heat, circling my clit, making my vision blur. I like what he’s doing. But I want to see him give up the control he’s always holding on to so desperately.

“Let me touch you the way I want,” I say, wiggling my hands free.

His responding groan is cut off by my lips, our mouths colliding. “Take what you need.”

My pulse accelerates. He’s letting me choose, set the pace. I sit up, forcing him back onto his heels.

I reach for the zipper at his waist, and his mouth finds my neck, kissing a line down my throat and across the top of my breasts. My hands shake a little, but the zipper moves easily, and then his pants are gone and he’s gloriously, beautifully naked.

“I want to eat you out so fucking bad,” he says through his teeth, while my hands explore the hard lines of his body, getting familiar with the ridges of his abs, the scars on his chest, the sharp cut of his hip bones. But he lets me touch, his breathing uneven as I move closer and closer to where he’s fully hard and throbbing.

“Can I kiss you down there, trouble?” His hand moves to my wrist again, gripping it tightly, but instead of stopping me, his eyes darken and his hold shifts to a guiding pressure.

“I will let you do everything.” Sensing his need to hear me say it, I find his heavy-lidded eyes. “But I need to touch you first.”

He drops his forehead to mine, hissing a curse against my mouth. “Put me out of my misery, trouble,” he rasps, guiding my hand and showing me how he likes to be stroked.

The first slide of his skin against mine makes us both groan. He’s velvet and steel, hot and pulsing, and my mouth goes dry at the idea that this is for me. That this is the moment where his control finally snaps.

My hand continues moving, a steady rhythm that has him breathing hard. His grip tightens slightly, guiding me faster. Firmer. Until I can feel his pulse pounding, feel him losing the last shreds of sanity, feel his muscles go rigid beneath my hands.

Before he can explode, I let go and crawl back on the bed.

“Tamara,” he growls. “Fuck. Lie back and spread those legs for me.”