Page 108 of Mafia King’s Dangerous Vow

He’s kneeling on the bed, hovering above me, his erection pressed against my stomach.

“I’m done waiting,” he whispers, and then he’s pushing into me, hard and fast, filling me up, stretching me, claiming every inch.

“Oh, God,” I pant.

He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t wait, doesn’t give me time to adjust. He pulls out and then slams into me, again and again, each thrust hard enough to rattle the bedframe. My hands grab his ass, nails digging in, urging him deeper, and the answering snarl vibrates through my chest.

I feel the orgasm building fast. Pleasure explodes inside me, ripping a scream from my throat. He’s relentless, his hips snapping forward, plunging deeper, his grip tightening on my hip hard enough to leave bruises.

And then he moves us—a swift roll, a shift of balance, a breathless second where the world spins and the only anchor is the solid heat of him.

The next thing I know, he’s sitting back on his heels, my thighs draped over his, and he’s holding me up by my hips, controlling the pace. I lean back, bracing myself with my hands.

“Good girl,” he growls in approval, thrusting harder. “Ride your husband.”

So I do.

He takes everything. Every last shred of doubt, every lingering fear, every bit of self-control. He claims all of it, his grip on my hips bordering on pain, his cock thick and unyielding, his eyes a predator’s gaze drinking in the sight of me.

I’m shaking, barely holding myself together, but he’s unrelenting.

“More,” he says.

I can’t say no.

I don’t want to say no.

This is what I need—the connection, the choice, the freedom to surrender. To let him own me for these moments when everything else falls away.

He has us change again, putting me on my knees this time, face-first into the pillows. He grabs a fistful of my hair, tugging my head back, and fucks me from behind.

It’s rough and brutal and beautiful. “You feel amazing,” he rasps, slamming into me.

He releases my hair, and one hand slides down my spine. His palm presses between my shoulder blades, holding me down. His other hand cups my ass, his grip rough.

I can’t move, can’t think, can’t breathe.

“Come for me.”

It’s an order, and I can’t do anything but obey.

“Yes.” His voice is hoarse. “Let me feel you.”

An orgasm rips through me with the force of a freight train, and I cry out, shuddering. His hands tighten, and I can feel him pulse inside me. He moves faster, and I ride the wave.

His hands grab me, yanking me back onto his chest, roaring his release, every muscle locking tight while he empties himself into me.

We stay there for a minute, both panting and sweaty, before he carefully lowers us both onto the mattress. He rolls onto his back, one hand resting on his chest while the other settles possessively on my thigh.

“Fuck,” he breathes, sounding almost surprised. “This was worth the wait.”

We stay like that for a long time, my head on his chest, spent, satisfied. Eventually, he pulls a blanket up over my body, and I drift off to a heavy, dreamless sleep.

27

LET YOUR HUSBAND TAKE CARE OF BREAKFAST. (ALEKSANDER)

For one disoriented second after I wake, I’m still inside last night. Tamara’s mouth under mine. Her hands on my skin. The way she said my name like she had not meant to give me anything and had given it anyway.