Page 14
Story: Mafia Maiden
We don’t need to.
He slams me against the nearest wall, the stone cool against my spine. His mouth is everywhere—neck, collarbone, chest—biting, sucking, devouring.
“You’re so fucking perfect,” he pants. “Every inch of you. Mine.”
His hand slides between my legs, fingers slipping inside like they were made for me.
“You’re dripping,” he groans. “Soaked. I haven’t even fucked you yet and you’re already begging for it.”
“I need you,” I gasp, rocking against him. “I need all of you.”
“Sweetheart,” he growls, “you’re about to get it.”
He lowers me to the floor just long enough to shed his clothes—shirt gone, belt undone, slacks pushed down. His cock springs free, thick and hard, already leaking.
I lick my lips.
“You want it?” he asks, stroking himself slowly.
“Yes.”
“Then turn around.”
I do.
He presses my chest to the cold stone, hikes my leg up onto the narrow windowsill, and pushes inside me from behind with one deep, brutal thrust.
We both groan.
“Fuck, yes,” he snarls. “So tight. So fucking wet. You were made for this cock.”
He starts to move—long, hard strokes that hit deep and sure.
I moan, fingers bracing against the wall, body arching into every thrust.
“You like this?” he grits. “You like me owning you like this? Fucking you where anyone could walk in and see who you belong to?”
“Yes,” I cry. “I’m yours. Always.”
He fucks me harder, faster, the sound of skin on skin echoing through the stone hall like a prayer.
“You’re going to come for me,” he says. “Right here. Against this wall. With my name in your mouth and my cock buried so deep you’ll feel me for days.”
I fall apart for him.
With a cry that’s equal parts surrender and triumph, I come hard, pulsing around him, shaking with the force of it.
He follows with a low, vicious growl, thrusting once, twice more before spilling inside me with a curse and a promise.
“I’m never letting you go,” he breathes against my neck. “Never.”
We stay like that—panting, clinging, wrecked—for what feels like forever.
When he finally pulls back, he lifts me again, cradles me in his arms like I’m breakable, and carries me the rest of the way to the bedroom.
We don’t sleep.
We make love again—slower this time. On clean sheets. With soft kisses and rough hands and the kind of worship that makes the air feel holy.
He slams me against the nearest wall, the stone cool against my spine. His mouth is everywhere—neck, collarbone, chest—biting, sucking, devouring.
“You’re so fucking perfect,” he pants. “Every inch of you. Mine.”
His hand slides between my legs, fingers slipping inside like they were made for me.
“You’re dripping,” he groans. “Soaked. I haven’t even fucked you yet and you’re already begging for it.”
“I need you,” I gasp, rocking against him. “I need all of you.”
“Sweetheart,” he growls, “you’re about to get it.”
He lowers me to the floor just long enough to shed his clothes—shirt gone, belt undone, slacks pushed down. His cock springs free, thick and hard, already leaking.
I lick my lips.
“You want it?” he asks, stroking himself slowly.
“Yes.”
“Then turn around.”
I do.
He presses my chest to the cold stone, hikes my leg up onto the narrow windowsill, and pushes inside me from behind with one deep, brutal thrust.
We both groan.
“Fuck, yes,” he snarls. “So tight. So fucking wet. You were made for this cock.”
He starts to move—long, hard strokes that hit deep and sure.
I moan, fingers bracing against the wall, body arching into every thrust.
“You like this?” he grits. “You like me owning you like this? Fucking you where anyone could walk in and see who you belong to?”
“Yes,” I cry. “I’m yours. Always.”
He fucks me harder, faster, the sound of skin on skin echoing through the stone hall like a prayer.
“You’re going to come for me,” he says. “Right here. Against this wall. With my name in your mouth and my cock buried so deep you’ll feel me for days.”
I fall apart for him.
With a cry that’s equal parts surrender and triumph, I come hard, pulsing around him, shaking with the force of it.
He follows with a low, vicious growl, thrusting once, twice more before spilling inside me with a curse and a promise.
“I’m never letting you go,” he breathes against my neck. “Never.”
We stay like that—panting, clinging, wrecked—for what feels like forever.
When he finally pulls back, he lifts me again, cradles me in his arms like I’m breakable, and carries me the rest of the way to the bedroom.
We don’t sleep.
We make love again—slower this time. On clean sheets. With soft kisses and rough hands and the kind of worship that makes the air feel holy.