Page 7
Story: Mafia Maiden
“You always smell like flowers,” he murmurs. “Do you do that on purpose?”
“No.”
“You should,” he says. “Because it drives me out of my mind.”
His hand slides down again—over my hip, along the curve of my thigh. He stops just beneath the hem of my slip. My breath hitches, but I don’t pull away.
“Why haven’t you touched me since our wedding night? Don’t you want me?” I ask, my voice quieter than I mean for it to be.
His jaw tightens. “Because I told myself I would let you come to me. That I’d be the patient man who waits.”
“And now?”
His eyes darken. “Now I’m not sure I can wait another fucking second.”
He pins me to the stone wall with his body, not roughly—but completely. One hand braces beside my head, the other cups myjaw, tilting my face toward his. His lips are so close I can feel the heat of them brush my own.
“I’ve been good,” he whispers. “I haven’t touched you I wasn’t going to unless you begged. Haven’t kissed you and wouldn’t unless you opened for me. I haven’t taken what I want.”
His voice drops lower.
“You think I want to beg? You think I want to wonder why my husband doesn’t want me?”
His hand slides higher beneath the slip. His fingers find the damp heat between my thighs, and I gasp.
“You came out here like this,” he growls, “wearing this—barefoot and needy—on purpose, hoping I’d find you.”
“Yes,” I breathe.
That single word shatters whatever self-control he had left. His mouth crashes down on mine.
It’s not gentle. It’s fire and force and hunger.
I open for him, kissing him back with everything I’ve been bottling up for days. My hands tangle in his shirt, fingers clawing at the fabric, pulling him closer.
He lifts me like I weigh nothing, pinning me to the wall. My legs wrap around his waist instinctively. He grinds against me, hard and thick through his pants, and I moan into his mouth.
“You want me to stop?” he asks, voice rough, raw, torn.
“No,” I gasp. “Don’t stop.”
He lowers me just enough to rip the slip over my head and toss it to the stone bench behind us. My panties are gone a second later—torn away with a sharp tug that makes my skin shiver.
He doesn’t hesitate.
He drops to his knees in front of me and drags his tongue over my pussy like he’s starving for it. I cry out, my hips jerking against his mouth, my hands fisting in his hair.
He moans low against me, the sound vibrating straight through my core.
“You taste like heaven,” he mutters. “Sweet. Soaked. Mine.”
He laps at me with slow, devastating licks—one hand spreading me wider, the other gripping my thigh. He doesn’t let up until I’m shaking, legs trembling, back arching against the wall as I come on his face.
He still doesn’t stop.
He devours. He worships.
When I come again, it’s with a helpless cry, my fingers digging into his shoulders, my whole body unraveling for him.
“No.”
“You should,” he says. “Because it drives me out of my mind.”
His hand slides down again—over my hip, along the curve of my thigh. He stops just beneath the hem of my slip. My breath hitches, but I don’t pull away.
“Why haven’t you touched me since our wedding night? Don’t you want me?” I ask, my voice quieter than I mean for it to be.
His jaw tightens. “Because I told myself I would let you come to me. That I’d be the patient man who waits.”
“And now?”
His eyes darken. “Now I’m not sure I can wait another fucking second.”
He pins me to the stone wall with his body, not roughly—but completely. One hand braces beside my head, the other cups myjaw, tilting my face toward his. His lips are so close I can feel the heat of them brush my own.
“I’ve been good,” he whispers. “I haven’t touched you I wasn’t going to unless you begged. Haven’t kissed you and wouldn’t unless you opened for me. I haven’t taken what I want.”
His voice drops lower.
“You think I want to beg? You think I want to wonder why my husband doesn’t want me?”
His hand slides higher beneath the slip. His fingers find the damp heat between my thighs, and I gasp.
“You came out here like this,” he growls, “wearing this—barefoot and needy—on purpose, hoping I’d find you.”
“Yes,” I breathe.
That single word shatters whatever self-control he had left. His mouth crashes down on mine.
It’s not gentle. It’s fire and force and hunger.
I open for him, kissing him back with everything I’ve been bottling up for days. My hands tangle in his shirt, fingers clawing at the fabric, pulling him closer.
He lifts me like I weigh nothing, pinning me to the wall. My legs wrap around his waist instinctively. He grinds against me, hard and thick through his pants, and I moan into his mouth.
“You want me to stop?” he asks, voice rough, raw, torn.
“No,” I gasp. “Don’t stop.”
He lowers me just enough to rip the slip over my head and toss it to the stone bench behind us. My panties are gone a second later—torn away with a sharp tug that makes my skin shiver.
He doesn’t hesitate.
He drops to his knees in front of me and drags his tongue over my pussy like he’s starving for it. I cry out, my hips jerking against his mouth, my hands fisting in his hair.
He moans low against me, the sound vibrating straight through my core.
“You taste like heaven,” he mutters. “Sweet. Soaked. Mine.”
He laps at me with slow, devastating licks—one hand spreading me wider, the other gripping my thigh. He doesn’t let up until I’m shaking, legs trembling, back arching against the wall as I come on his face.
He still doesn’t stop.
He devours. He worships.
When I come again, it’s with a helpless cry, my fingers digging into his shoulders, my whole body unraveling for him.