Page 8 of Dirty Mafia King

Sinful, like he’d make you come in unimaginably inventive ways, at his command, at his mercy, before slitting your throat and burying you in his backyard. Women all over the world have likely sacrificed their bodies for the thrill of his wicked presence.

Our eyes connect.

Blue—his eyes are blue. I was wrong.

Wrong to believe I could spy on a man of his ilk and get out alive.

“What the fuck do we have here?”

Blue eyes narrow. Heartless. Cruel.

I flush from toes to head.

He notices, his gaze shifting from my kitten heels to the top button of my pink dress, to my anxious expression. His eyebrows pinch, and he shakes his head. Like he didn’t expect someone like me to be spying on someone like him.

His massive form looms over my smaller one.

Alarm bells ring in my mind, too late to do any good. Isn’t there a hidden alcove or a hole in the hall floor, anywhere that can swallow me up—before he devours me whole?

“You get off being a kinky little voyeur?”

His husky tone wraps around my core like the lick of his flogger. Everything inside me quivers.

“Answer me.”

My response gets trapped inside my throat. With enormous willpower, three words finally slip out. “I … um … sorry.”

He pokes a finger onto the pearl button between my breasts, and I nearly drop the bucket. With slow, calculated movements, he continues the journey upward, tapping each pearl like he’s keeping count until he reaches the top button. Round and round he goes, rolling the pearl between his fingers, briefly, before plucking it free from the material and tossing it over his shoulder.

My breath catches, but he ignores my surprise, drawing his finger upward across my throat to rest beneath my chin. I’m startled by his actions and my reaction. Captured and enraptured by his presence.

With a steel-like push, he angles my chin up. Forcing me to look at him once again.

“Dressed for church, yet at my door, spying.”

This is what a tornado feels like, wild and surreal, destructive and deadly. I’m trapped, and spiraling, round and round.

“How old are you?”

“Twenty,” I murmur.

“Twenty,” he repeats, like it’s his least favorite number. AVmars his forehead as he considers me.

I blush beneath his intense scrutiny, and at the vivid memory of his otherV. My gaze falters, and then drops.

Holy sweet Mary. If I make an upside-down peace sign, I can trace it with my fingers. No, you can’t …won’t. No. No. No. My eyes snap up to reconnect with his.

“You like what you see?” He smirks.

No, no, no, no, no.

Yes, hell yes.

I swallow hard.

“I respect honesty above all else, so be careful how you answer.” His tone is honey, his words fire. “You a little perv who gets her thrills from watching me?”

How do I answer? How can I explain? Swallowing hard, I decide on the simple truth. “I think so.”