Page 6 of Dirty Mafia Sinner

“Wait,” I protest, reality crashing in. Oh God. He’s binding my wrists. What was I thinking, relinquishing control to a complete stranger?

He nudges a thigh between mine, spreading them. “Stop fighting what we both want.”

“And what’s that?” I squeak.

“Your surrender.”

He rips off my thong and pushes two fingers inside me. My walls clamp around them like a vise grip. “Wet, just like I thought.” He finger-fucks me without mercy, and I stretch to accommodate him, feeling deliciously wicked despite the sting.

“I wasn’t expecting this sweet pussy to be so fucking tight.” He scrapes my earlobe between his teeth and then softens the bite with a lick.

There’s a rustle behind me, then foil crackling.

I brace myself as he slides his cock across my slit. Everything stills except for my shaking body. He hooks an arm around me, and I jerk in surprise when he pinches a nipple. “Shhh,” his silky hush warns. “Let me play.” He cups my breast in his palm like he’s weighing it, and his erection thickens against my center. Pain mixes with pleasure, his touch rough and then gentle while he pinches and strokes one nipple and then the other.

“Cazzo, I’m tempted to fuck your beautiful breasts right here on the floor.”

Warmth gathers at my core, and I bite my lip, wondering if he can feel my excitement, but then stop thinking altogether when his hand slides down my stomach. His fingers glide across my clit and I buck beneath his firm touch.

He laughs. “That’s right. Beg me for it.”

“Please …”

“Please what?” he demands, not quite serious, not quite friendly. “Say it.”

“Make me submit.”

Everything stills. He thought I was going to say, “Fuck me.” It’s obvious I’ve surprised him.

“You’re goddamn perfect,” he mutters like he’s struggling to believe it. Like I’m not the only one who’s lost her mind.

He wraps his fingers around my throat, then squeezes and shoves his cock so hard into me, I’m forced up onto my toes.

I struggle for balance and breath, and to accommodate his enormous size. Because he’shuge. And I’m practically a virgin. My one fumbling boyfriend was more an experiment than my forever person.

His arm pushes into my stomach, and he holds me in place while he slowly withdraws, only to thrust into me one more. I see stars. From the controlled press of his fingers or from the forceful fucking I’m taking, it’s hard to know.

“You won’t walk straight for weeks when I’m done with you.” His dirty promise echoes around the kitchen.

“Go on, then,” I recklessly insist. “Make me crawl.”

A long pause follows. Clearly, I’ve surprised him once more. Then he mutters, “Fucking perfect,” and proceeds to live up to his naughty promise.

He fucks me like it’s a religious experience, cursing and grunting and groaning against my neck. Months of nothingness unravels into aching need. I’ve never felt this full, this worshipped. And, although I’ve never orgasmed from sex—aside from my own experimental touches—my body responds like it was custom-made for him.

The hand at my throat drops to my breast, and as he rolls his palm over it, I swear his erection thickens deep inside me.

My body begins to shake. “Oh my God,” I chant. “Oh. My. God.”

“Come before I say you can”—he pinches my breast in warning—“and I’ll spank you until your ass burns.”

I whimper; failure is likely. I’ve been spiraling all night, invited a stranger home for sex and let him bind my arms and choke me. My self-control is just another broken part of me.

“Christ’s sake, not like this.” Withdrawing, he lifts me by the hips and spins me around, before settling me against the door and himself back inside me.

My elbows brush the trim.

“Wrap your thighs around my waist.”