Page 71 of Double Trouble for the Mafia Prince

I trail my mouth higher, pulling her legs over my shoulders as I press my tongue to the lace between her legs, wet already, sweet and unbearably soft.

She shudders, her fingers clenching.

"Dante," she whispers, and the sound of it, that voice shaking with need, is enough to make me lose what little control I have left.

I slide her panties aside and taste her, slow at first, the tip of my tongue circling where she’s swollen.

She moans, low and quiet, hips shifting in search of more pressure.

I give it to her.

My mouth lingers, then sucks, then flicks.

I tease.

I learn.

I listen to the way her breath changes and the way her thighs tighten, and I adjust until she’s trembling around me, hand fisted on the back of my head like she doesn’t know whether to pull me closer or push me away.

"You think this changes anything?" she breathes, voice high and broken.

"I think it already has," I growl, adding my fingers now, sliding one in, then another, feeling her stretch around me, her body greedy for it.

Her back arches as I curl my fingers just right, and I feel the shiver start from her knees and shoot up through her core.

"You’re a bastard," she says, and then gasps as I suck her clit again, harder this time. "You’re going to ruin me."

"Not ruin," I whisper into her. "Remind."

And then she comes with her mouth open and my name ripped out of her, her hips bucking, thighs trembling against my shoulders.

I feel it everywhere—on my tongue, in my chest, in the deep part of me that has never once known restraint when it comes to her.

I keep my mouth on her, soft now, coaxing the last wave out of her until her breath comes in slow, uneven pulls and her hands go limp in my hair.

But just as I begin to lift my head, thinking she’ll collapse into me, let me gather her up and carry her to the bed like a man who knows how to care for what he’s ruined—she moves.

Fast.

She exhales something close to a laugh, not mocking but dark with need, and grabs me by the collar of my open shirt. "You think you get to leave me like that?" she whispers, voice rough, pupils blown wide. "Get on the floor."

It isn’t a request.

It’s not even a threat.

It’s a shift in gravity.

She pushes, and I go, back hitting the rug with a dull thud.

I don’t complain, in fact, I can hardly speak.

I just look up at her, half-wild in just her bra, her cheeks still flushed, her thighs glistening.

She climbs over me, slow, settling between my legs and dragging her nails down the planes of my chest as if she’s memorizing every inch.

"I’ve had dreams about this," she says, almost to herself, almost accusing, like I owe her more than what I gave her.

“Five years, Dante. You have no idea how many nights I wanted to hate you and couldn’t."