Page 72 of Double Trouble for the Mafia Prince

She kisses my stomach first.

Just there.

Just beneath my navel.

Her lips are hot.

Her breath hits my skin and I feel myself twitch harder, already half undone from the sound of her voice alone.

Then her fingers reach for the waistband of my slacks, tugging them lower with the grace of someone who has waited far too long to pretend at patience.

I groan low when she wraps her hand around me.

Firm, smooth, perfect.

"You like to talk," she says, dragging her mouth down the line of my hip. "Let’s see how quiet I can make you."

Then her lips part, and she takes me in.

God.

My head falls back against the floor.

My eyes close.

And for a moment, I forget my name.

Her mouth is hot, wet, and perfect.

She moves slowly, not teasing but commanding, using her tongue with skill I never should have fantasized about, because now that it’s real, I don’t know how to hold still.

One hand wraps around the base of me, twisting gently as she takes more, deeper, her breath humming around me.

The sound, the warmth, the rhythm—every part of me strains toward her like gravity gave up pretending it had rules.

I grip the carpet.

I lift my hips, and she doesn’t stop me.

She encourages it, moans around me, eyes flicking up once and catching mine.

It’s that look that nearly ends me.

The power in it.

The hunger.

She’s not just giving me head.

She’s staking a claim.

"You feel good," she says between strokes, her lips brushing my tip as her hand pumps slow. "But you already know that, don’t you?"

I can’t answer.

I don’t trust myself to speak.

So, I groan, reaching down to thread my fingers through her hair, guiding her gently, just enough to show her I’m not completely lost.