Page 75 of Double Trouble for the Mafia Prince

The way his breath stutters against my neck, how his rhythm falters just slightly, growing erratic, deeper, more urgent.

His grip on my hips tightens, fingers digging into the flesh like he needs to anchor himself before he completely unravels.

My legs are shaking, still locked around his waist, drawing him in with every thrust.

"Gianna," he pants, voice shredded. "I can’t—God, I can’t stop?—"

"Don’t," I whisper back, nails raking across the sweat-slicked muscle of his back. "Don’t stop. I want you to finish inside me."

His groan is guttural, pulled from somewhere so raw it punches straight through my spine.

His hips slam into mine once, twice, harder now, rougher.

I can feel him swelling thick and deep within me, the strain in his shoulders, the tremble in his thighs.

He’s right there.

So am I.

It’s all heat and friction and that unbearable build rising again, a second crest coming faster than I expected.

He grabs the back of my thigh and drives in deeper, burying himself completely.

My body clenches around him again, helpless, breath caught in my throat as the pressure inside me breaks open.

I fall apart under him, moaning low and shattered, thighs shaking, toes curling.

And in the middle of my release flooding out, coating his cock, he curses hard, one sharp word against my skin as his hips jerk once more.

Then he holds.

Buried deep.

His entire body locked.

And I feel his release, hot and pulsing, spilling into me in thick waves, each contraction dragging a low groan from his chest.

He stays pressed against me, chest heaving, head dropped into the crook of my neck, his arms wrapped tight like he’s afraid I’ll vanish the second he lets go.

His breath is uneven, lashes damp against my collarbone.

My breath slows against the edge of his neck, skin still flushed and damp.

His hand is a steady weight on my hip, fingers stroking the curve in soft, absent-minded patterns.

I shift a little, and he murmurs something into my hair that sounds like satisfaction and apology wrapped in one wordless breath.

I’m still sore, my thighs trembling faintly.

He must feel it too, because he brushes his lips over my temple and slips away with a low groan, pulling on his pants without looking at me.

He lifts me up gently, carrying me to the bed and laying me down.

It's not as if I need this aftercare, but I can admit it feels pretty damn great.

"I’ll be back," he says, raking a hand through his hair. "Don’t fall asleep."

"What, planning to throw me into another wall?" I mumble, curling into the sheets.