Page 91 of Double Trouble for the Mafia Prince

Her eyes burn into mine.

"You’re sick."

I press my body over hers, hips locked against the heat I can feel through her ruined underwear.

"And yet you didn’t leave. You waited for me."

"I hate you."

"You hate how much you still want me."

I let go of her wrists, and she doesn’t move.

Not even when I slide my fingers beneath the thin lace and rip it off completely.

Her breath catches.

Her legs twitch.

But she still doesn’t tell me to stop.

"Say the word," I whisper into the crook of her neck, dragging my teeth across her skin. "Say it, and I’ll walk out that door."

Her nails dig into my shoulders instead.

She lifts her hips into mine.

I grab her knees and push them open, settling between her thighs like I was always meant to be there.

She’s flushed and angry and ready to kill me, and it only makes me harder.

"You can scream all you want," I say, rubbing the head of my cock against her. "But your body’s already begging."

And then I take her.

There’s no patience in it.

No hesitation.

I thrust into her with all the tension of the past week snapping loose.

She gasps, arches, claws at my back like she’s trying to punish me with pleasure.

Her teeth find my shoulder.

I thrust harder.

Every movement is rough, claiming, the air thick with her moans and the sharp thud of the headboard against the wall.

She wraps her legs around my waist and drags me deeper.

Her nails tear at my sides.

Her mouth crushes into mine.

She’s writhing under me, her thighs locked tight around my hips, slick and trembling with every grinding thrust.

Her breath is a mess of shallow pants and sharp gasps, rising high in her throat like she’s trying not to make a sound, but I hear every wet moan that slips through when I drag my cock deep and hold it there, grinding into the spot that makes her break.