Page 71 of Mafia King's Broken Vow

My hand trails lower, seeking the source of the heat I can feel radiating against my palm.

“Good. Because I want nothing between us.”

Her lace panties are damp when I slide my fingertips under the delicate material. Finally reaching her entrance, I swirl around her tight hole, letting her juices coat me. She gasps as I brush her clit, pressing into me, desperate for more contact.

“I can’t wait to feel you squeeze my cock,” I snarl, trailing kisses down her neck, along her collarbone, inhaling her scent mixed with her arousal. As I circle her clit again, there’s a fresh surge of wetness against my fingers.

“More.”

She gives another breathy gasp as I stroke her, her eyes meeting mine in silent appeal. The power I feel at that moment is headier than any rush I’ve experienced.

“Please,” she begs, arching into my hand, seeking release.

“Patience,” I reprimand, hooking my hands behind her thighs to lift her, pressing her firmly against the wall with my body, her legs wrapping instinctively around my waist.

“Yakov.” Her voice is lower than before, roughened by desire.

I could have her right here. We both need the release like our next breath. But I want to savor her, extend this moment for as long as possible. I claim her lips once more, hard and fast and desperate. She presses back against me, her tongue probing into my mouth, seeking a closeness that threatens to obliterate any shred of remaining restraint.

“Tell me you’re mine,” I growl, grinding against her to relieve some of the pressure, willing myself to remember the dangers facing us. “And I will give you exactly what you need.”

Her answer comes in the form of two small hands gripping my face, her dark eyes wild with lust and certainty. “Yes, only yours. I’m yours. Now fuck me. Please.”

“Begging for me so soon,” I murmur, moving my fingers tantalizingly slow, grazing the slick folds of her pussy, her hips grinding shamelessly against my hand. Just a bit higher, and—there—I got her, the sensitive spot just above her entrance. I’m rewarded with a sharp intake of breath, followed by a moan as I use slow, steady circles to coax her need higher.

“God,” she breathes, words coming between heavy breaths, her hands gripping my shoulders so hard I wouldn’t be surprised to find bruises later. “More.”

I give her exactly what she asks for, finding her entrance and sliding two fingers deep inside. She’s hot and impossibly tight, her entire body tensing as she adjusts to the pressure.

“Like that?” I tease, relishing the power of this moment.

In response, she rises and lowers herself onto my hand, using my solid grip to create leverage, a rhythm all her own. When she does it again, I press a finger against her clit, maintaining the rhythm she’s set, kissing and nipping at her mouth, her neck, anything within reach. I can already feel the building tightness, can feel the first spasms of impending orgasm.

She increases the pace, moans now escaping with every breath. In response, I put more pressure on her clit, matching her speed with my fingers.

“God,” she gasps. “I’m so?—”

That’s all she gets out before her muscles spasm, pleasure crashing over her with enough force that her nails dig sharply into my shoulder.

The sight of her orgasm threatens to send me over the edge. I breathe carefully, willing the mounting pressure inside me to hold, to wait, to fully appreciate the gift she’s just given.

When she finally comes back to herself, I pull my hand from her, waiting for her eyes to clear before offering her a taste. She watches me intently, holding my gaze as her pink tongue swirls over her juices, sending a shudder of anticipation through me. The taste seems to spur her into action because she releases my wrist and kisses me, her lips insistent. She slips her hand beneath my waistband, and I nearly lose it when her palm wraps around me.

“Jesus,” I hiss, pulse pounding, dick throbbing with need. “Just?—”

I don’t manage the full thought, but it doesn’t matter because she gives an experimental stroke, rendering speech impossible. She watches my reaction, a small smile touching her lips before her gaze flicks lower, appreciating what her touch is doing.

It’s more than I can bear.

Without releasing her, I pivot and carry her to the bed. I drop her on the mattress, then efficiently remove her shoes, peel off her jeans. I lift her up and pull the quilt and the duvet from under her, and place her back on the sheets, soaking in her gaze as I leisurely remove my pants and underwear.

“Ready for me, little doctor?”

She nods, her eyes assessing me—all of me—in one brief moment of connection. I watch her closely, waiting for signs of hesitation, of discomfort, of sudden regret. But then she gives a quiet, rough moan of desire that goes straight to my core. Slick and ready, she groans, tilting her hips in search of friction.

“How do you want me,milaya?” I demand as I stroke myself.

“Yakov, I’m begging you, please,” she mewls. “I need you inside me.”