Page 72 of Mafia King's Broken Vow

Staring at her, I’m a ball of tense desire, measuring her need. Then I grab her suddenly and flip her over. A surprised gasp escapes her. Her hips are in the air, and I can’t resist but slap her cheek hard.

Before she can react, I plunge into her mercilessly, leaning over her and pushing her down on her elbows, granting me deeper access. She cries out, from the slap or from the sudden assault, but she comes instantly, pulsing around my cock, almost sending me over the edge. I still, willing myself to maintain control.

“You like it when I manhandle you,” I grind out as I start thrusting into her. She’s tight, and the sound that emerges from her lips has a tinge of pain. I slow my pace and pause, allowing her time to adjust. As we stay frozen in this moment, she looks back at me, and our gazes lock.

“Mila, I want you to come again,” I hiss through clenched teeth, resuming my strokes, and her body soon responds, convulsing around me in another climax. I cover her mouth with my hand; we can’t afford to be too loud; or the guards might come to check on the noise.

Feeling my orgasm build too soon, I withdraw and flip her onto her back, trying to hold out longer.

“Look at me,” I demand as I line up my cock up with her entrance. “I want your eyes on me when I claim you.” She obeys, lifting her gaze to mine, and I sink into her in one powerful thrust that pulls out a muffled cry from her.

Then her hands grip my shoulders, her nails digging into my skin desperately.

“More,” she pants loudly. “I can’t get enough of you, Yakov. Harder.” Her eyes drop to where our bodies are connecting. “Look at what you’re doing to me,” she whimpers, locked in on the sight.

With a low rumble of pure lust, I follow her sight, then withdraw and slam inside her again. She takes me willingly, without hesitation, her lips parted in ecstasy as the last remnants of pain melt into pleasure, her hips rocking while I’m buried deep.

She feels hot and wet, a perfect fit, as if her body has been made for mine. I drive into her with steady strokes that are too desperate to build anything resembling rhythm or technique, and I find myself unable to look away from her face, the tiny furrow between her brows, the parted lips, the sheen of sweat across her face.

Each thrust of my hips brings new sounds from her throat, moans and sighs and gasps that coax me higher until I’m on the edge, my vision blurring, my breath ragged and unsteady.

“Come for me,” I command. “Now.”

And she obeys.

Her muscles tighten around me, the spasms milking me deeper until, with a wordless groan, I find my own release. The orgasm stretches on, and her name is on my lips as I empty into her, the intensity, rightness and relief of this moment almost more than I can bear.

“Mila,” I gasp, shuddering against her, clinging to her like a drowning man grasping at a life preserver.

The orgasm leaves us both drained, her heartbeat thundering against my chest where we’re still entwined. After a few moments, I roll to the side, pulling her against me. We lie together in silence, the weight of what just happened settling between us.

I should feel satisfied. In control. I got what I wanted—her surrender, her trust, her body yielding to mine.

Instead, I feel something I didn’t expect. Something that resembles…contentment. And that’s dangerous.

Mila shifts in my arms, her head finding the hollow of my shoulder. Her fingers trace idle patterns on my chest, and I observe the movement with more attention than it deserves.

“What are you thinking?” she asks, voice still rough.

I consider the question, weighing how much truth to give her. Too much honesty is a weapon she could use against me later. Too little, and she’ll sense the lie.

“That this complicates things,” I say finally.

She stills against me. Not the answer she was hoping for, clearly.

“You could say that.” She chuckles, the sound muffled in my chest.

“You leave tomorrow. I have to stay here.” I keep my voice level, matter-of-fact. “The dynamic changes.”

“It doesn’t have to.”

I almost smile at her naivety. “It already has.” I brush a strand of hair from her face, the gesture too tender. “This was inevitable from the moment you walked into that therapy room. We both knew it.”

She studies my face in the dim light, looking for the lie I’m not telling. “What happens now?”

“Now you go back to your apartment. Resume treating other patients. And I continue my rehabilitation here.”

“Just like that?”