Page 11 of Oops Baby for the Mafia Boss

“I don’t have a mate mark.” I’m panting, almost incoherent. “Because you’re not my mate.”

Rovaj is my enemy, he can’t be my mate.

I’d know, wouldn’t I?

But this fae world I’ve stumbled into has far deeper magic than I understand.

“You think I’m not your mate?” Rovaj draws our hands down, dragging his tunic further open and revealing a pulsing mark on his chest, black lines in swirls that seem to get darker with every beat of my heart.

The audiobook narrator’s voice has gone soft and breathy. Sweeping his hands over my body, Markov gives a groan and pulls me close. I gasp as the outline of his cock presses into my tummy. Then he lifts me onto my desk, his thigh immediately pushing my knees apart.

“This is the mate mark you put on me, Solene. For now, it’s only here when our skin makes contact. But the more we touch, the more permanent it is. Where’s yours?”

“I’m not telling you.” I’m so childish.

His hands move slowly, teasingly. Rovaj hums against my throat. “When I find it, I’m going to lick every line. I’ve been longing to taste you.”

I shudder with desire.

“Everywhere,” he says, sounding undone. “Your mate mark, but all the rest too. Particularly between your legs.”

He pushes my pants from my hips, and I don’t object. I just keep staring at that delicate black pattern, marvelling at the way it responds to my touch.

Markov’s fingers bunch up my sensible grey skirt, and I’m panting with desire. And when he drags down my knickers, I let him, despite the tremor of fear that the mark on my thigh will disgust him.

I’m somehow hyperaware of his skin on mine and also observing from outside of myself. I think I’d go along with anything this man did, whatever the risk.

Rovaj slides down the sleeping mats, rucking up the blankets and settling his wide shoulders over my hips.

Watching my face intently, Markov kneels, nudging my legs wider to accommodate his big body. Then his gaze dips to where he’s bared me, white cotton knickers dangling off the toe of one foot.

Anxiety grips my throat.

“There it is,” he says reverently, smoothing his palm over the black lines on my thigh. My inner thigh. “So pretty with my marks.”

High on my leg is a Café au lait mark the size of a coin. Light-brown, like a wash of spilt milky coffee on my skin. The girls inmy hometown used to call me dirty and lazy that I didn’t clean it off.

I’m frozen, watching Markov’s face for his response.

His mouth goes slack as he examines my open pussy, that birthmark, and the creamy skin around it with hooded eyes.

A quick glance up, then he drags his full lips from my knee to between my legs, slowing over the birthmark to press a kiss into that spot. He makes a raw, hoarse sound from the back of his throat, his tongue slipping over my sensitised skin.

A shiver of excitement goes up my spine.

The first press of Rovaj’s mouth is so unexpected, I jump.

He chuckles, and continues. His beard—from many days of travel—rubs over the pulsing patterns. He flicks out his tongue and I nearly scream, clapping my hand over my mouth.

Markov is peppering the area around my pussy lips with kisses that trail inwards, until his tongue sweeps over my folds and flares pleasure right into me.

At the back of my mind there’s shock that he isn’t disgusted by the birthmark, but I can’t focus on anything but Markov. My body is vibrating with a craving I’ve never felt before. I don’t know where to put my hands, and my torso is disintegrating like I’m made of sugar and Markov is licking it all up.

“I’m starving for you. So sweet, so unbelievably delicious.”

Markov makes a contented purring sound that I feel more than hear, then he covers my pussy with his mouth and thrusts his tongue right into my passage. I squeak, and he does it again, but harder, with a harsh groan. His top lip rubs over my clit and I’m trembling, on the edge of orgasm already.

“You’re soaking wet for me, mate, and I love your taste.”