Page 56 of Ruined By the Mafia Kings (Alpha Mafia Kings #1)

“That’s it,” he murmured against my lips, his voice strained as his knot reached full size, locking us together with perfect connection. “Take all of me.”

The pressure against my already sensitive nerves sent aftershocks of pleasure rippling through me, smaller waves following the tsunami of my orgasm.

For a heartbeat, we shared the same air—his breath coming in harsh pants against my lips, his eyes still holding mine with an intensity that made my spent body shiver.

“Perfect,” he murmured, pressing his lips to my forehead with such tenderness that tears pricked at my eyes. How could the same man who’d probably dismembered enemies have such gentle hands? How could a mafia enforcer look at me like I was something precious? “So perfect for us.”

I should have had a snappy comeback ready, something about omega biology or his questionable taste in breeding partners, but all I could manage was a shaky exhale as his knot finally subsided enough for him to carefully withdraw.

The sudden emptiness made me whimper, my body clenching around nothing, already missing the fullness of his knot.

Before I could recover any semblance of dignity, strong hands were turning me.

Mr. Storm arranged me on my side, his powerful body curling around mine from behind.

The contrast between his lethal reputation and the way he cradled me against his chest made my heart stutter.

These hands had likely ended lives, yet they touched me with extreme care.

“My turn,” he rumbled against my ear, his voice deep and commanding.

His cock pressed against my entrance, thicker than I remembered, the blunt head stretching me open as he pushed forward. Unlike Mr. Enigma’s careful entry, Mr. Storm claimed me with one powerful thrust that punched the air from my lungs and made my vision blur momentarily.

“F-fuck—” I choked out, my body jerking against his hold. His arm tightened around my waist, anchoring me as he buried himself to the hilt in one savage movement that made me feel completely filled.

“Too much?” His voice strained with the effort of holding still, his muscles trembling against my back with obvious restraint.

“N-not—” I struggled to form words, my brain short-circuiting from the overwhelming fullness. “More… please…”

The sound he made—half growl, half purr—vibrated through my entire body.

His hips pulled back slowly, dragging his length along oversensitive nerves before snapping forward with enough force to jolt me forward.

Each thrust was punctuated by the obscene sound of skin slapping against skin, of my slick squelching around his cock.

Mr. Iceflare moved into my line of sight, his ice-blue eyes burning with an intensity that made my stomach clench. Those eyes had likely watched the light fade from countless enemies, had calculated the demise of rival families without remorse—yet now they traced my face with something like wonder.

He reached between us, wrapping one large hand around my cock, which was somehow hard again despite having just experienced what felt like a life-altering orgasm.

His palm engulfed me completely, the calluses on his hand evidence of a life spent dealing violence, now creating pleasure that bordered on pain.

“Look at you,” he murmured, his voice rougher than I’d ever heard it. “Taking him so perfectly. Made for us.”

My back arched as Mr. Storm hit something inside me that sent white-hot pleasure shooting up my spine. “N-not made for—” I tried to protest, but another brutal thrust cut my words into a broken moan. “Just—biology?—”

Mr. Storm’s laugh, an actual laugh, vibrated against my neck, the sound so unexpected it momentarily distracted me from the relentless pounding of his hips.

It was remarkably rare from him. “Still fighting,” he said, his free hand sliding up to grip my throat—not squeezing, just holding, a reminder of his strength. “Strong.”

“Stubborn,” Mr. Iceflare corrected, though his eyes held something that made my chest ache. This close, I could see the tiny scar bisecting his right eyebrow, the faint lines at the corners of his eyes—humanizing details on a man who’d built an empire on blood and fear. “Willful. Perfect.”

Their praise hit harder than their hands ever could, finding cracks in my defenses I hadn’t known existed. How could men who’d orchestrated violence I couldn’t even imagine look at me with such… reverence? It was deeply confusing and made me question everything I thought I knew about them.

“I don’t—” My voice broke as Mr. Storm’s cock dragged across that spot inside me again, making my toes curl and my vision blur. “Don’t know how… to do this…”

Mr. Storm’s teeth scraped over my scent gland, his thrusts never faltering. “Do what?” he demanded, the words hot against my skin.

“Feel this—” Each word punched out of me with his thrusts, my thoughts scattered and disjointed. “You’re fucking… mafia killers?—”

“Yet here you are,” Mr. Storm growled, his grip tightening as his pace became punishing. My body jolted with each impact, caught between his brutal rhythm and Mr. Iceflare’s merciless strokes. “Taking us. Wanting us.”

“Choosing us,” Mr. Iceflare added, his gaze burning into mine as his hand twisted on the upstroke, making my vision white out momentarily. “Despite knowing exactly what we are.”

That was the terrifying truth, wasn’t it?

I knew what they were—had pieced together enough from overheard conversations and De Luca’s not-so-subtle warnings.

These weren’t misunderstood antiheroes from a romance novel with troubled pasts and hearts of gold.

They were killers, criminals, men who’d built empires on suffering and fear.

The kind of men who probably had “make enemies disappear” penciled into their weekly calendars between “arms deal” and “intimidate local businesses.”

Yet here I was, arching into their touch with eager need, begging for more, crying out their names like prayers. My judgment had completely abandoned me, replaced by desperate desire.

My second climax blindsided me completely, crashing through my body with such force that my vision actually darkened at the edges.

A broken wail tore from my throat as my cock pulsed in Mr. Iceflare’s grip, painting my stomach with streaks of white.

My inner muscles clamped down on Mr. Storm’s length with brutal force, spasming around him as wave after wave of pleasure crashed through me.

Mr. Iceflare’s release joined mine moments later, hot spurts landing on my already soaked skin as his jaw clenched, the tendons in his neck standing out sharply.

The sight of this powerful alpha coming undone because of me sent another aftershock of pleasure through my system, my spent body twitching.

Mr. Storm’s rhythm turned erratic, his breathing harsh against my neck as his hips slammed forward one final time with enough force to make the bed frame protest with an ominous creak.

I felt his cock pulse inside me, flooding me with his release as a guttural sound rumbled from his chest. Then came the distinctive pressure of his knot beginning to swell, stretching my already sensitive rim to the point where pleasure and pain blended inseparably.

“Fuck—” I gasped, my body instinctively trying to pull away from the intensity.

“Shhh,” he soothed, his hand moving from my throat to stroke my hair, the gentleness of the gesture a stark contrast to the primal claiming of his knot. “I’ve got you. We’ve got you.”

The pressure increased as his knot reached its full size, locking us together in the most intimate way possible.

The stretch burned intensely, but beneath the pain lay a profound satisfaction that resonated deep in my omega biology.

This—being filled, claimed, knotted—was what my body had been craving all along, even when my mind had been fighting against it.

For several heartbeats, we remained frozen in tableau—my body sandwiched between theirs, all of us panting, sweat-dampened and trembling. Mr. Storm’s arms held me secure against his chest while Mr. Iceflare’s forehead pressed against mine, our breath mingling in the small space between us.

A tear slid down my cheek, then another, the emotional overload finally finding physical release. Great. Now I was crying during sex.

“You’re crying,” Mr. Iceflare murmured, his thumb—the same thumb that had probably pressed against a trigger countless times—gently wiping away the moisture with unexpected tenderness.

“It’s just… biology,” I managed, my voice wrecked from screaming. “Hormones and… stuff.”

His smile was soft, transforming his face from dangerous predator to something almost boyish. “Liar,” he said, but the accusation held no heat.

When Mr. Storm’s knot finally subsided enough for him to withdraw, I felt hollowed out—not just physically but emotionally, completely exposed. The sudden emptiness after being so thoroughly filled made me whimper, my body clenching around nothing with desperate need.

Before I could recover any semblance of dignity, Mr. Iceflare was moving me again, arranging me on my back with a casual strength that made my omega hindbrain purr with approval.

The mattress dipped as Mr. Enigma and Mr. Storm positioned themselves around us—one at my head, one at my side—creating a fortress of alpha muscle and heat.

Mr. Iceflare’s cock pressed against my entrance, the blunt head noticeably thicker than the others. I had a moment to wonder if I could actually take him after already being so thoroughly used, when he thrust forward in one powerful movement that had my back arching clean off the bed.