Page 49 of Ruined Vows (Borrelli Mafia #5)

He lets out a low, brutal chuckle before his hand slides between my thighs again.“You’re still so wet for me,” he murmurs. “You want my hard cock, Kitten? Beg.”

He kisses my breast, and his other hand plays with my nipple, pinching it just right, making me arch into him. I moan. His hand moves down my side and over my buttocks, and he cups my nub, hard.

And then he’s there. Thick. Hot. Hard.

I gasp when he grabs his enormous, veined cock. I’m gushing with anticipation. He lines the blunt head of his cock at my entrance, nudging right where I’m aching.

“Tell me what you want,” he says.

I thought needing someone, needing him, would be the end of the world. But now, I’m not so sure.

“Tell me what you want.”

“I want you, Wolfie. Only you.”

“I told you I’d make you mine,” he growls. He doesn’t reach for protection. And neither do I.

My heart is a hammer in my chest, but I don’t stop him. I don’t want to.

Because this—us—has never felt like a mistake.

When he pushes into my slick folds, it’s everything.

He enters me. His growl is filled with pleasure, and his hard cock pulsates inside me.

There’s no latex. No barrier. Just hot, slick friction. Skin against skin. He’s stretching me, his cock thick and bare, and he’s in so deep I swear I can feel him in my throat.

I cry out—not from pain, but from how full I feel. It’s overwhelming. It is intimate in a way I didn’t expect. A claim that makes my legs shake and my heart ache at the same time.

I’m on fire, and I’m riding a wave that will release the sexual tension that’s been building for weeks. I grip his shoulders, my nails digging into him. Pleasure wells inside me.

He’s in so deep, and I revel in it. It’s a sinful pleasure. Every inch of him inside me feels like he’s rewriting my body from the inside out.

I’ve never done this before—never let anyone have me like this. Raw. Unprotected.

But with him, it doesn’t feel reckless. It feels right— like we were meant for each other.

He groans, low and rough, and grips my hips tighter as he pulls back—then drives back into me, hard.

And I swear I can feel him everywhere.

His chest presses to mine, his mouth at my ear.

“Good girl,” he whispers, rocking into me. “Taking me so fucking well.”

Every thrust is a promise he’s not saying out loud, that I’m his. And that he’s not giving me back.

My fingers claw at his shoulders, my mouth open with breathless moans, and he keeps going—deep, rough, and relentless.

No mercy. No apology. Just him , filling me like he’s waited too long to go slow.

“You feel that?” he growls, hips grinding into mine. “That’s what you’ve been begging for.”

I nod, dizzy with him. He grabs my jaw, forcing my eyes open. “Say you’re mine.”

I moan and I’m lost.

“Say you’re mine, Princess.”

“I’m yours,” I whisper as I writhe under him .

Then, he kisses me like he’s sealing it in blood. His body is still pressed against mine, his breath is heavy at my ear, his heartbeat hammering where his chest meets mine.

It’s the only sound in the room.

That, and the way I’m still trying to remember how to breathe as he moves inside me. He’s so deep I don’t know where he ends and I begin.

He thrusts with deliberate intent, like he's savoring the claim. My mouth parts, a moan half-caught in my throat, because everything feels too much and not enough all at once. I cling to him. Our bodies are one, as if we were meant to be, our bodies fitting together perfectly.

He thrusts into me again and again. I’m greedy for more. I arch my hips as his length fills me.

“Come for me,” he murmurs.

I’m not sure if I can. Then, as if he read my mind, he says, “Come like a good girl. I want to hear my name when you come.”

I’m delirious. I climb, higher and higher. Goosebumps pepper my skin, my eyes mist, and then I shatter. I scream his name and have the most intense orgasm of my life. My nails dig into him, and I pant. Yes, pant.

“You’re not done yet,” he murmurs.

He wants more?

Of course he does.

The man is insatiable. He pulls out and flips me effortlessly, like I weigh nothing. I’m on all fours, panting. I don’t even know if it’s possible to come again. I’ve lost count.

The air is thick around us, smelling of sex. My skin is still tingling from the last wave of pleasure. He places his hand low on my back, holding me in place as he penetrates me. It’s a silent command. The kind of hold that tells me he’s in control.

He places his hand on my lower back and pulls my buttocks close to his engorged cock, which penetrates me. He thrusts into me, slowly at first, and pleasure consumes me. It’s intense, raw, and intimate.

He pounds into me, each thrust sending me closer to the edge. I find myself in a tantric state, and saliva drips from my mouth.

Then, he cups my breast, making the nipples hard. Each touch is a promise, and God help me, I want to collect them all.

He fucks me hard, my hands fist the sheets. His other hand snakes around my waist, and he massages my clit. Drool drops from my mouth.

“You take me so well,” he murmurs.

The man is insatiable. Ruthless. And right now, mine.

His pace builds deeper, and he pumps me harder until I can’t think or breathe. Until I can only feel, both hands grip my hips now, his nails dig into me, just enough pain to tell me I belong to him, because I do, and when he drives into me again, chasing every piece of me I’ve ever tried to hide.

I let him. Because with him? I don’t want to hide anymore. I barely have time to catch my breath between waves of sublime pleasure, and suddenly, I am on the verge of climaxing.

His hand smooths down my thigh, then curls under it, pulling me closer, even though we’re already one. I feel him—still inside me.

Still there . Filling me, his cock strokes me, and shivers ripple up my spine. I can’t stand it anymore.

“Please, let me come,” I beg.

I’m left gasping for air, not because he choked me, but because making love to him is that intense.

“Come for me, Kitten,” he murmurs.

He’s buried himself in me so deep I don’t know where I end, but when I come this time, it’s with his name on my tongue.

“Vukan,” I moan. His hand tightens on my neck, applying pressure as another orgasm rips through me. He comes with me this time, letting out a low growl.

He’s got my heart in his hand. I’m physically weak, shot. My arms are noodles, and I can’t move my legs. To say he fucked me into the sweetest oblivion is an understatement.

When he finally pulls out, he’s slow and careful, and damn, he’s still hard. I shiver at the loss of him inside me.

He shifts slightly, rolling to his side and pulling me to him, wrapping his arms around me like I’m worth keeping. He brushes hair back from my face with fingers that were ruthless only minutes ago. Now they’re gentle and tender.

He cuddles?

“You okay?” he asks, voice low and gruff.

I nod, but it’s not enough. I touch his jaw, lightly dragging my nails down the stubble.

“I’m more than okay,” I murmur weakly, totally satiated.

He watches me for a long moment. He’s not smiling, and there’s no smirk. It’s just that look—the one he wears when he’s cataloging every breath I take, and every shift in my expression, like he needs to learn it by heart.

“You ruined me, you know,” I whisper.

His brow lifts slightly. “I haven’t even started.”

I should laugh, but I don’t because part of me believes him. And the other part wants him to.

I let myself melt into him, cheek pressed to his skin, eyes drifting shut. For the first time in what feels like forever, I don’t feel hunted. I don’t feel like prey.

I feel claimed. I’m safe and wanted. I’m revered by this incredible man who knew what this would feel like.

His lips brush the top of my head. “You sleep here tonight,” he murmurs. “Tomorrow too. After that… we’ll see if I ever let you leave.”

And I don’t tell him, I’m not sure I want to.

The mansion isn’t what I had envisioned. Last night was all about us and making love all night. I have to admit I’m a bit sore. But today, I want to see the house.

The first thing I notice isn’t the house. It’s an animal, a scruffy, reddish dog, that heads toward me, tail wagging. I feel his eyes on me, and I blink. The gait of the dog, the long tail, and the color…. It’s familiar.

Meatball! He runs to me. My heart thumps in my chest. I bend to a knee and pet the dog I know very well. His tail is wagging faster now, and I hug him to me. He licks my face and nuzzles my neck.

He rescued Meatball?

I glance up at Vukan, and even his eyes are smiling. I’m ready to burst into tears.

“You adopted Meatball?”

“Someone had to. Look at him, he’s happy. He said he hated the shelter.” He shrugs. “What can I say? I know how he feels.”

“Hello Meatball,” I coo. “You’re such a good boy.” I hug him to me again, and he jumps into my lap, causing me to fall on my butt, but I don’t care. He licks my face profusely, and I laugh.

It’s as if we were all meant to be together.

He continues to lick my face, and I figure we’re good, so I stand, and he follows us as we continue the tour.

The home doesn’t hum, buzz, or creak like other homes sprawling this wide—it waits, like it knows who it belongs to.

The walls are pale beige and warm under subtle lighting that doesn’t try too hard. The air smells like cedar and old leather. It’s clean, and everything is in order, almost like no one lives here.

But it’s the art that stops me.

Massive canvases hang with the gravity of a museum. Oil portraits, abstract horrors, and dark Romanticism rendered in achingly detailed lines. And I recognize some of it—not just styles, but pieces.

There’s a sculpture in the entryway that looks suspiciously like a Rodin. A fragmented bust, I know, is a Giacometti. A painting in the study, I could swear, belongs behind glass in the Uffizi.

I stare, and he watches me do it.

“You collect originals?” I murmur.

“I collect stories,” he replies.

My heels echo as I step through the hallway, taking in the cathedral ceilings, the wrought iron staircase that belongs in a movie, and velvet sofas and curtains. It wouldn’t be complete without the fire-glow lamps that throw everything into play, giving it all a modern vibe.

“You bring all your women here ?” I ask without looking at him.

“No,” he says. “You’re the first.”

And I believe him because this house isn’t built for seduction. It’s built for reverence. It’s his castle.

A library spans an entire wall in one room—ancient, leather-bound volumes stacked beneath carved weapons and aging maps. One map is hand-inked, the Balkans redrawn over blood.

I pause in front of it. “This is from 1912.”

He steps beside me. “Serbian front.”

“You kept this?”

“My great-grandfather carried it into the mountains.”

I trace a line down the border where the ink has smudged, like a hand once shook holding it.

“You have war on your walls,” I say.

“I come from a war-torn country,” he replies.

The honesty in it nearly brings me to my knees.

Later, we sit in a room that could pass for a gallery—two glasses of brandy and a fire burning low .

He’s quiet, and for the moment, he’s not trying to impress or dominate or command.

We discuss Rome, Belgrade, and my passion for history. I’m a geek who likes museums, relics, and pieces of art that are worth stealing.

And for the first time, I see the boy beneath the soldier.

The one who watched statues crumble and borders shift when he decided he’d never be powerless again. I get it.

I get him . I tried to trip him up on our dates, but the man excelled and thrived in the face of my challenges. He’s a warrior. He’s a survivor.

“You know,” I say, studying the sculpture near the door, “most men show off by telling me how much they paid for something.”

“I’m not most men,” he replies.

“No,” I say, looking at him across the low amber light, “you’re not.”

And God help me—I love that about him.

We make our way to the kitchen, where a woman stands waiting for us, dressed in a simple dress with an apron over it.

She has a round face, is barely five feet, and looks like she’s from another era with her hair pulled tight in a bun. I half expect her to wear soft-soled shoes or sneakers, and am surprised to find she’s wearing flats.

She appears to be in her mid-sixties. She smiles warmly and nods to Vukan. “Miss Borrelli, it’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m Irina.”

“Hello, Irina.”

She gives Vukan a side-eye. “Since it’s lunch time, I made a Hungarian dish with Greek toppings. I hope it’s to your liking,” she adds, looking at me.

“Thank you,” I say, and Vukan motions for me to sit at the marble island counter.

Irina moves deafly about the large, professional kitchen.

“Irina is my housekeeper, chef, you name it. If you need anything, ask her,” Vukan explains. “And you are not to go anywhere without a guard. Dragan will take care of you. I trust him with my life.”

It moves me. But I also know that this probably means trouble is afoot.

We eat bow-tie pasta, meat seasoned with sweet paprika, and Greek yogurt topped with feta cheese, olives, and freshly diced tomatoes. After lunch, we stroll through the manicured lawn. We sit in the open-air patio at dusk, where Irina serves us dinner.

The day passed too quickly, filled with quiet conversations and burning desire.

We retire to bed and spend most of the night making love. And the morning dawns with deep emotions attached.

I shouldn’t be in his bed.

Correction—I’m not in it. I’m standing barefoot at the edge of it, wearing his dress shirt. The one that smells like him, that’s why I wear it. I shouldn’t have let him touch me like that. Or, kiss me like I’m his future instead of his war prize.

But I let him in. I gave him a part of me I’ve never handed over to anyone—not even myself.

And when I woke up to his arms around me, his lips on my shoulder, and his heartbeat pressed into my back, well, my skin hasn’t stopped burning since he looked at me like I was something he wanted to consume.

God help me, I wanted it, and that’s the problem.

Because men like Vukan don’t give love.

They consume it.

And if I’m not careful, he’ll consume me too.