Page 129 of The Mafia's Christmas Baby

I taste the salt of her tears and the heat of her surrender.

My tongue plunders, claiming, demanding.

I’m devouring her, and she’s letting me, she’s urging me on.

My hands leave the sofa and frame her face, holding her still for my ravaging mouth before sliding down, over the frantic pulse in her throat, over the swell of her breasts covered by thin silk.

I tear my mouth from hers, both of us gasping for air.

“I can’t be gentle,” I warn her, my voice a dark promise. “Not tonight.”

“I don’t want gentle,” she pants, her eyes blazing with the same inferno. “I want you to stop thinking. I want you to feel.”

That’s all the permission I need.

I yank the silk of her blouse, buttons pinging off and scattering across the Persian rug like tiny pearls.

She’s not wearing a bra.

Her breasts are perfect, heaving, her nipples tight, dark peaks.

I drop to my knees on the rug in front of the sofa, my hands gripping her waist.

My mouth closes over one nipple, sucking hard, my tongue lashing the stiff bud.

She cries out, her back arching off the sofa, her fingers digging into my scalp. “Nico! Oh, God…”

I lavish one breast then the other, biting, sucking, laving, marking her as mine.

The sounds she makes are a symphony of abandon—sharp gasps, low moans, my name a broken prayer on her lips.

I push her skirt up her thighs, my hands sliding over the smooth skin, finding the damp heat of her through her panties.

I groan against her stomach, the scent of her arousal, pure and potent, driving me out of my mind.

I hook my fingers in the lace and rip them down her legs.

She kicks them away, her eyes wild.

I push her knees apart, settling back on my heels to look at her, spread open and glistening for me in the dim light.

“I’m going to taste every bit of your silence,” I growl, and I bury my face between her legs.

Her scream is muffled by the plush cushions as my tongue finds her clit.

I don’t tease.

I feast.

I lap at her like a dying man at an oasis, my tongue flat and broad, then pointed and precise, circling that swollen, desperate nub.

I drink the evidence of her want, louder than any words we haven’t spoken.

I slide two fingers inside her, curling them, finding that rough, secret spot deep within her.

She convulses around me, her hips bucking off the sofa.

“Yes! Right there! Don’t stop, please don’t stop!”