Page 132 of The Mafia's Christmas Baby

Her face is a mask of ecstasy, her mouth open in a silent scream, her eyes wide as she watches us.

“See that?” I grunt, my thrusts becoming deeper, more punishing.

“See what you do to me? See what I do to you?”

She can only moan, her body trembling violently in my arms.

Her legs are shaking, barely supporting her.

I hold her tighter, driving into her over and over, hitting a spot that makes her cry out, her eyes rolling back.

“Please… Nico… I can’t… I’m going to…”

“Come for me,” I snarl in her ear, my voice raw with possession.

“Come all over my cock while you watch yourself take it.”

Her eyes, glazed and unfocused, snap to our reflection.

She sees her own face contorted in pleasure, her breasts bouncing with each of my thrusts, my body, powerful and slick with water and sweat, moving against hers.

The visual feedback, the sheer carnality of the image, pushes her over an edge she didn’t know existed.

A broken, sobbing scream is torn from her lungs.

“I’m coming! Oh God, I’m coming!”

Her orgasm is a convulsive, violent thing.

Her inner muscles clamp down on my cock in a series of frantic, milking spasms, her body seizing in my arms as she shatters.

Her legs give out completely, and I hold her up, my own groans mingling with her cries as I feel her come apart around me, her release hot and slick against my skin.

I don’t stop.

The sight of her, the feel of her climax, the raw, screaming sounds she’s making—it only fuels my own relentless pace.

I’m lost in her, in the wet, pounding rhythm, in the possessive, feral need to brand myself inside her forever.

Her sobs turn into wordless, keening wails as the overstimulation teeters between agony and ecstasy.

Her fingers scramble against the slick marble wall for purchase, finding none.

“Please… Nico… it’s too much…” she begs, her voice a ragged whisper, her body trembling uncontrollably.

“It’s not enough,” I growl into the nape of her neck, my thrusts becoming even harder, deeper, my own climax coiling tight in my gut like a spring. “It will never be enough.”

I watch our reflection—her head lolling back against my shoulder, her eyes squeezed shut, tears and water streaming down her face, my face a mask of grim, determined pleasure.

I’m driving into her with a force that shakes us both, the sound of our wet skin slapping together a frantic, primal drumbeat in the steam-filled room.

I can’t hold back any longer.

With a final, guttural roar that echoes off the tiles, I bury myself to the hilt and let go.

My own release erupts, a hot, pulsing flood that seems to go on forever, syncing with the last fading tremors of her own body.

I collapse against her, my forehead pressed to her wet back, both of us shuddering and gasping, held up only by the wall and the last vestiges of adrenaline.