Page 27 of The Mafia's Christmas Baby

I jerk beneath him, thighs shaking.

I’m so wet now, I can hear the soft, obscene sounds of his mouth working me open, tongue greedy, relentless.

He pulls back just far enough to speak, his lips slick.

“You’re shaking.”

“I can’t help it.”

“You don’t have to.” His voice is dips lower, full of hunger. “Let me feel you fall apart.”

Then he dives back in, mouth sealing over me, tongue flicking in tight, precise strokes that make my legs quake.

His hand slips between us and two fingers slide inside me, slow and deep, and I cry out again, head thrown back, mouth open in an O of pure sensation.

My body clenches hard around him, and he groans into me like he feels it in his chest.

He sets a rhythm—fingers pumping, tongue circling, sucking, licking, relentless—and I'm nothing but heat and pulse and want.

My thighs clamp around his head and he growls, low and rough, like he likes being caught there, like it only drives him harder.

He twists his fingers just right, crooked against that spot that makes my vision blur, and I cry out, loud and aching, the sound bouncing off the walls.

“Please,” I gasp, not even sure what I’m begging for.

More. Closer. Forever.

He lifts his head just enough to meet my eyes, mouth glistening, his voice dark and reverent.

“You’re so fucking beautiful like this. You’re going to come for me, aren’t you?”

I nod, frantic, the pressure unbearable now, coiled tight in my spine, my belly, my thighs.

He leans back in, lips closing over my clit, and sucks hard.

My body bows up off the mattress, hands fisting the sheets, and the orgasm crashes through me like a wave, raw and helpless and endless.

I moan his name as I come, trembling all over.

He doesn’t stop.

He keeps licking me through it, soft and slow now, almost worshipful, like he’s tasting the best thing he’s ever had and can’t bring himself to let go.

I’m still trembling when he kisses his way back up my body.

Every nerve is awake, oversensitive, raw in the most exquisite way.

He moves slowly, carefully, like he knows I’m stretched thin and pulsing everywhere, like he’s proud of what he’s done to me.

When he reaches my mouth again, he doesn’t rush it.

His lips are warm, tasting faintly of me, and the kiss is slow, grounding.

I melt into it, my hands finding his face, his jaw, the back of his neck.

His body presses into mine, heavier now, solid between my legs, and I feel him—hot, thick, straining against the rough fabric of his pants.

I shift beneath him and he groans, low and hoarse, forehead dropping to mine.