Page 58 of The Mafia's Christmas Baby

The scent of him—something deeper, darker, uniquely his—hits me like heat, rich and dizzying.

Deciding to change things up, I slip down from the table and turn him around.

His eyes widen and he chuckles as I pull his trousers open with impatient hands, dragging them down past the curve of his ass.

My palms find muscle—firm, shifting under my touch—and he jerks like the contact surprises him, like he wasn't ready for how much he feels it.

He braces himself on the table, fingers curled around the edge, chest rising in a sharp breath.

His abdomen flexes as I kiss a slow path down it, tongue catching on the fine hair there, tasting sweat and skin and something heady that goes straight to my spine.

My thumbs press into the hollows of his hips, slow circles over bone as my mouth dips lower.

He’s hard beneath the fabric, straining against it, the head already wet and dark through the thin cotton.

I press my mouth over him—hot breath, open lips, no rush—and he moans, my name a fractured sound caught somewhere between reverence and need.

His hand finds the back of my head, not guiding, justthere, like he needs the anchor.

I glance up at him, meet his eyes, and hold them as I drag my tongue along the thick ridge of him through the fabric.

His whole body jolts like it’s more than he expected, like I’m already undoing him.

“Fuck… Elisa.”

I hook my fingers into his waistband and drag his briefs down.

His cock springs free, thick, flushed, glistening at the tip.

I exhale over it slowly and watch him twitch.

Then I lean in and kiss the head, soft and wet, a lingering promise.

His hips jerk forward.

I wrap my lips around him, taking him in inch by inch, slow and deep, letting the heat and weight of him fill my mouth.

He groans as I draw him deeper, tongue pressed flat against the underside, feeling every twitch, every pulse.

My fingers grip his thighs to keep him from moving, to remind himI’min control of the pace.

I set a rhythm—slow, deep strokes, then faster, shallower ones—alternating pressure and speed until his knees begin to tremble and he’s cursing under his breath like he’s unraveling.

I pull back just enough to flick my tongue over the slit, tasting him, teasing, before swallowing him down again with a moan that vibrates through both of us.

His hand tightens in my hair.

“Jesus—Elisa—don’t stop?—”

I won’t.

I can’t.

The sound of him—his voice wrecked, breath hitching, body jerking—is intoxicating.

I hum, letting it buzz through him, then suck harder, deeper, until he’s barely coherent, hips flexing against the pressure of my hold.

I look up again.