Page 82 of The Mafia's Christmas Baby

This is not my slow, grinding rhythm.

This is a punishment, a claiming.

He pounds into me, each thrust a jolt of pure, blinding pleasure-pain.

The couch creaks and groans in protest, a frantic percussion to the wet, slapping sounds of our bodies meeting.

"Tell me who you belong to," he grunts, his face buried in my neck, his breath hot against my skin.

"I–I can't?—"

He drives into me harder, deeper, hitting a spot that makes my vision whiten at the edges. "Tell me!"

"You!" I scream, my back arching off the couch. "I belong to you! Nico!"

A savage grin twists his lips.

He hooks his arms under my knees, forcing them apart, opening me up completely to his relentless, pounding rhythm.

I'm nothing but a vessel for his hunger, my own climax coiling tight and desperate in my core.

The sounds I'm making are animalistic, broken sobs and choked pleas.

"Please, please, don't stop, right there, oh God, right there!"

I feel the exact moment he loses the last shred of his control.

His thrusts become erratic, frantic, his own groans turning into a continuous, guttural roar.

The pressure inside me snaps.

My orgasm detonates, a supernova of sensation that seizes my entire body.

I convulse around him, my scream muffled against his shoulder as I bite down, my hips bucking wildly against his.

The intense, rhythmic clenching of my cunt around his driving cock is his undoing.

With a final, brutal thrust that seems to touch my soul, he stills, burying himself to the hilt as his own release erupts inside me in hot, pulsing waves.

He collapses on top of me, his full weight a welcome anchor as we both shudder through the aftershocks.

The only sounds are our ragged, gasping breaths and the faint buzz of the television.

He's still inside me, softening now, a tangible, wet reminder of the line we just vaporized.

I wrap my trembling arms around his sweat-slicked back, holding him there, in the wreckage of our restraint.

The tremors finally subside, leaving behind a heavy, liquid warmth and the scent of our bodies tangled together on the leather.

For a long time, the only movement is the slow, synchronized rise and fall of our chests.

The television has long since switched to a silent, blue menu screen, casting the room in a dim, underwater glow.

Nico is the first to stir.

He shifts his weight off me with a groan that’s part exhaustion, part pure satisfaction, his softening cock slipping from me with a final, intimate wetness.

He doesn't go far, just rolls onto his side, one heavy arm draped possessively across my stomach.