Page 21 of The Underboss’s Secret Twins (Underworld Heirs #2)

MARCO

S ofia is trembling beneath me, her body still quaking from the orgasm I just dragged out of her, her breath shaky and uneven.

I stay behind her, watching the way her back rises and falls, how her ass is still tilted up, her thighs shaking, her slick dripping down them.

Fuck.

She’s still spread open for me, still waiting.

I drag my hands up her thighs, slow, deliberate, just to make her squirm. My palms skim over her hips, my fingers gripping her waist as I press the head of my cock against her entrance.

She gasps, her body shuddering, still sensitive from my tongue, still raw with the pleasure I just fed her.

"You feel that, baby?" I murmur, teasing her, rubbing my cock through her wetness, coating myself in her slick. "That’s all me. You’re dripping for me, still shaking for me."

She whimpers, her fingers fisting the sheets.

I smirk. "You want more, don’t you?"

She nods frantically, pushing back against me, desperate.

But that’s not enough.

I grip her ass, squeezing hard, spreading her open wider.

"Say it," I demand, my voice thick with lust. "Tell me you want me inside you."

She sobs, so fucking desperate. "Marco, please?—"

"Please what?" I tease, dragging the tip against her entrance, pressing just enough to make her feel it but not giving her what she wants.

She groans, frustrated, trying to push back against me, but I hold her still.

"Fucking say it."

"I want you to fuck me," she gasps, her voice broken, needy.

I groan, my grip tightening on her hips. "Good girl."

And then I give her exactly what she’s begging for.

I slam into her in one deep, brutal stroke, stretching her, filling her completely.

She cries out, her back arching, her fingers clutching the sheets like they’re the only thing keeping her grounded.

Fuck, she’s tight. And hot.

Her walls clench around me, squeezing like she’s trying to pull me even deeper inside her.

I let out a low growl, my fingers digging into her hips as I start to move, pulling out slowly, making her feel every inch before thrusting back in hard.

Sofia moans, pushing back against me, matching every thrust.

It’s filthy. Desperate. Exactly how it should be.

"Fuck," I groan, watching where we’re joined, watching my cock disappear into her slick, wet heat over and over.

She’s perfect. So fucking perfect.

I slam into her again, harder this time, making her moan my name like a prayer.

"You like this, don’t you?" I rasp, gripping her hair and pulling her up just enough so I can murmur into her ear.

She whimpers, nodding frantically.

I chuckle darkly. "Like being fucked like this? Bent over, taking everything I give you?"

"Yes," she gasps, her voice shaking, her body trembling in my grip.

I groan, teasing my fingers down her stomach, between her thighs, rubbing her clit in tight, ruthless circles.

She cries out, her body going taut, her walls fluttering around me.

"Gonna come again, baby?" I taunt, thrusting into her deeper, harder.

She nods, shaking, moaning my name like she can’t say anything else.

And fuck, I love that.

I love that I’ve reduced her to this—a writhing, desperate mess.

I fuck her through it, dragging it out, making sure she feels every second of it.

She screams my name, her body locking up, her pussy milking my cock.

I can’t hold back anymore.

I slam into her one last time, burying myself deep, groaning as I come hard, emptying everything inside her.

The pleasure rips through me, dragging me under, making my whole body shudder as I spill deep inside her.

For a few moments, all I can do is breathe.

Sofia collapses onto the mattress, her breath ragged, her body still trembling.

I stay inside her for a moment longer, both of us too wrecked to move.

Then, finally, I pull out, rolling onto my side, dragging her with me.

She’s boneless, limp, completely spent, her cheek pressed against my chest as she struggles to catch her breath.

I run a hand through her damp hair, trailing my fingers down her back, soothing her.

She sighs, sinking into me, letting me hold her.

For a while, we just lie there, tangled together, the air thick with the aftermath of what just happened.

And I know.

I know I’ve ruined her for anyone else.

But fuck—she’s ruined me, too.

My fingers roam in slow, absent patterns along her spine, tracing shapes neither of us name. The last tremors of pleasure still ripple beneath her skin, fading like the tide.

For a while, silence stretches between us, thick and drowsy.

She just breathes. Lets me keep her close.

I could stay like this, let the night pull us deeper into its quiet, but she needs more than warmth, more than the steady rhythm of my hands.

So, I press a kiss to her hair, then another to the slope of her shoulder, each one an unspoken thing, something that lingers long after my lips leave her skin.

"Come on, baby," I murmur against her skin. "Let’s get you dressed."

She makes a soft noise, somewhere between exhaustion and reluctance, nuzzling against my chest.

"You mean I don’t get to sleep naked in your bed?" Her voice is drowsy, teasing.

I smirk, trailing my fingers up her bare thigh, enjoying the way she shivers. "If I let you stay naked, we’ll never make it out of this room."

She huffs a tired laugh but doesn’t argue when I sit up, pulling her with me.

Carefully, I lift her, turning her in my lap, letting her rest against my chest as I reach for the discarded fabric of her dress. It’s wrinkled, tangled from how I stripped it off her, but it’s still warm from her body.

She watches me, eyes half-lidded, dark and unreadable, as I smooth the silk back up her legs, over her hips, and carefully fasten the straps over her shoulders.

It’s intimate in a way I don’t usually allow.

I dress women the way I undress them—with purpose, control. But with Sofia, it feels different. It makes me forget there are other women. It'll never be how it is with her.

She studies me as I work, her fingers lifting to brush over my jaw, tracing the rough stubble there.

"You’re not what I expected," she murmurs.

I lift a brow. "Yeah? And what did you expect?"

She smirks, lazy, knowing. "Less of a gentleman, more of a brute."

I let out a low chuckle, smoothing her hair back.

"I can be both."

She hums, pleased.

Once she’s dressed, I help her slip back into her heels—an unnecessary gesture, considering I’m about to carry her out of this room.

Which I do.

Before she can even think about walking, I scoop her up in my arms, earning a startled gasp.

"Marco—"

"I’m taking you to the kitchen," I say simply.

She gives me a skeptical look, looping her arms around my neck. "You cook now?"

I grin, carrying her effortlessly through the doorway. "You’ll see."

It’s very late when we step outside the room. The estate is sleeping, wrapped in the illusion of grandeur—a place where opulence and danger exist in a delicate, unspoken balance.

At night, the sharp edges of its power soften, giving way to something almost serene. The air sings with quiet authority, the kind that lingers in the bones of old houses, in the stories woven into stone and timber, in the whispered legacies of the men who have ruled from behind these walls.

The soft glow of the wall sconces casts elongated silhouettes against polished marble, flickering as we pass, their golden light licking up the towering columns that frame the corridor.

The floors gleam beneath the dim lighting, the veined stone cool underfoot, stretching outward like the arteries of something ancient and alive.

Outside, the estate grounds sprawl into the darkness, acres of land meticulously maintained, every tree, every hedge standing like silent sentinels. The main drive snakes through the property, lined with iron lanterns whose glow barely touches the thick canopy above.

Beyond the courtyard, where the fleet of black SUVs are parked in perfect formation, the gardens extend into a labyrinth of stone paths, fountains, and ivy-covered archways, their beauty a stark contrast to the ruthless men who walk these halls.

Inside, the weight of history clings to every surface—the towering bookshelves filled with leather-bound tomes, the grand staircase sweeping up to the upper floors like something out of an old-world painting.

Heavy chandeliers drip from the ceilings, their crystals refracting the low light, casting fractured prisms along the ornate moldings.

Gilded mirrors reflect fleeting glimpses of movement, making the estate feel both empty and watched all at once.

It’s a different world at night—emptier, almost peaceful. But that peace is deceptive. Beneath the quiet, power thrums like a second heartbeat, hidden in the shadows, waiting.

Sofia tilts her head, taking it in. The silence, the space, the weight of a place that was built for power.

"It looks…different like this," she murmurs.

I nod, shifting her slightly in my arms.

"When it’s full, it feels like a kingdom," I admit. "Empty like this?" I exhale. "It just feels haunted."

Her fingers tighten slightly against my shirt as if she understands.

I carry her through the hall, past darkened rooms, past the echoes of whispered conversations that still linger in these walls.

Finally, we reach the kitchen.

It’s nothing like the rest of the house.

Where the rest of the estate is a temple of cold marble and ruthless elegance, the kitchen is something else entirely—a heart still beating within the bones of power.

Dark wood cabinets stretch high, their carved edges rich with old-world craftsmanship, framing walls lined with aged copper pots that catch the low, golden light.

A heavy stone island stands at the center, its veined surface worn smooth by time, an altar where hands have worked, where knives have sliced through flesh—some meat, some not.

A deep farmhouse sink gleams beneath an arched window, where the city sprawls out beyond iron grates, glittering like a distant kingdom.