Page 8 of The Underboss’s Secret Twins (Underworld Heirs #2)

A delicious shiver runs through me.

I do as I’m told, my legs barely steady as I flip onto my stomach.

His hands are on me instantly, gripping my waist, dragging me back toward the edge of the table.

My breasts press into the smooth wood, my arms bracing me as he nudges my knees apart, spreading me wider, exposing every drenched, aching inch of me.

"Fuck, Sofia," he groans, his hands roaming over me, squeezing, teasing. "You have no idea how perfect you look like this."

I whimper, arching my back, pushing against him, silently begging for more.

"Already?" he taunts, running his cock along my slick folds, teasing my clit with the tip. "You’re insatiable."

"Marco," I gasp, trying to grind back against him, but his grip tightens.

"Not yet," he murmurs, his free hand sliding up my spine. "Not until I say so."

I whimper in frustration, but he doesn’t give me long to protest.

Without warning, he enters me once more, his breath leaving his lips in a hiss as he fills me to my core.

A strangled moan rips from my throat, my fingers curling against the table as he stretches me wide, hitting deep, hitting perfect.

"Fuck," he grits out, his fingers digging into my hips, holding me steady as he pulls back and thrusts again, harder this time. "You’re so fucking tight."

He sets a ruthless pace, his hips snapping against mine, each thrust hitting deeper, harder, pushing me to the edge of oblivion all over again.

The table creaks beneath us, the sound of skin slapping against skin filling the air, mingling with our ragged breaths, my broken moans, his low, filthy groans.

"You take me so fucking well," he growls, his grip on my hips tightening as he pounds into me, bereft of all restraint. "Like you were made for this. Made for me."

I cry out, my body arching, the pleasure so intense it borders on unbearable.

His hand slides down, fingers finding my clit again, rubbing in tight, merciless circles that send lightning straight through my core.

"Come for me," he demands, his voice dark, commanding. "Let me feel you."

I can’t hold back.

Pleasure crashes into me, my body locking up, my orgasm tearing through me with devastating force.

I scream his name, my walls clenching around him, milking him, pulling him deeper, and the moment I shatter, he lets go too.

A guttural groan rumbles through his chest as he slams into me one last time, his cock pulsing, his body tensing as he comes hard, his grip like steel as he buries himself deep.

For a moment, neither of us can move.

Our bodies are slick with sweat, chests heaving, tangled together

The room is soaked with heat, sweat, and the tang of sex, but Marco’s weight against my back is oddly grounding. For a moment, neither of us moves, our bodies still tangled, breaths still uneven. His lips graze my shoulder, soft now, almost reverent, a stark contrast to the way he just ravaged me.

I should pull away. I should get dressed, say something sharp to break the tension, pretend this was just a thing—a one-time thing.

But I don’t.

Instead, I shift beneath him, turning slowly onto my back, my body still humming with exhaustion. Marco lifts his head, propping himself up on his forearm as his dark eyes search mine.

A quiet settles between us, thick, charged.

And then he smirks.

"You look wrecked, sweetheart." His fingers trail along my collarbone, slow, teasing. "Can’t handle me after all?"

I roll my eyes, smacking his chest, but my lips twitch despite myself. "I handled you just fine."

His laugh is low, rich, curling through me like warm honey.

He leans down, pressing a lingering kiss to my jaw, then my neck, then—too soon—he pulls away, rolling onto his back beside me with a contented sigh.

I stare up at the ceiling, trying to ignore the way my heart is too full, my body too satisfied, my mind already turning over what this means.

I don’t do relationships.

Neither does he.

And yet?—

"So," I say, breaking the silence, my voice subdued. Exhaustion has begun settling in, and now that I think about it, it’s been a while since I had food, real food. The coffee I drank earlier churns in my stomach, and I make a face. "What now?"

Marco turns his head, looking at me, studying me. Then he grins, reaching for his phone on the nightstand.

"Now?" He scrolls through something. "Now we eat."

I blink. "What?"

He holds the phone up, showing me the screen. A food delivery app, an order already placed.

Szechuan beef. Dumplings. Scallion pancakes. Hot and sour soup.

I blink again, warmth blooming in my chest, completely unprepared for this softness, for this man who just fucked me within an inch of my life and now wants to feed me like I’m something precious.

I glance at him, raising an eyebrow. "You ordered before you got here?"

He smirks, tucking his hands behind his head. "Had a feeling I’d work up an appetite."

I snort, shaking my head, but I don’t argue.

Because the truth is, I like this—the easy comfort, the quiet between us that doesn’t feel like a gaping void.

But I also know better.

This thing between us—if we let it turn into something real, something with strings, one of us will get burned.

Maybe both of us.

So, we do need to speak about it, although I don’t want to right now. Stifling a yawn, I exhale, stretching lazily. "Marco?—"

Marco turns his head, his smirk softening. "Let’s eat first. We can work out the details later."

My mind refuses to process much more, but right then, the doorbell rings. A merciful reprieve appears in the form of hot, spicy, soul-warming food.

We get dressed quickly, and then Marco goes to the door. A quick thanks later, he’s back inside, holding two packed bags in his hand.

The scent of hot oil, spice, and soy sauce fills the air, curling around us like something intimate, something familiar. Marco drops the bag of takeout onto the coffee table and sinks onto the couch beside me, his body warm, solid.

The heat between us hasn’t fully faded, but now it’s mixed with something that’s wistfully easy.

I pull out a container of dumplings and pry the lid open, steam rising into the air. My stomach growls, and Marco chuckles, shaking his head as he passes me a pair of chopsticks.

"Hungry, are we?" he teases, popping open a beer.

I roll my eyes but don’t bother denying it. I stab a dumpling with my chopsticks—because who has time for grace right now?—and take a bite. The wrapper is delicate, the filling juicy, perfectly seasoned, glazed with chili oil.

A moan escapes me before I can stop it.

Marco pauses mid-sip, watching me with dark amusement. "That good, huh?"

I swallow and give him a look. "If you don’t eat one of these right now, you’re an idiot."

He grins, reaching into the bag for his own container, flipping the lid open. His long fingers pluck a dumpling from the tray, and instead of using his chopsticks, he pops it straight into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully.

A low groan rumbles in his chest. "Okay. Fine. That’s obscene."

"Told you."

We eat in silence for a while, the sounds of the city humming outside, the occasional scrape of chopsticks against plastic, the clink of bottles. It’s weirdly…nice. Comfortable.

Which is exactly why I can’t let myself get used to it.

"I don’t want this to end," I say between spoonfuls of soup. The hunger easing has apparently given me more strength. "But I also don’t want it to be a thing. "

Marco nudges the container of Szechuan beef toward me, and I stab a piece, taking a bite. The heat hits me instantly—deep, smoky spice that spreads across my tongue, followed by an addictive numbness from the Sichuan peppercorns. I let out a slow breath, shaking my head.

"This is so good."

He watches me, chewing his own bite, then reaches over, swiping his thumb across the corner of my mouth. Before I can react, he pops it into his mouth, sucking the sauce from his skin like it’s nothing.

Like he didn’t just set my body on fire again.

" Amanti senza catene ?"

"Hm?"

His lips curl into a delicious little smile. "You’re saying we could be lovers without chains?"

My stomach flips. "Yeah." I swallow, hard. "Something like that, I guess. No promises. Just…this."

And that look is back in his eyes—the one that tells me he could have me spread across this couch in under thirty seconds if he wanted to.

And I’d let him.

I shake my head, forcing myself to focus on my food, because this can’t go on forever.

Can it?

I glance at Marco out of the corner of my eye, watching the way he leans back, relaxed, as if we haven’t completely ruined each other tonight. He smirks to himself like he already knows what I’m thinking.

And maybe he does. "I’m game, Sofia."

All I can manage is a small nod while I wonder what I’ve just waltzed into. Because, as I sit there, chewing slowly, stomach full, body still aching from him, I wonder?—

How many days will this last?

How many nights until one of us walks away for good?