Page 19 of The Mob and his Messenger

Dom groans encouragingly as my pussy pulsates, wave after wave of euphoria gushing over his lips. His moans getting louder and more carnal the harder I come, shoving his face closer, consuming me, no longer content to just suck and lick.

Now he’s truly eating me, his mouth opening and closing as I squirt onto his waiting tongue. His growling groans tell me he likes it, wants more, and more.

And I don’t stop.

I just keep going, my hips twisting, grabbing a pillow and burying my face in it and screaming, muffled, near-silent, screaming until the tendons in my neck ache and my whole body is washed through with orgiastic release.

My hand slowly drops and the pillow falls from my face, the room filled now with my panting and Dom’s growling breath, like a beast.

A beast who is only getting started.

But no.

He needs to know.

Before this goes any further, I have to tell him.

“Dom,” I whisper, sitting up, my voice sounding small somehow.

“Hmm?” he growls.

“I have to tell you something,” I whisper. “Before we do anything … else, I mean. And that was amazing. Thank you. I mean, not thank you, not like you just let me in front of you in the line at Starbucks. I don’t mean it like that. Crap. I’m rambling …”

He stands and reaches down, smoothing a sweaty strand of hair from my face.

The gesture somehow gives me strength, confidence, and I tilt my head and rest my cheek against the caressing touch of his palm.

I breathe shakily.

“I’m a virgin,” I tell him. “A twenty year old virgin. How sad is that?”Chapter ElevenDomShe stands and adjusts her dress, letting it fall down around her ankles again. Her cheeks are gorgeously flushed and her hair is even messier now, giving her a look of casual beauty that punches me right in the gut. I can still taste her, the tanginess of her sex, the cream coating my lips and my tongue.

When she grabbed the pillow and screamed into it, I thought I might come in my boxers for the first time in my life. There was something so wild and genuine about it, the way she couldn’t wait a moment longer to sing her pleasure.

But of course, I’d never waste a single drop of my seed so carelessly. It all belongs in her hungry womb.

She shrugs and walks over to the window, her back turned to me, a glorious silhouette in the sunlight.

The dress is partly transparent and I can make out the outline of her ass cheeks, the fuck-me-hard ass cheeks that need to be spanked and nibbled and dominated.

She’s Gabriel’s daughter.

But as I stare at her, a revelation slams into me, unfair and disloyal and yet no less true.

I don’t care whose daughter she is.

Because she belongs to me.

“Aren’t you going to say anything?” she murmurs. “This is crazy enough as it is, Dom. But if you just stand there and don’t say anything, I don’t know, I think I’ll lose my mind or something.”

“I’m glad,” I snarl.

“What?” she says.

“Look at me, Dallas.”

She turns reluctantly, shame touching her cheeks as she bites her bottom lip.

“I said I’m glad,” I growl, stalking across the room and placing my hands on her shoulders. I feel the tension relaxing as I squeeze harder, claiming her. Like I always will. “Because that means no one else has touched what I touched. That means no one else has ever claimed you like I’m going to claim you. That means your womb is free for me to own, to take, to make mine. Do you understand? You belong to me, Dallas, and I’m tired of pretending I don’t feel that way.”

Her mouth falls open and she stares long moments passing. She seems to be searching for something in my expression. I can’t tell if she finds it as she spins away, huffing her way to the other side of the room, knocking over a box in her anxiety, and then leaning down to pick it up.

Fuck, I’m a bad, bad man.

Even now, in this moment of emotional intimacy, I can’t stop myself from staring at that fine, round ass. I can’t stop myself from imagining my manhood sliding between those ass cheeks, deep inside her soaked hole, pumping until my seed is firing right into her greedy womb.

“When I was seventeen,” she says, dropping down on her computer chair and looking at me with a new strength, “there was this boy. Believe it or not, his name was Chad. I mean, who names their son Chad? But that was his name. Chad the jock, and everybody wanted him. All the girls were falling over themselves trying to get his attention. I wish I could say I didn’t care. And I didn’t, not about him. But the respect I’d get if I was with him? Not even respect, just to be seen. Freaking hell, I’m supposed to be a writer. I’m not explaining this very well, am I?

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