Page 34 of Secret Baby for the Italian Mafia King

He shakes his head and kisses the words from my lips, robbing my defenses and making me lie under him. Breathing heaving, body aching with need.

“There’s no one else for me but you, Nadia, and it’s fucking torture.”

I want to tell him that I waited for him, too, that I never wanted anyone else, that I never even considered it—but then he would know the truth about Harper. I swallow the words, instead. I can’t trust him with that truth, not yet. The only thing he’s told me that I believe to be the complete, unquestionable truth is that he’s unstable enough to be dangerous.

“I’m going to make you live out the life you tried so hard to escape from,” Ren continues, voice as ominous as a thundercloud, like he can’t think of anything worse. “You don’tget to leave me that easily. You don’t get to take everything from me and just run away—”

The heat in my belly flutters as he grabs me by the hips and draws toward him, underneath him, right where wants me. He stretches me out like an art piece on silk sheets, rolling his hips in low, threatening waves until the need is throbbing in my core. His gloved hand tightens on my throat.

This is the part of the dream where I’m supposed to wake up.

His eyes blaze darkly, his weight a looming threat. His hand on my throat hardly matters. There’s no air left in the room, anyway. It’s burned up now, the tension ramping hotter and hotter until I think the room itself might combust around us.

His motion pauses when he feels the wetness between my legs, his expression closing off. Emotion twists through his face. Doubt becomes anger then disgust. He snarls, menacing grip tightening until my breath sputters and chokes. My back arches off the bed.

“…Look at that, Nadia. Your body is just as pathetic as mine. Wanting the thing it’s supposed to hate the most.”

I shake my head, unable to defend myself. The grip on my throat is just tight enough to make the world spin. I can’t argue, can’t explain, can’t do anything but writhe under him as his cockhead drags slow, torturous circles against my pussy, his metal bar a bit cold to the touch. I grind my hips into him like the whore he accuses me of being. I can’t help it. I need him. I’ve always needed him. I wordlessly urge him on, begging for him. After years and years of longing for him, dreaming about this moment, I can’t stand another second.

“You don’t even need to be worked up,” he mocks, but it doesn’t stop him from grinding deeper into the shallow well of my pussy, teasing it. My eyelids flutter. God, it’s been too long. I’d almost forgotten how good this could feel and he’s barely even touched me yet.

It’s easy to forget how dreams are all soft, pillowy impressions of the real thing, all heat and no friction. They lose the important little details. But now I feel all of Ren, down to every last detail:

His weight settles on top of me. His skin drags under my nails. The wetness of his mouth warms my neck as he dips his head to kiss the arch of my throat. He forces my head aside and sucks angry, possessive marks into the soft skin. My pulse point flutters with a primal rush of panic as he goes after the softest, most vulnerable parts of me. My pussy clamps and clenches for attention as he teases her, over and over, never going inside the way I need.

“Ren,” I manage to rasp out through the sweet torture.Begging.

His expression flashes for a moment, all lightning and thunder, as he breathes out slow and steady. He gets a hold of himself, his eyes black and pupils blown wide in the dim light.

I break the force of his hand on my throat, bring us into another kiss—a real kiss, mouth to mouth, wordlessly trying to tell him all the things he refuses to let me say. He groans against my lips.

“Please,” I manage to say through the strain on my vocal cords. I’m barely able to lift my head enough to connect our lips, but I manage it. The shallowest, softest kisses—again and again—even if it hurts to chase them. “Please.”

“You don’t know what you’re asking for,” he snarls. I draw that first big gulp of air as he lets me go and hitches my legs back. I’m poised under him, feet up, thighs spread. He stares into my face as if we’re playing chicken—and I’m about to lose.

He rolls his hips up into mine, my just-gotten breath leaving me as quickly as it came. I pant and mewl and whimper. Pounding, rolling friction throbs up between my legs as I feel him move inside me. Rough and merciless, his hips rolling deep, snapping upward.

It drives me up the bed, drives my senses wild as I twist and tremble.

The sensation swells like a wave, building at first then cresting all at once as I twist under him.

“Aah, aah, aah—!”

My hands scramble for something to grab onto, some anchor point to hold me against the waves of pleasure hammering up through my pussy. I haven’t so much as touched a sex toy in years, much less an actual cock. My pussy is oversensitive, neglected, suddenly caught in the midst of a mob shakedown, claimed like a new piece of territory up for grabs.

“Oh, fuck,” I cry out, shocked at how sensitive I am, how I’m brought to buckling and crying out in a matter of a few thrusts. Ren gets hold of me, makes me focus, brings me to his level, and makes me look into his stormy face as he fucks me. Our gaze holds. I pant under him, chest heaving, the force of his pelvis rolling up and grinding against my hips.

“Nadia,” he gasps, as ifI’mthe one overwhelminghim. “Nadia—”

I bring him down into a crushing kiss, wrapping my legs around his hips, pulling him in deeper, firmer, his hips snapping hard and mechanical into me. The pace is rough, relentless, threatening to drive him too deep. But I want it. Every inch of him.

I long to slide my hand between us and feather my clit, but I resist. It would be greedy and I don’t need to. The way he moves is incredible. Dipping low and driving up between my legs at an angle that makes the bottom of my feet tingle. I feel him head to toe, pleasure rocketing up into my belly until it becomes a tight, blinding point that he’s chasing with his cock.

“Fuck,” he snarls, his motions growing more desperate, deeper and harder and faster until the bed is shaking under us. Like years and years of lost time has built up into this one blinding moment.

“Like that,” I cry out on instinct. “Just like that, just—”

I second-guess, biting down on my begging. My pleasure doesn’t have anything at all to do with this when I’m just riding out the force of his anger, his pain. But Ren obeys. It overwhelms me as he keeps that pace, steady and firm, never relenting even when his muscles tremble with the effort of holding back.

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