Page 35 of Secret Baby for the Italian Mafia King

The rhythm holds, the force of it drawing my whimpers into honest, begging moans. I don’t know if I’m begging for it to stop or continue. I just know I’m there, right in the heat of his fire.

It’s building and building and building, and he knows just how to hold it, just how to keep going and never let up or break that perfect, mind-numbing tempo.

“There you go,” he whispers, soft, like he just can’t help himself.

I whimper.

“That’s it, baby. You come apart so pretty for me. Good girl,” he urges, his fingers threaded through mine above my head.

I look into his eyes and seehim.

I shatter, gripping him tight—inside and out.

Orgasm twists in my belly, clenches in my pussy as I finish hard and that white-hot relief sweeps through my veins. He rides it out, harder and faster again, giving in to the relentless fucking that I suddenly hear and feel in crystal-cold clarity.

My Ren was right there, for one perfect moment. Then he vanished again. Replaced by the man riding me like an animal, fucking me hard and fast, with nothing in his expression except blazing-hot need. Using me to get himself off. He groans low and comes inside me with a crashing force. He lurches over me, finishing with the line of his body taut, every muscle exquisitely defined as he holds that tension for a long, shuddering moment.

Finally, Ren slumps over me. We stay locked like that for a moment, shaking in the aftershocks of our individual pleasure. Time feels meaningless in those first few moments after, but eventually, he pulls out and rolls away.

My chest heaves. My throat and lungs burn raw from trying to gulp down too much air. I push strands of hair back from my face and it comes away damp. It was so good, my hands are still shaking.

The aftermath is silent.

I don’t know what to say. Maybe if I knew how he felt—if I knew which side of him I was talking to. Even then, I don’t know what I would say. I want to tell him I missed him. But I’m afraid that will ruin it.

He slings his legs over the edge of the bed, sitting up, leaving me with just his back to look at, the planes of muscle and broad shoulders and the crevice of his spine. I sit up, the covers pooling. He’s looking at his hand, flexing the fingers of his wounded hand.

“Are you alright?” I ask, trying to reach out for him. He ignores my question and pulls his hand away, turning to look at me instead. In the aftermath, all the heat has been zapped out of the room. It feels more personal now that the wall of emotion and tension lays crumbled between us, both of us left exposed in the aftermath.

“I’m fine.”

“Does it hurt?”

“No,” he says offhandedly, almost as if it surprises him. His attention turns back to me. “Where are your scars, Nadia?” he asks, flipping it around back on me. I tense as he looms over me again.

It’s a stupid question. Just because I can’t show them to him, it doesn’t mean I don’t have them.

I take his hand and glide it to my chest, press his palm over the slowing beat of my heart.

“Right here,” I say.

He scoffs.

“You think I haven’t missed you, Ren? That these past few years haven’t been hell for me?“Ren,” I implore when he doesn’t answer. He looks at me one last time, his eyes sweeping over me, as if trying to decide whether he believes me or not. He leaves me sitting there as he walks into the bathroom and closes the door, his mind still made up.

12

Nadia

If Ren wants us to play at being a proper husband and wife, I can play that game, too. More importantly, I canbeathim at it. If we’re going to fuck and fight like a married couple, then we’re going to do the rest of the charade, the full dog and pony show.

Ren has thought about this for six years. He keeps going on and on about it. I’m not impressed. I, once upon a time, was a little girl with no worries and all the money she could ever want. I have daydreamed about being married formy whole life. Ren has stepped into the ring with the wrong bitch; he just doesn’t know it yet.

As the days pass, I help myself to Ren’s lifestyle. I share his bed; I waltz around the house in his stolen shirts and sweatpants; I casually swipe pieces of food off his dinner plate; I put my legs up in his lap when he sits down on the couch after Harper asks us to look at her homework.

Ren got what he wanted—putting me under him again, fucking me in his bed and branding his love bites on my neck—and he thinks he’s torturing me with it.

I play the role of his wife, and I torture him right back. He starts watching me like I’m walking around with a knife instead of a smile.

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