Page 64 of Secret Baby for the Italian Mafia King

She sounds like she’s been swallowing sand, her voice a dry, broken crack.

“Ren please, oh fuck, get me out of this—I need it—”

She squirms against the restraints again, but I don’t let her go completely.

“Shh, shh,” I whisper, crowding over her, pressing my fingers to her lips. I wait until she’s looking up at me. Really seeing me above her and not just in a sex-induced haze. “I only took that off so I can hear you scream when you come for me.”

“Please,” she groans.

Her mouth is pink at the edges, her cheeks wet. God, I hate how beautiful she is. How she looks at me with those big, searching eyes, like I can save her. Like I can save her from me.

I put my hand on her pussy one last time, and this time, I keep the pressure, the rhythm. The mattress jerks under Nadia as she bucks and kicks against the pleasure running rampant through her belly again and again.

Her whole body is pink, sweaty, primed for this moment. She lets out a sharp, almost pained gasp as she gets right there, right there—

I see her come undone. And it’s always a little different every time. Just like sex. Sometimes, she goes very still, like she has to hold every muscle taut, just right, to keep the pleasure pumping for a long as possible. This time, she comes like she’s been shocked. Twisting and kicking and shuddering under me as she rolls onto her side and screams out just how I wanted. Her vocal chords strain through the pleasure.

She takes big heaving breaths through clenched teeth, sweat glistening down her face as it’s finally over. I must have had her like that for almost an hour, teetering and torturing her on the edge.

I roll her over onto the bed and unlace the sheets on her red wrists. She’s still shaking, eyes closed, breath just shy of erratic.

“Shhh.”

I draw her up to me, forehead to forehead. Drink in her pleasure and her exhaustion, that place where pain and rapture meet.

“Breathe,” I order. “Slow.”

She whimpers softly, like that big orgasm might still be fading out of her system. She matches my breathing and finally leans in, resting her head against mine. I run my palm over her flat, tense belly.

“…You have a funny idea of what constitutes torture,” Nadia finally breathes. The first words she manages to wrap her panting tongue around.

“I know exactly what torture is. I’m just not man enough to do it to you.” I lie beside her and absently stroke the back of my knuckles up her thigh.

“…Does it make you feel better?”

It’s such a juvenile question, it makes my skin crawl. Mainly because it does make me feel better. I clench and unclench my hand again. Nothing. No pain.

“Yes,” I admit.

She rubs the sweat and tears off her face, finally falling back into the pillow and staring up at the ceiling. The room smells like sex and her perfume.

“Is that why you let me do it?” When she looks at me, questioning, I add, “You never say no. You never act like you don’t want it.” She lets me have my way, lets me tie her up one moment while looking at me like I’m a monster the next. That’s a lot of trust to put in a monster, if that’s how she really sees me.

If she sees the truth, something in me corrects coldly.

“It was my idea,” she reminds me.

“Some of it was your idea,” I allow, my thumb tracing the red marks binding her wrists. “But not all of it. And you still let it happen.”

Nadia rolls toward me on her side, our bodies almost touching. But she leaves that inch of space between us, those few inches like a chasm, neither willing or able to jump it.

“...If I said no, would it matter?”

It sounds like an honest question, not an accusation, but it still annoys me that she would doubt it.

“Of course it would matter. I—” My defense of myself withers on my lips as I try to think of how stupid it would sound to her. After everything else that I have done, why would Nadia believe I have any lines that are uncrossable, any action unthinkable? Maybe I’m not even sure of it myself. Maybe I just know what I want to be true.

When I don’t continue, Nadia simply answers:

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