Page 65 of The Mafia's Fake Wife

“Shhh,” I murmur against her thigh. “Let me take care of you first.”

Her skirt falls across her stomach, bunching around her waist. The sight of her like this—spread across my mahogany desk where I’ve signed death warrants and business deals alike—makes something primal rise in me. I push aside the black silk triangle covering her moist pussy, grazing her slick folds with my fingertips.

“Damir...” She gasps, arching her back slightly off the desk.

I bend my mouth to her, running my tongue along her slit in one long, deliberate stroke. She tastes like salt and sweetness, like everything I’ve denied myself. Her thighs quiver on either side of my head, and I grip them firmly, holding her in place while I worship her with my mouth.

She quivers beneath my mouth, trembling against my face. A high, desperate whine escapes her throat as she rocks against my tongue, seeking more friction and more pressure. I grip her hips tighter, anchoring her to the mahogany desk.

“God, Damir, right there.” She grasps for my buzzed hair, digging fingers into my scalp.

I’ve tasted her countless times—mapped every fold and every sensitive spot—but the hunger never diminishes. Each time feels like a revelation. I flatten my tongue against her swollen clit, drawing slow circles as her breathing quickens.

“Is this what you need?” I murmur against her flesh, the vibration making her hips buck.

Her answer comes as a breathy, “Yes,” that sends heat straight to my throbbing cock.

I adjust my approach based on her body’s tells—pressing harder when she grinds down, flicking lightly when she tenses in anticipation, or sucking gently when she tugs at my hair. Her cream coats my lips and chin. The taste of her, sweet and primal, makes me groan against her pussy.

She stiffens suddenly, arching her back completely off the desk. A raw, guttural sound tears from deep in her chest as her release hits. Her inner walls pulse and contract around my tongue while her thighs clamp around my head as waves of pleasure roll through her body.

She cries out, her voice breaking and fingers clutching at whatever she can reach—my shoulder, the edge of the desk, and finally, some scattered papers now damp with sweat.

I don’t stop until she pushes weakly at my forehead, oversensitive and spent. Then I just reposition, dragging her toward me until her ass reaches the desk’s edge, her skin sliding across the polished wood. I grip her thighs, spreading her legs wide so I can step between them, trembling with need.

“I need to be inside you.” My voice is rough with desire. “Right now.”

She stares into my eyes as I align myself with her pussy, still slick from her release. When I push inside, the sensation nearly blinds me—tight, wet heat enveloping me inch by agonizing inch.

“Elena…” I groan, starting to move with urgent, powerful thrusts that shake the desk beneath her. Papers scatter to the floor while I grip her hips, pulling her onto me with each movement.

I’m almost feral in my need, driven beyond rational thought by the sight of her flushed cheeks, swollen lips, and eyelids half-closed with pleasure. Beneath my desperate pace, I realize she’s matching me thrust for thrust, her hips rolling to meet mine, while her hands grip my shoulders, pulling me closer.

She’s not just taking what I give. She’s claiming me in return. Each whispered “yes” and breathless moan tells me she’s choosing this moment, choosing me, with complete awareness.

The realization pushes me over the edge. My rhythm falters as pressure builds at the base of my spine, coiling tightly before exploding through me. My cock spasms, and I roar her name as I come, burying shaft deeply inside her while my entire body shudders with release. “Mine,” I say in a rough growl against her neck, unable to stop the possessive word from escaping.

To my surprise, she strokes my hair. “Yours,” she says gently, her voice breaking. “I’m yours. You’re mine.”

The admission stuns me. From the beginning, Elena has maintained her independence, reminding me our arrangement is temporary, though I haven’t heard her say that in weeks. Now, she’s surrendering, not just her body but something more.

She’s not fighting anymore. She’s choosing this. Choosingme. For a moment, the world narrows to just this as I savor Elenain blissful aftermath in my arms, choosing me despite knowing exactly who and what I am.

19

Elena

Iwake up before dawn, my stomach churning with a familiar nausea that’s been plaguing me for the past week. Damir’s arm across my waist feels heavier than usual as I carefully slide out from beneath it. He stirs slightly, mumbling something in Russian before rolling onto his other side.

I tiptoe to the bathroom, closing the door with a soft click before turning on the light. The marble floor is cold against my bare feet as I lean against the counter, studying my reflection in the mirror. My face looks the same with dark circles under my eyes from hospital shifts, but otherwise normal. Yet something inside me has changed.

I’ve been a medical student long enough to recognize the signs. The nausea. The fatigue. The tenderness in my breasts. The missed periods that I’ve been trying to convince myself are just stress.

My hands shake as I lift my phone to dial Liv’s number, praying she hasn’t gone to bed yet after finishing her night shift. She answers on the third ring, yawning. “Elena? What’s wrong?”

I turn on the shower to mask my voice, sitting on the edge of the massive bathtub. “I think I might be pregnant,” I whisper, the words feeling strange on my tongue.

The line goes silent for a moment. She’s probably suppressing the urge to say something like “Duh” since she tried to bring it up to me yesterday evening. “Have you taken a test?”

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