Page 64 of The Mafia's Fake Wife

She pushes my shirt from my shoulders with impatient hands, fabric sliding down my arms until it whispers to the floor. Her palms, cool against my heated skin, explore my chest with reverence, following the black lines of ink that mark my body. Eagle wings spread across my shoulders represent authority. The crown on my ribcage is for leadership. The saints watching over me, the weapons protecting me… Each mark is a chapter in my bloody ascension through theBratva.

“So many,” she murmurs, fingertips hovering over the double-headed eagle sprawling across my pectorals.

When her exploration leads her to the puckered scar near my heart, where a 9mm round nearly punched my ticket three years ago in a warehouse ambush, she stills. Her expression softens. She’s seen the scar before but always avoided it and asking about it. This time, she leans forward, pressing warm lips against the damaged tissue.

“Elena,” I say softly, startled by such gentleness amid her frenzy.

The contrast splits something open inside me. Moments ago, she was clawing at me like a storm and is now kissing my wounds with such delicacy. I cup her face between my palms, stroking her cheekbones, and guide her gaze up to mine. “Look at me,” I command, needing to understand what burns behind her eyes tonight. “What’s happening here?”

“I need this,” she says, her eyes bright with unshed tears. “I need you.”

I don’t understand the emotion behind her words, but I understand need. I’ve needed Elena since the moment I saw her in that hospital, caring for Anton with competence and compassion. I’ve needed her in ways that transcend the physical,in ways I never thought possible for a man like me, whose life has been defined by blood and power rather than tenderness.

She pulls me down for another kiss, curling her fingers around the nape of my neck. “Please, Damir,” she whispers against my mouth. “I don’t want to think anymore.”

I surrender to her demand, claiming her lips with an urgency that matches her own. Her hands move to my belt, unfastening it with determined fingers that tremble slightly. The metal buckle clinks as she works it free, and the sound is sharp in the quiet room.

“Tell me what you need,” I murmur, thumbs tracing the curve of her hips.

“I want you to taste me, and then I want to taste you.” Her voice is raw with desire, each word falling between us like a challenge and a plea.

In her haste, she knocks over a stack of papers on my desk. They cascade across the floor in a white waterfall, contracts and reports I’d spent hours organizing now forgotten. Several leather-bound books follow, tumbling from the edge with heavy thuds against the hardwood.

“Leave them,” I say when her gaze flicks toward the mess. I cup her chin, drawing her attention back to me. She nods, a quick jerk of her head that sends her dark hair falling across her flushed face. Her breathing comes in shallow bursts, chest rising and falling rapidly beneath her blouse.

“Good,” I whisper in the quiet office.

Her fingers resume their work on my belt, fumbling slightly with the expensive leather. The metal buckle clinks as it comesundone. Neither of us looks at the cascade of documents around us at the multi-million-dollar contracts scattered like confetti, their importance evaporated in the heat between us.

The outside world has compressed to nothing but background noise as she drops to her knees before me, the sound of expensive fabric meeting hardwood floor surprisingly loud in the silence. Her hands slide down my thighs, apparently forgetting that she requested I taste her first.

“I thought you said—” I begin, but the words die in my throat when she unfastens the button of my tailored pants with nimble fingers.

My reminder dissolves when she pulls down my zipper with deliberate slowness, the rasp of metal teeth parting seeming to echo through the room. Her warm breath ghosts across my skin when she frees my cock from the confinement of my boxer briefs. The sight of her looking up at me, lips parted and eyes dark with want, makes any thought of stopping her vanish completely.

“Is this okay?” she asks, her voice husky with desire, wrapping her hand firmly around my shaft.

“More than okay,” I say, my voice rough with desire. I inhale sharply when she looks up at me with that devastating blend of innocence and hunger, her pupils dark and expansive.

A blow job is something I rarely allow from anyone. The vulnerability of it—surrendering control and exposing myself completely—has always seemed too dangerous. In my world, weakness invites betrayal. Yet with Elena, those instinctive barriers crumble.

I reach down, threading my fingers through her silky hair. The strands slip between my fingers like water as I gather them gently but firmly in my grasp. “I want to feel your mouth on my cock,” I whisper, guiding her head forward with the slightest pressure. My heartbeat skitters erratically as her lips part, her warm breath teasing my sensitive cock head.

There’s a question in her eyes—seeking permission, confirmation—and I answer with a subtle nod, tightening my grip just enough to communicate my need without forcing her.

She encompasses the tip in her warm mouth, closing her lips around me with a gentle pressure that sends a jolt up my spine. My breath catches when she takes me deeper, inch by inch, sliding her tongue along the underside until I feel my cock touch the back of her throat. The heat of her mouth is a vivid contrast to the cool air on my exposed skin.

“God, Elena,” I whisper, my voice rough with need.

She gazes up at me through dark lashes, a flicker of pride in her eyes as she slowly withdraws, creating a perfect suction that makes me grip her hair tighter. Then she begins to move in a steady rhythm, forward and back, with each stroke accompanied by the swirl of her tongue or the gentle scrape of teeth.

I moan, deep and low, my head falling back as I close my eyelids. My world narrows to this moment, to the wet heat of her mouth and the way her hands caress my thighs, kneading and stroking in time with her movements.

“Just like that,” I murmur, losing myself in her slick, skilled motions. Her fingers trace patterns on my skin that are tender explorations contrasting with the intensity building in my ballsand the base of my spine. Each touch feels like a claim, a possession, and I surrender to it completely.

I don’t want it to happen this way though, so I ease her back, lifting her with one arm and splaying her across my desk. More papers scatter, and a pen rolls to the floor with a soft clatter that neither of us acknowledges.

“What are you?—”

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