Page 81 of Ruthless Mafia Boss 3: Vino and Claire

My eyes rolled back as I moaned, “Vino,” while my fingers tangled in his silky hair.

His tongue flicked my clit, and I hollered, “Fuck.”

He held me there, tongue relentless, until I came hard and fast, gasping his name.

“You know I need to kiss those lips every morning,” he growled, settling back before resuming his meal.

What a rush. It felt amazing knowing my pussy was my fiancé’s favorite delicacy. A delicious shiver shot up my spine at the thought.

“Yeah, I know,” I replied with a wicked smirk, squeezing my thighs together.

I realized I’d have to take another shower. I couldn’t possibly go into the office with cum filling my panties and slipping down my leg.

“I’m off to shower,” I announced as I turned toward the bathroom.

Then the question I’d been meaning to ask suddenly surfaced. Peeking over my shoulder, I said, “Quick question—this keeps slipping my mind.”

“What’s up?” he asked, shoveling a forkful of pancakes into his mouth.

“Why did you send Michelangelo ground chuck? Does it mean something?”

Vino chuckled. “Yeah, it means I sent some of his men back to him.” His eyes darkened. “As ground chuck.”

Suddenly, I wasn’t sure I could ever look at ground chuck the same way again.

“Oh. That’s quite the image.”

The thought of my soon-to-be husband dispatching his enemy as ground chuck sent shivers down my spine. Was it wrong that I found it arousing? I couldn’t quite say. I was getting more entangled in this mafia life, and I eagerly anticipated the day I’d confront Ivan and his bitch of a wife, Polina, both of whom had stolen my power years ago, and now I was reclaiming it. A sinister grin spread across my face as I turned on the shower, clearly influenced by my mafia boss fiancé.

A sharp wave of nausea slammed into me. I dropped to my knees, clutching the toilet as I heaved, like my insides were trying to escape. Bacon and pancakes betrayed me now, too? What the hell was left?

I groaned and leaned over the bowl, praying it was just the flu and not something more serious. Maybe a nasty bug. I needed something stronger than a Z-pack. Time to book a doctor’s appointment.

Fingers brushed my hair back, lifting it from my clammy neck.

“Are you sick?” Vino asked behind me, voice low and concerned.

“I think so. I might have the flu. I have to oversee a project today, but I promise I’ll see the doctor during my lunch break,” I replied, swiping the back of my hand across my mouth as I stood up.

Vino flushed the toilet and stepped back. He watched me rinse my mouth and wash my hands, his expression unreadable.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” I asked, grabbing my toothbrush.

“Maybe you’re pregnant. First the jam, now pancakes? Your stomach’s been rebelling a lot lately.”

Holding the toothpaste firmly, I stopped in the middle of squeezing. “I’m on birth control, Vino,” I said, placing the toothpaste back in the drawer before starting to brush my teeth.

He moved in behind me, wrapping his arms around my waist, his lips brushing the curve of my neck. “My swimmers are relentless. Those pills never stood a chance.”

I smirked around my toothbrush. “We’ll see what the doctor says.”

I wanted this life with him. Every day he made me feel like the most cherished woman on earth. But babies? Right now? I wasn’t sure. My career was finally gaining traction. My Milan runway debut was set for next year, thanks to my benefactor, pumping funds into my company.

On my drive into the city, I called the doctor to make an emergency appointment. When I arrived at work, my staff bombarded me with a barrage of questions. I could barely set my bag on my desk.

As I surveyed the bustling studio, warmth blossomed in my chest. I loved what I did for a living. No matter how much I cherished my home fashion design studio, nothing compared to chatting with my team in person. Eventually, I even planned to allow a few staff members to work from my home when I couldn’t make it into New York. I smiled as I thought about living in Jersey and being chauffeured to work. So much had changed in the past seven months.

I moved through the space, checking their work, when I noticed one seamstress using the wrong fabric for a design. “Meela, that’s the wrong fabric.”

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