Page 47 of The Mafia King's Baby

I silence her with my mouth, using my tongue to explore her slit. She tastes like salt and sweetness and I can’t get enough. I lick and lap at her sheath and clit, tracing my tongue up and down her. The sounds she makes when I find her most sensitive spots make me harder than I’ve ever been.

I build her pleasure slowly, learning what makes her arch off the bed, what makes her cry out my name, and what makes her thighs tremble around my head. When she’s close to the edge, I pull back, earning a frustrated whimper. I give her a look of sympathy. “Not yet. I want to feel how tight you are when come on my cock.”

I remove the last of my clothes and position myself above her, supporting my weight on my forearms so I can watch her face. Grasping the base of my shaft, I run the head down her slick slit, making both of us gasp, before finding her opening. When I push inside her slowly, savoring every inch, her eyelids flutter closed and her mouth opens in a silent gasp.

“Look at me.”

She opens her eyes, and I see everything there—desire, trust, and something deeper that makes my heart ache. This isn’t just physical release or temporary comfort. This is genuine connection that’s real and profound and terrifying in its different degrees.

We move together with increasing urgency, finding a rhythm that builds toward something inevitable. I watch her face, memorizing every expression, every sound, and every sign that she’s climbing toward the edge of control. Thrusting harder and deeper into her, I reach between us to stroke her clit, keeping my hips ever moving. “Come for me,” I whisper. “Let me feel you.” As I say that, I gently pinch her clit, applying a touch of pain withthe pleasurable pressure that makes her stiffen, and her eyes widen.

She comes hard, arching beneath me with a cry that she muffles against my shoulder. The feeling of her sheath contracting around my cock and the way she says my name like it’s the only word that matters pushes me over the edge, and I follow her with a groan that carries everything I can’t say out loud, spilling my seed inside her.

Afterward, we lie tangled together in the lamplight, her head on my chest while I stroke her hair. The argument about Washington seems distant now and far less important than the connection we’ve just deepened.

17

Celia

Iwake to the sound of quiet voices in the hallway outside my room. For a moment, I’m disoriented, caught between sleep and consciousness, before the events of last night flood back. Yefrem’s hands on my skin, the way he whispered my name like a prayer, and the feeling of being completely connected to another person for the first time in longer than I care to admit.

The space beside me in bed is empty but still warm. He must have slipped out only minutes ago to avoid being seen leaving my room, maintaining some semblance of professional distance for his men’s benefit. The consideration touches me more than it should.

I stretch beneath the sheets, feeling the pleasant ache in muscles that reminds me of everything we shared. My body carries the memory of his touch, and I find myself smiling despite the uncertainty that awaits us today.

The voices in the hallway grow clearer as I become more alert, recognizing Yefrem and Leonid discussing logistics in rapid Russian punctuated by occasional English phrases. I catch fragments about routes and timing, about Washington being a “fucking minefield” in Leonid’s heavily accented voice.

I shower quickly and dress in more of the clothes Leonid somehow procured for me, opting for dark jeans, a fitted black sweater, and boots that look both practical and expensive.

When I emerge from my room, I find them both in the kitchen. Leonid stands at the stove making what smells like exceptional bacon, while Yefrem reviews documents spread across the small table. They both look up when I enter, and I catch something passing between them, a quick exchange that feels significant but goes too fast for me to interpret.

“Good morning.” I pour myself coffee from the pot Leonid gestures toward, noting that it’s as strong and perfect as it smelled.

“Sleep well?” Yefrem’s question carries layers of meaning, and the way his gaze lingers on my face makes heat rise in my cheeks.

“Very well.” I take a seat across from him, close enough to see the documents he’s reviewing are maps and surveillance photos. “What’s the plan?”

Leonid and Yefrem exchange another look, and this time I catch the silent communication that speaks of years working together and trust built through shared danger with mutual dependence.

“We leave within the hour,” Yefrem says, gathering the papers into a neat stack. “It’s about thirty-six hours if we push hard and rotate drivers. We’ll take one overnight stop. If all goes well, we’ll hit D.C. the night after next.”

“I’m coming with you.” I say it as a statement rather than a question, but there’s still uncertainty in my voice.

Yefrem is quiet for a long moment, his coffee cup suspended halfway to his lips. “Yes. Against my better judgment and Leonid’s strong objections, you’re coming with us.”

Relief floods through me, followed immediately by anxiety about what I’ve talked myself into. Washington D.C., meeting with corrupt federal officials, and navigating a world where the wrong word or gesture could get all of us killed terrifies me, but the alternative—staying behind while Yefrem walks into danger—feels impossible to accept.

“Thank you.”

He shakes his head. “Don’t thank me yet. You might change your mind after spending all those hours in an SUV with us.”

Leonid snorts from the stove. “She might change her mind after five minutes of your driving.”

“My driving is exemplary.”

The other man makes a sound of disbelief. “Your driving is terrifying. Remember Prague?”

“Prague was different. We were being pursued.”

---