Page 22 of Mafia Don's Secret Heir
I do as he says, the water cascading over me as his hands find my waist. His touch is firm, commanding, but there’s a surprising gentleness in the way his fingers trail up my sides, exploring the curves he’s already claimed. “Beautiful girl,” he murmurs, his breath warm against my ear.
The words make me freeze. They’re simple, but coming from him, inthatvoice… God.
Luca doesn’t give me time to respond. He pulls me back against him, his body solid and warm, and suddenly the water isn’t the only thing that’s scalding. What follows is a blur of heat and tension, of whispered commands and breathless surrender. He doesn’t just touch me, he consumes me, drawing out parts of myself I didn’t know existed.
The heat of the water cascades down over me, but it’s nothing compared to what’s radiating from him. Luca’s hands are firm on my waist, his fingers pressing into my skin as he pulls me back against him. His body is solid, unyielding, and the feel of him against me makes my breath hitch.
His lips find my neck, brushing softly at first, then harder, his teeth grazing my skin. I gasp, my head falling back against his shoulder as his hands begin to move, sliding up my sides, exploring every curve. The roughness of his palms contrasts with the water, and the combination leaves me trembling.
“You don’t even know what you do to me,” he growls against my skin, his lips trailing lower, leaving a path of heat in their wake. His hands cup my breasts, his thumbs grazing over my nipples, and I can’t help the soft moan that escapes me.
“Luca…” I whisper, my voice shaky, but he’s not stopping. One hand slides lower, over the curve of my hip, until his fingers slip between my thighs. I gasp, my hands bracing against the tiled wall as he teases me, his touch deliberate, calculated, driving me insane.
“You’re so wet,” he mutters, his voice dark, satisfied. “And it’s not just the water, is it?”
I shake my head, unable to form words as his fingers circle the most sensitive part of me, his other hand keeping me pressed tightly against him. His cock is hard against my lower back, and the reminder of just how much he wants me sends a fresh wave of heat rushing through me.
“Say it,” he demands, his voice rough but calm. “Tell me how much you want this.”
“I want you,” I breathe, my voice breaking as his fingers move faster, pushing me higher. “I need you, Luca.”
“Good girl,” he growls, his teeth grazing my shoulder before he turns me around in one swift motion. The water runs over his face, making his dark hair cling to his forehead, but his eyes burn into mine, sharp and unrelenting.
Before I can catch my breath, he lifts me, pressing me against the cool tile. My legs wrap around his waist instinctively, my arms finding his shoulders as he positions himself at my entrance.
“Look at me,” he commands, his voice low and filled with heat. “I want to see your face when I take you.”
I meet his gaze, and the intensity there steals whatever resistance I might have had left. He thrusts into me in one hard motion, and I cry out, my head falling back as he fills mecompletely. The stretch is exquisite, the fullness overwhelming, and when he starts to move, I’m lost.
The rhythm he sets is relentless, each thrust harder, deeper, his body slamming into mine with a force that makes the water tremble around us. His hands grip my thighs, holding me steady as he drives into me, his lips finding my neck, my jaw, my mouth.
“You take me so perfectly,” he mutters against my lips, his voice strained, raw. “Like you were made for me.”
I can’t answer, too consumed by the pleasure building inside me, the way his cock drags against every sensitive spot with ruthless precision. My cries grow louder, echoing in the steam-filled space as his pace quickens, his control slipping.
“That’s right,” he mutters, his thrusts growing erratic as he circles my clit with his thumb, sending me spiraling over the edge. My orgasm is swift, my body trembling around him as I scream his name.
He doesn’t stop, driving into me harder, his own groans mixing with my cries until he lets out a guttural sound, spilling into me as his body shudders. His forehead presses against mine, his breath hot and ragged, and for a moment, we’re both still, wrapped in the aftermath of what just happened.
By the time the water starts to cool, I’m left trembling and raw, leaning against him for support as the steam clears. Luca brushes a strand of wet hair from my face, his green eyes darker now, heavy with a nameless emotion. “Get dressed, and join me in the dining room,” he says, his voice gone soft, though it still holds that undeniable authority. “We have a long day ahead.”
I nod, unable to speak as he steps out of the shower, leaving me alone with the cooling water and the echoes of what just happened. As the door shuts behind him, I press my forehead against the tile, trying to steady my breath.
This is my life now—an intoxicating, terrifying mix of dominance and tenderness, of being seen and consumed all at once. I clean up and dress in a forest-green blouse and a plaid skirt, chosen by his team under his supervision. The entire wardrobe had been arranged before I ever set foot on the estate. It doesn’t escape me that he knows my figure to the letter; the clothes fit snugly, warm where they need to be, flattering without ever appearing accidental. A touch of makeup, hair swept into a neat bun, and I head toward the dining room.
Just like the rest of this place, it is stunning. Sunlight floods the space through towering windows, bathing the room in an almost ethereal warmth. The marble floors gleam underfoot, their golden veins twisting like trails on a map, and the walls are adorned with dark wood paneling that exudes quiet authority.
The table is massive, its surface polished to a mirror-like finish and set with pristine white linens edged in intricate Sicilian lace. Along its length are bursts of color and life, vases filled with fragrant lemon blossoms, sprigs of olive, and soft clusters of lavender. The room hums with a restrained elegance, a reminder that power doesn’t always shout.
Luca is already seated at the head of the table.
He sits there like a king surveying his domain, one hand resting lightly on the arm of his chair, the other cradling a steaming cup of espresso. Even in his silence, he commands the room. There’s something infuriatingly effortless about the way he occupies space, like the walls were built just to frame him.
I sink into the chair he’s already pulled out for me, to his right. Over the next few minutes, breakfast is served. Plates of freshly baked brioche and crunchy biscotti are laid alongside bowls of blood oranges sliced into perfect crescents. Honey, ricotta, and jars of apricot jam glisten in the morning light, and the air is fragrant with the scent of warm cornetti stuffed with almond cream.
Not having eaten properly in the last few days, my mouth waters.
Luca’s voice pulls me from my thoughts. “Eat, Valentina,” he says, his tone smooth. “You’ll need your strength.”
