Page 107 of Double Trouble for the Mafia Prince
I don’t know what I believe.
I know what I saw.
I know what it means.
I know that access string was never meant to resurface, and I know who created it with me.
But belief is something else.
Belief is choosing sides before the evidence is final.
"I don’t know," I whisper. And then I kiss him.
He grabs the back of my head like he’s afraid I’ll vanish, and I bite his lip hard enough to taste copper.
His groan rips straight into my spine.
I shove him back against the wall, or maybe he pulls me forward.
I don’t know.
All I know is the rough scrape of stone against my back as he turns me and presses me into it, his thigh pushing between mine, his hands beneath my shirt, fingers bruising the skin over my ribs.
I claw at his belt, yanking it loose with more desperation than skill, and he groans when I grip him through his trousers.
We don't speak or slow.
He pulls my underwear down without ceremony.
One hand wraps around my throat, not to choke, but to steady.
The other lifts my leg around his hip.
His cock slides against me once, slick from nothing but my body’s betrayal, and then he’s inside.
All the way.
At once.
My back arches as I moan out loud, as he pins me between the wall and the length of him.
His mouth is at my shoulder, biting, breathing, whispering nothing.
My nails dig into his arms.
I don’t care if they leave marks.
I want them to.
The world narrows.
There is only this.
Only heat and pressure and the sound of our bodies crashing into each other like waves against rocks.
My hair sticks to my face.
My throat burns from holding in sound.
