Page 12 of Double Trouble for the Mafia Prince
No submission.
Just fire.
I thrust back in, hard and deep.
The girl beneath me cries out again, louder this time, clutching at the sheets.
But in my head, it’s Gianna’s thighs I’m spreading wider.
Gianna’s nails clawing down my back. Gianna’s voice breaking as I drive into her like I’m trying to erase every man who came before me.
I press my palm to the girl’s chest, pinning her down, watching her breath stutter and her mouth fall open in a desperate moan.
But it’s not her moan I hear.
I lose myself as the girl’s breath comes in quick, desperate gasps, her body jerking with each thrust.
My hand wraps around her throat, light enough not to hurt, firm enough to own her for this moment.
"I want to see you break," I whisper, not to her, but to the woman in my mind.
My release crests, heat building fast in my spine, in my gut, in the base of my skull.
My hips snap harder, faster, my hand tightening just slightly.
I keep my eyes shut, riding the image of Gianna's lips parted in shock, her name tattooed in the rhythm of my pulse.
The girl breaks first, her body seizing around me in rhythmic, fluttering pulses as she comes with a high, shuddering whimper that melts into the pillows.
Her cunt tightens with exquisite desperation, the slick clench of her aftershock coaxing the edge from my spine like a match dragged across stone.
I draw out fast, one hand gripping her hip to steady the tremble in her legs and spill across the curve of her ass in thick, hot stripes.
The girl tries to speak, but I lift a hand without looking at her.
"Not a word."
She quiets.
I step back into my trousers, buttoning them slowly as I watch her in the gilded mirror—chest rising in uneven rhythm, thighs still trembling, lips swollen from too much pleasure and too little control.
I reach into the inside pocket of my coat and pull out a clipped stack of bills.
Neat.
New.
My driver folds them that way.
I drop the stack on the velvet stool beside the bed, not bothering to count.
"Clean yourself up," I say, brushing my sleeves smooth, my voice back to the cool, clean timbre that makes men underestimate me.
I don’t wait for her answer, and step out into the perfumed hallway.
Mirella is where she always is, on a throne of crimson leather behind a beaded curtain.
Her hair is silver and coiled, pinned in a style two decades out of fashion but still regal.
