Page 128 of Double Trouble for the Mafia Prince
Her arms wrap around my back, her palms splayed against my ribs as if to hold herself together.
She is making those sounds now—half gasps, half moans—soft, reverent, like prayers whispered in secret chapels.
I kiss her throat.
Her breasts.
Her stomach.
I drag my tongue along her skin like I am starving and she is the only thing that will feed me.
She whimpers when I grind against her clit, when I stay deep and just move my hips in slow, rough circles, pressing all of me into the places that make her forget how to breathe.
Our bodies speak what our mouths won’t.
Her legs shake when I pull out almost entirely and thrust back in, hard enough to drag a cry from her throat.
She pulls me down and bites my lip when I kiss her.
I taste blood.
Hers or mine, I don’t know.
I don't care.
The sounds fill the room.
My name under her breath.
Her breath in my ear.
The slick, obscene sounds of skin on skin, of her cunt dragging wet over my cock again and again until I have to grit my teeth to keep from spilling into her too soon.
She flips me without warning, straddling my hips in one smooth motion.
The shirt she wore is gone.
Her skin is flushed.
Her hair is wild.
She plants both palms on my chest and sinks down on me, slowly, fully, unblinking.
She starts to ride me.
Not frantic.
Not performative.
Her body takes me like it was made to, her pace steady, torturous, her muscles flexing around me every time she grinds down.
My hands find her hips, then her ass, then the small of her back.
I dig my fingers in to anchor her.
She moans when I do.
Then she leans forward, her forehead pressed to mine, her breath breaking over my mouth with every thrust.
