Page 28 of Double Trouble for the Mafia Prince
She shudders, and I feel it where we’re joined, feel it ripple through her like surrender and defiance caught in the same breath.
I pull out partway, then thrust back in harder, the desk creaking beneath her.
Her hands brace on the wood, knuckles white, her head turned to the side as I start to move—long strokes that build and buildand build, pressing deeper each time, claiming her in every way she won’t ask for.
The sound of skin meeting skin fills the space between our breaths.
Her moans are quiet, tightly held, like she’s still trying to prove she can take it without giving me the satisfaction.
I can fix that.
I grip her thigh and hoist one leg higher, locking it around my hip.
The shift in angle makes her gasp, sharp and sudden, and I smile against her cheek.
"That’s it," I growl into her ear, fucking her harder now. "Let me hear it."
She bites her lip, still resisting, and I reward that stubbornness with another thrust that knocks the breath from her lungs.
Her whole body clenches, her hands scrambling for purchase on the desk.
Her pussy squeezes me like she’s trying to milk every inch I give her.
It’s too good.
I could spend hours like this—driving into her until her legs stop working, until she can’t remember who started this war in the first place.
But I want more.
I want to see the moment her pride fractures entirely.
Her breathing is ragged now, uneven and open, the kind of sound that only comes from being pulled apart and remade with nothing but touch and intention.
I pull out and slide my hands along the curve of her hips and lift her effortlessly.
She’s pliant, still trembling, and I take my time repositioning her.
One hand settles on the small of her back, the other on her shoulder as I slowly turn her around and press her forward.
"Lean down," I murmur, my mouth brushing her ear. "Hands flat. Stay just like that."
She obeys, spine arching, hair falling like black silk over the polished walnut.
The muscles in her back shift beneath crimson silk, her ass bare and glinting faintly under the overhead lights.
I run my palm over the curve, as if reacquainting myself with a favorite weapon.
She doesn’t speak, but her breath catches again when I kneel just slightly behind her, adjusting her legs, spreading her open the way I want her.
Her submission here isn’t passive.
It’s chosen.
She offers it with her head high, her mouth taut with defiance, even as her body begs for more.
And that does something to me.
Twists something sharp and electric through my chest.
