Page 135 of Dirty Mafia King
She squeals as I haul her over my shoulder and head for our bed.
Ourbed. Madonna Mia.
I toss her onto the mattress. She bounces three times before flailing backward, but my clothes are off and I’m on her before she recovers.
Straddling her hips, I allow her time to catch her breath.
Our eyes lock.
I hold up the same two fingers she got off on.
She licks her lips, thinking this will be a repeat performance.
Wrong. I curl my digits beneath the gown’s collar, then rip the goddamn gown from neckline to waist.
She freaks. “You tore my wedding dress?”
“I’ll buy you another one.”
Her eyes grow impossibly wide.
Yeah, baby. Let that sink in.
“Okay,” she calmly states. Like she understands what I’m about when I still haven’t figured things out. Like she’s not the one about to be ruined.
I squeeze her breast.
Her eyes darken, an impossible shade of blue.
God, I’m going to fuck her so good, it’ll be like staring into the deepest ocean.
I part her legs with a thigh. “Roll up onto your elbows.”
“Why?”
I cock an eyebrow. “So you can watch how a good little girl takes a man’s dick.”
“Oh,” she gasps, and then bites her lip. Hesitant? Worried I’m about to destroy her?
“Can I touch it?”
I curl my fingers over her hand and bring it toward my swollen cock.
She brushes my hand away, and then, taking me in her palm, strokes me hard.
“My hand won’t fit around it.”
I grit my teeth. She’s a fucking natural.
“You feel incredible.”
My cock jerks, and she gasps.
“You frightened?”
“Yes and no.” Her voice is low, her tone raw with need. “Ever since I saw you in Italy, I’ve wondered how you’d feel.”
I freeze. “What?”
