Page 6 of Dirty Mafia King
The man’s sharp order stops me short. My key tumbles to the carpet as my grip slips on the bucket, though I catch it before it falls. Ice cubes clatter as silence descends over the room across from mine. Did I imagine it? The whiskey-toned timbre intertwining with each word, the sinful seduction sharpening the edges? Is heatstroke wreaking havoc on my mind?
Breathlessly, I wait, until a woman groans.
The door is half-open.Anyonecould hear them.
Swallowing hard, I crouch to scoop up my room key.
His voice rolls over me once more, a hushed, indecipherable rumble. Warmth doesn’t just fill me, it sets me on fire. I wobble on my heels, my position awkward; the wicked depravity within the man’s dirty promisesexhilarating.
I place an unsteady hand on the carpet and strain my ears.
“Chiudi gli occhi e piegati.” His cold tone cuts through ice.Close your eyes and bend over.
My lower lip actually trembles.
Oh Lord. This is a test, right? Not divine intervention but a force pulling me in another direction, toward hellish temptation.
“Stay out of trouble tonight, Sissy.”
I squeeze my eyes shut and ignore the impulse to do something I really, really shouldn’t do.
“Facciamo un gioco?”
Want to play a game?
Yes.Please.
Crippling shyness will disarm the most courageous women. Forcing you to retreat from danger and sheltering you from less sensitive people. Protection from advantage-seeking bullies. Safety, with sacrifice. It doesn’t mean you’re cowardly or lack gumption. It doesn’t mean you resist being drawn to the occasional guilty pleasure.
Do it, Sissy. Live a little.
I’m compelled toward their room, and although I can recite one hundred and one reasons why this is a bad idea, I ignore each and every one of them. Ever so carefully, I peer around the door. Then blink, and blink again.
Oh. Sweet. Lord.
Not one. Not two. But three women are bent over a massage table. On their toes, maid uniforms raised to their waists, and bare bottoms lined up and presented to a tall man in a suit. His broad back is to me, so my attention shifts to the women; a brunette, a redhead, a blonde. Coincidence? Or is it intentional? A needy hum rumbles from the brunette’s throat. A handprint marks the redhead’s pale cheek. The blonde waits in anticipation.
They’re not really maids, right? This is ascene.
My eyes dart back to the man. His stance oozes power and harsh, sexual energy. His presence is dangerous and undeniable. They don’t stand a chance against this big beast. He’d ravish any woman—women, more viking plunderer than billionaire playboy.
The brunette parts her thighs. “Vieni e accarezzamimio.”
Come and caress me.
“Do gli ordini, piccolo troia.” Hand drawing high, he smacks her hard.I give the orders, you little slut.
My breath hitches in my throat.
And then, he turns.
My lips part on a long exhale as my eyes feast on him with a slow upward drag.
Big bare feet. Dress pants hanging from his hip bones. Deliciously wicked V-cut accentuated by fine black hair rises from the material. Eight-pack abs. Massive muscular chest. Long, large fingers wrapped around a black leather flogger. Corded arms. Thick neck. And …oh…wow.
His handsome face defines temptation. Perfect Roman nose. High cheekbones. Midnight stubble on his jawline and chin. Lips drawn tight. And he’s older—likely in his thirties. A man, through and through. Cocky and self-assured. Confident in his power. I grip the ice bucket tighter as butterflies dance in my stomach.
God help me, he’s sexy. In a dirty, animalistic way. Like he’d mount you from behind and bite your neck as he pounds into you.
