Page 7 of Dirty Mafia King
This stranger’s every dirty fantasy rolled into one human being.
From my safe position by the door, I can only guess his eye color—probably dark chocolate or midnight black to match his hair. He studies the women, his aura cold and calculating.
Unyielding.
The women wiggle and shift, impatient.
Is this the game? Deny them control? Make them beg for their pleasure?
“Please.” The redhead switches from Italian to English. “Your mouth.”
I squeeze my thighs together as my skimpy underwear grows wet.
He jerks his hand, like he’s been waiting for someone to speak, then snaps the flogger.
The leather licks the redhead’s private area. “Cavolo,” she screeches.
Sweet hell. That. Was. Hot. Did it hurt? Did it feel as wicked as it looked?
“I don’t kiss.” His growl is like the strum of a chord on a bass guitar and penetrates deep. “And I sure as fuck don’t eat pussy. Capisci?”
So selfish. So cruel.
“Otherwise … puoi avere qualsiasi modo si desidera.”You can have it any way you want.
My skin burns. I’ll need multiple ice buckets when this is over.
I’m not ready for it to be over.
Slowly, ever so slowly, he rolls up his sleeves. Lord, even his forearms are massive. Prowling forward, he drags the flogger in a line across their backsides. Deciding which woman to begin with? Showing them he’s built to pleasure them all?
I can almost feel the leather graze my tender skin. Would a sensualist like me writhe beneath those lashes? Yes, my inner voice answers. It’s why my undergarments are silk or light cotton. My French hairbrush made of the finest boar bristle. I swear even making pasta, digging my hands into moistened flour and shaping dough between my fingers, arouses my nervous system. Would I enjoy being tied up in silk? How would I respond to being flogged?
“Quale di voi troie sarà la prima?”Which of you sluts is first?
Oh. My. God.Me, please.
My body trembles, and the ice bucket slips in my arms. Cubes crash and the plastic lining crackles as I struggle to right the bucket. My stomach drops, the weight of what’s happened paralyzing me with fear. I stand half-hidden by the door and pray I wasn’t too loud.
Seconds that feel like hours tick by as the women beg for his attention.
“Lo sono la prima.”I’m first.
“La seconda.”Second.
“Non è giusto.”That’s not fair.
Goose bumps prick my skin. I’m flushed and skittish. Disaster averted, true—but do I stay?
Slowly, with great care and as silently as possible, I shift backward. One step. Two.
Thr—
The door’s ripped open, and his massive frame fills the space. His presence overwhelms my senses, and like a deer caught in headlights, I freeze. He’s ten timeseverythingup this close.
Handsome—like, drop-dead gorgeous—with tousled jet-black hair and dark drawn eyebrows, lusciously plump lips he never pleases a woman with, and a small, faded scar on his right cheek from the violent lifestyle he must lead.
Powerful, like he’d snap you in two without hesitation, his chest a wall of muscles, his broad body leaving little room in the doorframe.
