Page 77 of Dirty Mafia King
I’ve indulged in every kink imaginable, many times.
Except break in a virgin.
It must be the novelty of feeling her tight virgin throat gagging on my bull. Of being the first. Of teaching her exactly what I like. Of forcing her submission. She’s uncharted territory. Virgin throat. Virgin pussy. Virgin ass.
Virgineverything.
My cock stirs.
The blond licks her plump lips. Cristo. Close your eyes, fuckhead.
I’m just about to do so—then shove inside her and keep shoving until I come—when movement on the security screen snatches my attention.
The golfer … wrapping himself around Alessia like motherfucking plastic wrap.
“Go,” I thunder.
The three women scramble, grabbing their discarded clothing as they go. But they’re not quick enough.
“Out.”
They race from the room as I pick up my cell and tap out a message to Freido.
Grab that clingy motherfucker and drag him to the front gate.
Seconds later, Freido responds.
Who?
He’s got his mitt on her arm now.
The golf pro.
On it.
I toss my cell on my desk, then pull up my boxers and tuck myself away. I watch and wait for several minutes, until the guards race toward the golfer, grab him, and drag him away.
I snatch up another biscotti and snap it into halves.
Saturday night is the party. If I can’t take the edge off then, there’s no telling what—orwho—I’ll break in two.
CHAPTER28
BASTIAN
Humming greets me as I enter the kitchen. Alessia is at the stove, stirring something inside a pot and oblivious to my arrival. Damp locks curl across the back of her neck. Her skin is tan from days by the pool, and a day spent golfing. Her body sways in unison with her stirring, and her ass gyrates while she cooks.
The little cocktease doesn’t even realize her power.
Scowling, I pour myself red wine from a crystal decanter. Such a rule follower, isn’t she, allowing the wine to breathe this way?
I drain the glass before taking a seat at the island and serving myself another.
The kitchen smells like a five-star restaurant. Did she prepare the lamb dish like I asked? My stomach growls, so I hope it’s a yes. After eating gourmet chips and fucking guacamole, and other healthy California cuisine, a real meal will brighten my mood.
My mind turns to business while I wait for her to notice me. Progress in Atlanta is slower than anticipated. Especially compared to what Sandro’s accomplished in New York. Permits have been approved, even those for the retail paperwork for the outdoor shopping plaza. A construction crew is waiting to break ground. Yet Dante hasn’t set a date.
He tells me it’s because of material issues. Which is bullshit—in the mafiosi world, no such thing exists. Construction is our typical revenue stream. The right men, the right pressure—monetary or physical—and things get done.
