Page 101 of The Mafia Enforcer's Temptation
There she fucking is. In the foyer, shoving her feet into shoes. Something in me snaps. I would love to fucking chase her down in the streets, burn off the energy from the entire day. To kill the buzz of doubts and accusations in me with some good old-fashioned primal chase and play.
I want to dominate her, have her on her knees with my dick down her throat and me showing her just who her boss is.
No, I want her to fight and push back and release her claws. I want it all to be the perfect storm of anger, fight, and erotic desire.
Of needs hard fought for and killed.
But I can’t do that. I’m not letting her out. Not until I get some answers. So I grab her and throw her over my shoulder.
“Let me go, you bastard,” she says.
But I don’t. She struggles in my grip, punching my back.
I spank her damn hard. It only seems to incite her, though. She twists and bites as high up my back as she can get, her nails clawing my skin.
So I slap her again on her tight ass and stomp up the stairs, my dick rock hard.
When I get to the room I try to pull her off, but she’s not letting go, and we land on the bed in a heap. It doesn’t take much to roll her onto her back and I pin her down, rising up, her hands now above her head, her purple eyes spitting fire, black hair a wild storm around her.
She pushes up, her legs coming around me as she grinds into me.
Sweet Ava’s either a genius or can’t quite get hold of her responses to me.
I want to think it’s the latter as that’s where I am, but I can’t rule out the former.
“At first I thought with the Paddy-style bombs,” I murmur, “you shooting the Bombs ’R Us salesman dead?—”
“I didn’t,” she says, voice a hiss. “I was shooting at someone else to save your pathetic ass?—”
“—and all the other deaths that swirl around you, that you were trying to infiltrate my family.”
That’s a lie. In everything, I’ve never really thought that. But her face backs that up. She looks a little horrified.
But there’s also something else there, something I can’t decipher… Guilt? The problem is she might feel guilty believing Paddy. Or it could be for another reason or some other emotion.
“My problem is,” I mutter, biting down on her ear, her shiver a dynamic undulation against me and I want to be inside her. Now. “My problem is I keep coming back to you and Romanov. The crest. Your bratva. Why he’s still somehow in our lives. What’s the truth there?”
Her gaze flickers. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I told you he knew my family. That’s it.”
“I don’t believe you.”
Her eyes now flash fire at me. “I don’t care what you think or believe.”
“You really should.” I bite her throat and suck hard. “He’s not the type to seek help outside his many circles of allies. And we’ve made it clear we don’t want skin in his game. So why keep coming to us? Why dick around in our periphery? And why the fuck is he so interested in you?”
She struggles against me, and I just hold her in place. “I told you, he knew my father and stepmother.”
“The truth, Ava.”
“That is the truth.”
If she’s hiding something, she isn’t going to tell me. So I kiss her. I take my time, and it both calms and riles her. Calms her into slowly melting into me, and riles her into fighting me, but this time to get off my clothes, to pull me into her.
And I oblige.
I kiss my way down her body, pushing her dress up and through her panties, I breathe the musk of her in, the dampness an aphrodisiac of its own.
She’s something else, my sweet thing, and if there wasn’t a world of lies and hate between us, a gulf where trust should be, I’d dine on her until I passed out. I’d fuck her so stupid that neither one of us could walk.
