Page 22 of Claimed By the Mobster
“We will. But tell me what you want now.”
7
ANWYN
In six months of spending Saturday evenings together in his office, the recurring fantasy I’ve had is so cliché I’m almost embarrassed.
But there’s a risk this is the one and only time, so there’s no room for my shyness. “Will you take me on your desk?”
He slants one eyebrow. “You want me to lay you across the table and devour you, like I’ve lost control?”
I nod rapidly. Ohyeah. That. So much that.
With a reckless throw of his arm, he sweeps everything off the shiny wood. The glass paperweight, all his reports and chunky pens, books, and even his computer peripheries of keyboard and mouse, all crash to the floor. The paperweight rolls then smacks against a bookcase, bouncing off into a rustle of papers then coming to a standstill. The quiet is punctuated by my gasps for air and Ben’s deep rasps. The dark shiny wood is exposed, ready for me to be defiled.
It’s what I wanted. Ben to lose control, yet I’m as horrified as I am excited. He’s seen inside my head and—
“Turn around.”
The shock makes me stone. But not normal stone. Magma, heavy and burning hot. Impossible. Elemental. As with all those evenings together, he’s so dominant and bossy that my clit jumps at his order.
Ben levels me with a haughty look and as my cheeks flush, I obey.
There’s a pause. I know what’s coming, but I wait.
“Bend over.” His voice is soft and calm, but commanding.
I do that too, laying my cheek on the cool wood. And even though I’m clothed, and so is he, it feels filthy. My breasts press into the polished table, and my slit is flooded with yet more arousal at how my bottom is in the air.
“Pull up your skirt.”
I quickly yank it up to around my waist, eager. I want him and everything I’ve dreamed of is so close, I can barely think.
“Take down your knickers.” He sounds a bit hoarse, and as I slide my white lace knickers down my thighs he groans. “You’re so wet, darling.”
“You made me wet, Mr Crosse.”
“Ben,” he corrects and there’s the rustle of cloth.
“Ben,” I sigh. “Ben.” I love both names. My sweet and caring lover, Ben. And severe, dangerous, scary mafia kingpin, Mr Crosse.
Something hard and blunt and hot touches my soaking pussy. His crown.
“Do you want me to fuck you, darling?” He strokes the blunt tip over my folds, not quite where I need him. Only brushing my entrance and skimming over my clit.
“Yes.” It comes out as a whine. A cry of desperate need and I push back onto him.
He eases away with a chuckle. “Patience, my slutty girl. You want my cock, huh?”
“Yes. Please. Mr Crosse, please.” Vaguely my brain registers he’s bare. That he’s going to fuck me raw, no condom. And hell, but that’s makes my clit twitch and I writhe, mindlessly trying to get more contact to my pussy. I trust him. I want nothing between us.
“Open your legs.”
I scramble to obey. I’ve been so busy rubbing my thighs together in an attempt to ease the ache in my clit, I kind of forgot. I shift my feet apart and as a reward he pushes further, stepping between my feet. The smooth fabric of his trousers on my bare inner thighs emphasises how naughty this is. He’s fully clothed, I’m not. I’m his slut, bending over the desk to be railed by the older, forbidden man.
Getting railed in a sundress.
A powerful mafia boss who could have anyone he wanted, and has chosenme.
