Page 11 of Captured By the Mafia Boss
I almost shoot off the bed. It’s a lightning bolt, this pleasure, unexpected. Another lick, again directly onto the place I need it most, and I’m practically sobbing, my wrists and ankles straining at the ropes. I have no way to touch him or reciprocate and that makes this even sexier.
It takes me a second to recognise the feel of his fingertip at my entrance, resting on my wet folds. The first there, excluding my own.
“Please,” I gasp.
King doesn’t answer in words. He slips in. I’m dripping with arousal, so he has no trouble sliding up to his knuckle. And the whole time he’s licking me in firm strokes. Lapping at my clit unrelentingly and teasing my nipple too. It’s like nothing I’ve ever felt, certainly nothing I can do for myself. He’s big and overwhelming. He’s knowing, too. Every touch calculated to make me crazy. His attention on my every unintentional gasp and twitch enhances each of his strokes. Being tied down makes this infinitely hotter. I can’t move away. I can’t satisfy him. I can’t second-guess whether I’m doing the right thing in my inexperience. I can’t do anything but take what he gives me.
So I do. I take and take and take. I let his touch fill me with pulses and shakes that feel so good while building and tantalising into something more.
The release he promised creeps up on me, a warm shadow of tide that pushes forward, withdraws, floods and ebbs, until eventually it breaks over me.
It’s not gentle or quick or soft. I’m thankful to be tied down in the middle of nowhere because I jerk and shake and the scream that falls from my lips isn’t cute. I feel the orgasm down to my toes, impossibly.
I come so hard I’m pretty sure I would have kicked him in the face if I wasn’t restrained.
My hands clutch at the bonds and my pussy at his fingers. Good but not enough.
As soon as the pleasure eases, I want more. I’m desperate for him.
I open my eyes and King’s meet mine, an infuriating, self-satisfied, prideful expression spread across his face. He made me come so intensely my back bowed and I might never be the same again, and he’s going to be an arsehole about it.
He murdered my friend. Trudy, who cared for me like I was the daughter she never had.
He probably murdered my father.
He’s the reason I ran from Camden, and everything I knew. But it’s really fucking difficult to focus on that when I’m still having aftershocks from my orgasm and drowning in the green of King’s eyes. A riverbank full of life, his eyes.
Even reminding myself he’s a killer doesn’t dissuade my body from responding.
I have to get out of here. Not just because I want my own life, away from being a pawn in the London mafia territories’ petty games, but because if I don’t, I will start thinking being with King is a good idea.
“Here’s the deal. I’m going to lock that window in the bathroom.” King crawls languorously up my body and holds himself over, aloof. “You can’t escape. And even if you did, all theland for miles around belongs to me. There’s no one to see you, or to run to.”
I’m mesmerised by his half-smile. I don’t understand it, and my gaze darts below his waist. He’s… I’ve never… My brain stutters. How can he think when he has an erection like that? I couldn’t make my brain work when he had me so worked up. I still can’t.
“If you run, I will chase you down. I’d enjoy it. But Lia, do not doubt for a moment: I will catch you.”
The clear, sweet mountain air is like breathing honey all of a sudden. I can’t bear it for the sheer need to be chased. By him.
“Why?”
“Because you’re safe here, with me.”
I roll my eyes. “Sure.”
He doesn’t comment, but undoes my bindings with careful hands, his palm smoothing over the place where the rope bit into my skin. He’s a contradiction. Big and harsh and powerful, and yet tender and generous.
Having released me, he throws open the wardrobe door, revealing a collection of suits and expensive sharp shirts, a pile of jeans and tracksuit bottoms, T-shirts, checked lumberjack shirts, and a whole stack of woollen jumpers.
I sit up to gaze at his toned buttocks for the two seconds they’re on show before he pulls on underwear, dark jeans and the softest-looking T-shirt I’ve ever seen.
I feel like I ought to turn away while he’s dressing, as though that is intruding, despite me watching him in the shower. But I shake off the sensation. I mean, how silly is it? He’s kidnapped me. He’s touched me. I’m not spying. He’s clothing himself in front of me as though it’s the most normal situation in the world. Like we’ve been together hundreds of times.
But my brain stutters on the simple act of him dressing, maybe because it’s not aggressive or sexual. It’s the sort of thing a lover sees. A partner.
“You going to choose something to wear?” He gestures at the wardrobe.
“As good as Harrods,” I snip back.
