Page 14 of Stolen By the Mafia King
“You’re all flushed.”
I expect his fingers like he did yesterday, but he’s shifting backwards. The next thing I feel is his breath on my inner thigh. Then his palms brush my knees in a light request. I let him push them apart.
“Spread your legs wider.” That demand in his rough voice sends a fresh wave of wetness to my core. I obey, opening up completely to him, my thighs creaking with the strain of almost doing the splits.
“Very pretty,” he says approvingly. “Your pink folds soaked. I bet you’re aching for my touch, my good girl.”
He doesn’t seem to need a reply to that question, which—phew—because when his lips reach my slit there’s nothing but the new sensation rolling through me. And those words.Good girl. They’ve sent a shot of pleasure into my core.
I don’t get many compliments, or someone telling me I’m doing it right. I’m usually not enough. Not obedient enough, not docile enough. No one has ever made obeying better than rebelling, as my kingpin does. I must have been praised like this at some point, but I can’t recall when.
It’s gentle little kisses at first, but before long he is carefully escalating his kisses from soft to firm to hard. Then to greedy licks all the way up me, like I’m an ice cream and he is going to taste every bit. As though he won’t let even a drop of my arousal go.
I’ve never felt anything as good as Grant licking my pussy.
And, it would seem, neither has he. He’s making rumbling noises of approval as he feasts. There are occasional words that light me up.
“Delicious.”
“Yes.”
“Sweet, so sweet.”
He reaches up and tweaks my nipple, biting into my skin and sending sensation all down my torso to where he’s licking me.
I need him so much. There’s an itch deep inside me and I’m sure he’d be able to… I give in and collapse deeper into the bed. But that softness beneath my shoulder blades isn’t enough to keep me in reality. I reach down and touch Grant’s hair. So silky. He makes a sound of agreement and I lace my fingers in and grip the back of his head, holding him close. I anchor myself to him as the pleasure threatens to knock me out.
He tongues me harder and slips a finger into my passage and I swear he beckons me, pulling against my inner wall. Whatever he does, it is exactly what I need.
I break apart.
I come so hard I think I might never be able to stop. My body jerks and pulses like I’m a leaf blown by a warm summer breeze. I can’t do anything but ride it out, allowing the pleasure to control me.
When my brain is half functional again, I notice what Grant is doing. He smooths his hands across my inner thighs, thumb pressing in sweeping movements. Possessive, but there’s also affection in every brush of his skin on mine and the tingling of my orgasm is replaced by a subtler warmth.
“Mmm.” He sits back and licks his lips. They’re glistening with my pussy juices. “Thank you for that,” he rumbles.
The kingpin looks as though he found that as satisfying as I did. Which is saying quite a lot.
Except… I glance down and my gaze snags on the massive bulge in his boxers. Surely…?
“Thankme?” I echo, bewildered.
“Yep.” He smirks. “Shower. Then I’ll make you breakfast. Come on,” he says, a little impatiently, when I don’t immediately follow him to the bathroom.
I’m so confused. He got twenty-four hours of whatever he wants, and he hasn’t taken anything for himself yet.
“Here.” From the shower he points at the spot between his feet. A big golden creature, with water streaming over him, demanding my presence. He’s thrilling and terrifying. Every fantasy I’ve ever had of a man who knows exactly what he wants, and what he says he wants isme. I step under the water hesitantly, but Grant isn’t having any of that. He pulls me into his arms and kisses me, warm water sluicing across our skin, over our faces. It’s like one of those shampoo adverts with a waterfall, except, so much nicer. His tongue is hot in my mouth, and I’m moaning even before he shoves me up against the cold tiles and slides his hand between my legs.
The pleasure is more familiar this time. It’s easier because my body is moulding to his will. When I’ve come, gasping and slumped, unable to hold myself up, he washes me. Which sounds ridiculous, doesn’t it? I’m a grown adult. I can wash myself.
But it’s reverent. Sweet and caring. I’m a puddle. His hands are so big, it’s more efficient, that’s what I tell myself. The shower gel smells like him, and now I’m covered in his scent, and I love that too. I want to rub myself all over him like a cat. A water-loving cat. A sexy pussy… Alright. I’m losing it.
Suffice to say, I don’t stop him. And if my bottom and breasts get more than their fair share of washing? Well. As I said, his big hands make up for it. More efficient.
I try to touch him, and he clicks his tongue and murmurs, “Do I have to tie you up to make you behave, sweetheart?”
That sends a new flood of arousal between my legs even as doubt crowds in. Does he not want me to touch him? Does he not want to come with me? I don’t understand, but my pleasure-addled brain can’t pick out what is because I’m inexperienced, what is because of this weird deal we have, and what is that maybe he just doesn’t fancy me that way?
