Page 95 of My Mafia King

My reaction to him––I slightly jerk back––goes unnoticed by the third person in the room.

At least, I hope it does while Damaso moves his fingers up.

Of all the ways I’ve ever imagined having a man’s hand up my skirt, this is not one of them.

A man like Damaso, a kingpin, for sure didn’t pop into my head.

I am so focused on where his fingers go that I completely forget where we are, why I face the wall with my hands up, and have a witness in the room.

Damaso's touch is neutral.

He doesn’t make it sexual in the slightest.

He’s not feeling me up.

He’s just running his hand up between my thighs to convince the jerk in the room that I am not a rat and make him go away.

Peacefully.

Without having his blood splashed over the beautiful, shiny, safe–deposit box.

He stops before reaching my panties and goes the other way.

Despite him not making it all the way to my panties, a burst of needy pleasure swirls between my legs.

I can’t be touched in certain places, and that is one of them.

The intense sensation doesn’t get any better when he drags his touch around my hips, runs his hands down, and then up my back, under my hair, and to the front under my breasts.

By the time he’s done, I’m finished.

I’ve never felt something so erotic in my entire life.

There is only one more area that needs to be checked.

His hands slide down across my stomach and then below my navel, and by the time he checks the line connecting my hipbones, ensuring my panties stay flat underneath, my brain is aroused, my nipples are hard, and tiny waves of pleasure lap at my sex.

His breath fanning over my shoulder doesn’t help in the slightest.

I honestly don’t breathe as he touches my lower abdomen, maybe an inch above my slit, and then separates his hands and goes over my pockets.

He notices something bulky in one of them and extracts my phone.

“What’s that?” the Russian asks, curious to see what Salla has found.

Damaso hands him my phone without a word.

“No,” I bark, my reaction taking them by surprise.

If anyone had this type of reaction, they’d surely look suspicious, and I am no exception.

Damaso uses the opportunity––now that I’ve pivoted to move his fingers over my collarbones and earlobes.

“She has nothing else on her,” he says, unperturbed, trying to play down my reaction.

“He can’t have my phone,” I say, Damaso’s fingers still at the root of my neck.

“Let him have it. You’ll get another one.”

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