Page 39 of My Mafia Queen

Kitten.

When he moves harder, the pain takes over, squashing the pleasure.

My spine and muscles become rigid before he pulls out.

“Don’t,” I say curtly. “I want you to finish again.”

He shifts his position and reaches down before lifting his shirt off the floor and running it between my legs.

My eyes dip as he drops it to the floor. It’s all stained with blood and most likely ruined.

“Don’t worry. They’re good at getting the blood stains out.”

Regardless of how dark it is, his humor make me smile.

He enters me again, iron-hard, his smile a ghost across his lips.

“You’re beautiful,gattino,” he murmurs. “And I like you. You’re strong. Not ready for life, but strong.”

He touches my bottom lip with his thumb and stares at my mouth, musing while his thrusts slow down.

“You know my life,” he says, bringing his eyes to me, and I nod in response. “Then you must know there’s no future for us,” he adds.

I never thought there was. It doesn’t mean his words don’t cut through me.

I nod again, his eyes hovering over my face.

“I could be gone in a second just like that,” he says. “I like you too much to put you through that kind of misery and heartache. And then have people chase you down and harm you when I’m no longer here.”

A wavering smile barely makes it to my lips.

He has no idea how little I got from people in general and how alike our lives are. How volatile my existence is––just like his––but I don’t want to make this about me.

“You know my life, too,” I say, unable to stick to my plan and not get attached to him.

“Yes. I do. But you can turn things around and have a beautiful life despite the obstacles you face right now. I, on the other hand…”

He no longer strokes my face.

“This is who I am. It’s all I know, and I took an oath. I can’t walk away from this life. The only way out is if I’m dead.”

I splay my fingers over his cheek while thoughts quarrel in my head.

I don’t want the reality of us right now.

Something tells me he’s thought about his life before.

Maybe in a different circumstance. Perhaps with a different woman, or no woman at all.

Whatever the driving force behind his contemplative thoughts is, I want something different.

I want to focus on what makes our story special and indulge in the fact that he is the only man who has ever entered me, and I will be sore and unable to walk tomorrow morning.

And also the fact that I want to have sex with him again and spend the next twenty-four hours or forty-eight hours or maybe the entire week with him.

I want to be his woman and forget those little pesky setbacks in my life that make every pleasure tauntingly imperfect while ruining the timing of everything, and, ultimately, what’s right and wrong.

This feels right, and I want to concentrate on that.

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