Page 24 of The Wrong Mafia Bride
“Yes,” I groan, feeling him bottom out, my body stretched impossibly, beautifully full. “I need you to move.”
His hand shifts from my hip to grip the headboard. The wood groans under his strength. “I… fuck, Rosalina. You’re going to ruin me.”
“Not before you ruin me,” I breathe. “Now move.”
He doesn’t spank me again. He simply drags his hips back, letting that thick, veiny cock slide almost all the way out. As I whimper at the loss, he slams back inside, a brutal, perfect stroke.
“Oh,fuck!” I scream, the sensation of being filled so completely, so forcefully, short-circuiting my mind.
He sets a punishing rhythm. Back, then a hard, deep thrust. Each one steals the air from my lungs. My body jolts on the bed. The pain is gone, utterly consumed by a pleasure so profound it feels like my bones are melting. He’s so deep, hitting a place inside me that makes me see stars. My fingers scramble against the sheets, clutching for purchase.
“That’s it,” he grunts, his voice strained. His muscular body is a symphony of tension above me, sweat glistening on his chest. “Take your husband’s cock. You were made for this. Forme.”
His praise is a drug. I’m high on it, on him. My hips rise to meet his thrusts, a clumsy, eager counter-rhythm. The wet, slapping sounds of our joining are filthy and perfect. I’m so full. Every nerve is alight.
He leans down, his mouth capturing mine in a searing kiss. It’s messy, full of tongue and teeth and shared breath. “You feel like heaven,” he rasps against my lips. “Tight, hot,perfectheaven. My perfect wife.”
His words coil in my belly, tightening the spring of my pleasure again. I’m already so close. The relentless drag of him inside me, the pressure of his body on mine, the sheerownershipin his touch—it’s building me up to a shattering peak.
He changes the angle, lifting my hips higher. The next thrust rubs his length directly over that exquisite spot deep inside. A broken cry tears from my throat.
“There?” he demands, doing it again. And again.
“Yes!There!Dante,please!”
“Say my name,” he orders, his thrusts becoming shorter, harder, more frantic. His control is fraying. I can feel it in the tremor of his arms, hear it in the ragged edge of his breath.
“Dante!” I scream it, my voice raw.
“Good girl,” he snarls. And with one final, brutal thrust, he buries himself to the hilt and goes utterly still. A guttural roar rips from his chest, a sound of pure, unadulterated release. I feel him swell, then pulse deep inside me, a hot, liquid rush that triggers my own climax.
It crashes over me without warning, a tsunami of sensation. My vision goes white. My back arches off the bed so violently I’m only connected to the world by where he’s locked inside me. I convulse around him, milking his release with each frantic, fluttering spasm. It’s endless, wracking,complete.
He collapses on top of me, his full weight a welcome anchor, keeping me from floating away. His face is buried in the crook of my neck, his hot breaths puffing against my damp skin. I can feel the frantic hammering of his heart against my chest, matching the wild rhythm of my own.
For long moments, there is only the sound of our ragged breathing, the faint scent of sex and sweat and him in the air. Slowly, the world swims back into focus. The silk beneath me. The cool air on my heated skin. The heavy, spent weight of him, still nestled intimately inside me.
He shifts first, lifting his head. His dark hair is disheveled, his eyes heavy-lidded and sated. He looks down at me, his gaze softening. He kisses me then, not with the devouring hunger from before, but with a firm, deep tenderness that makes my heart clench.
7
DANTE
Morning comes in thin,pale blades that slide between the curtains and cut across the bed. The light touches Rosalina first, catching on the curve of her shoulder where my sheet has slipped, painting her skin in a soft stripe that makes her look almost unreal, like she belongs to another world than mine.
She breathes against me as if she has done it a thousand times.
Her cheek is pressed to my chest. Her hair is tangled over my ribs. One of her thighs is thrown over mine with the casual possessiveness of someone who has forgotten the concept of distance. Every few seconds she shifts slightly, the smallest movement, and her body finds me again without opening her eyes, like sleep has not erased where she fits.
It has never felt like this before.
I have had women in my bed. I have had women in my arms. I have taken what I wanted and walked away while they were still trying to decide whether to hate me or miss me. This is different. This is weight and warmth and a quiet, dangeroussense of completion, the kind that makes a man soften in places he cannot afford to.
I lie still for a long time, letting the bliss sit in my bloodstream like a drug.
My wife.
The title forms in my mind and slides through my chest like it has always lived there. A claim. A fact. My fingers tighten slightly at her waist, feeling the smooth skin beneath the sheet, the fine ridge of her hipbone, the subtle give when I pull her closer. She makes a small sound in her sleep, a breathy murmur that makes me want to wake her up with my cock inside her.
