Page 50 of The Wrong Mafia Bride
My head snaps up.
And there he is. Gabriel. Lounging on the deep leather couch as if it's a throne, a hardbound book open in one hand. The lamplight catches the sharp angles of his face—those high cheekbones, that strong jaw—his expression unreadable. But his eyes… his eyes are fixed on us with a heavy-lidded intensity that sends a jolt straight to my groin.
Rosalina freezes, her body going rigid around my fingers, every muscle tensing. A flush of embarrassment blooms across her chest, painting her skin pink.
Gabriel's mouth curves into a faint, knowing smile. He doesn't move.. "Don't stop on my account," he says, his voice a calm, deep rumble that seems to vibrate in the quiet room.
A wicked idea sparks in my mind, hot and immediate. I turn my head, my lips brushing Rosalina's ear. She's trembling now—whether from arousal or embarrassment or both, I can't tell. "You see that?" I whisper, my voice barely audible. My fingers are still inside her, but I've gone motionless. "He's watching. He likes what he sees."
I feel her shudder, a full-body tremor that travels through her and into my hand.
"Let's give Gabe a show," I breathe, the idea taking full, glorious shape in my mind. "Maybe he'll join us."
A soft, helpless sound escapes her throat. Not a protest. Not even close. A surrender. A thrill of pure possession shoots through me, making my cock pulse.
"Good girl," I smile against her skin.
I start moving my fingers again, a slow, deliberate fucking that makes her gasp and her knees buckle. I hold her up against the doorjamb, my other arm braced beside her head, caging her in. My eyes lock with Gabriel's over her shoulder.
"Look at her," I say, my voice louder now, meant to carry across the room. "Can't even stand up. Just from my fingers."
Gabriel closes his book completely and sets it aside on the end table. He leans back, spreading his arms along the back of the couch, his gaze heavy and heated. "The top," he says, his tone casual but commanding. "Yank it down. I want to see her tits."
A surge of heat—competitive and dark and electric—floods my veins. Yes. My hand leaves her hip. I fist the material of her red top and pull hard. Buttons fly, scattering on the hardwood floor with tiny plastic clicks that sound obscenely loud. The top gapes open, revealing a black lace bra barely containing her full, perfect breasts.
"The bra," Gabriel commands, his voice dropping an octave, getting darker. "Take it off."
I don't hesitate. I reach behind her, fumble with the clasp for half a second, and it gives way. I peel the lace down, baring her to the cool air and Gabriel's hungry stare. Her breasts are full and heavy, heaving with every ragged breath she takes. Her nipples are hard, dusky peaks that beg to be touched, to be tasted, to be tormented.
I palm one breast, rolling the stiff peak between my thumb and forefinger, applying just enough pressure.
Rosalina cries out, her back arching off the doorframe, pushing her breast more firmly into my hand. My other hand is still working between her legs, the wet, rhythmic sounds obscenely loud in the silent room, echoing off the walls.
"Pinch her nipple," Gabriel instructs, and I can see his hand drift to the front of his dark trousers. I see the bulge there, the unmistakable evidence of his arousal, the deliberate movement as he palms himself through the fabric. "Harder."
I do. I twist the sensitive bud between my fingers, pinching hard, and she sobs—a sound mixed with pain and blinding pleasure. Her cunt clenches violently around my fingers, pulsing, trying to milk them.
"She likes it rough," I grit out, fascinated by the way her body responds, by the way she's completely at our mercy.
"I can see that," Gabriel murmurs, his voice rough now too. His eyes are glued to where my fingers disappear into her leather shorts, watching the movement of my hand. "Is she close?"
"Fuck yes," I groan. I can feel it—the telltale fluttering of her inner walls, the way her entire body is tensing like a drawn bowstring. "She's gonna come. Gonna scream for us."
Rosalina is panting, desperate, her words barely coherent. "Please, Luca, please—I need—please?—"
"Let her," Gabriel says, and there's a dark edge of anticipation in his voice, a hunger that matches my own.
I speed up, my fingers pumping harder, faster, curling, rubbing that spot inside her that makes her see stars, makes her forget her own name. She's right on the edge, teetering, her mouth open in a silent scream, her whole body trembling.
"Stop."
The command is flat. Absolute. Like a whip crack in the silence.
My hand stills instantly, my body obeying before my brain even processes the word. My fingers are buried to the knuckles in her wet, clinging heat, but I don't move them. I don't dare.
Rosalina's eyes fly open, wide and confused and devastated and desperate. A broken, frustrated sound tears from her throat, raw and needy. "No… please… don't stop?—"
"I said stop, Luca." Gabriel's voice is calm, but it brooks absolutely no argument.
